Sun rays through the clouds
hit the ocean at an angle
creating an island of light
upon the vast horizon.
Ocean waves crash
and bring an icy breeze ashore
guiding the seagulls
and chilling me to the bone.
A stray dog waits in the sand
for a passerby to notice
and throw him a bone
before the night falls.
And I,
a most unnatural occurrence
perched here on a ledge,
watch as the world unfolds.
[8.20.07]
Action
cures idle hands
and active minds.
Poetry
expresses truth
without committing to facts.
It is the essence
of being
resounding
from the Earth
and into
the writer’s verse.
Reality.
Duality.
Life’s symphony—
set to words.
An over-saturated photo
depicts the definition
of my physical existence.
Although my face was rounder then.
Stamps
signify my passage
into foreign territories.
Visas
indicate a longer,
more deliberate stay.
Sometimes superfluous.
Sometimes absent altogether.
But it’s all symbolic anyway.
Crossing borders
through cities
of countries
and neighbors.
This little booklet is my proof,
my passport
to the world.
The pages of my life story.
As such,
it offends my orderly olfaction
when they carelessly stamp
out of sequence.
But I keep moving.
I keep moving because
if I stop
I start thinking.
Wondering.
How can lands belong to people?
How can people belong to lands?
And how come I don’t have
a passport to
my soul?
Stir, stir, stir!
A swirling, cloudy blur.
A silent prayer:
Dear Alchemist, let this be the one.
But sediments settle.
Mind unsettles.
Elusive solvent elixir.
Mi vida
resumida
en los colores mezclados
de un cuadro
regalado.
Sin conocerme.
Sin verme.
No obstante,
él pintó
todo lo que existe
en mi alma,
mi corazón.
Tan inocente
ahí colgado
sin estrategia
en la pared.
Me alimenta.
Me quita
definitivamente
la sed.
I know what inspires me.
Sight.
Sound.
I know what ignites me.
Lost.
Found.
I am nourished by all the energy around.
I seek enlightenment.
Knowledge for knowledge’s sake.
But I’m dreaming awake
with nowhere to go.
In this world
you have to make money, you know.
So sacrifice.
Compromise.
Bend until you break.
Your happiness is secondary.
Power is at stake.
To survive this Money Merry-Go-Round
you need to hold on.
But I want to let go.
And each day
I spin around once more,
disharmony rising in my throat.
I have consumed
too much greasy consumerism.
I taste acid in my soul.
Sometimes I look in the mirror
and I think,
Damn, I look good!
Other times I see pictures of myself
and I wonder,
Why do I have any friends at all?
Too many zits.
Too many chins.
Too much flab hiding my figure.
All of it hiding
insecurities
beneath the flawed exterior.
So I sit down to write,
to expose my insecurities
and heal my flaws
from the inside out.
But it all sounds cliche.
Yes, indeed.
Cliche.
It is utterly cliche
to speak of
a woman’s wounded sense of self.
And that is perhaps
the most wounding
part of all.
The perfect pause to
pivot
my thought
in the direction of
truth
which can only be
heard
in the silhouette
of silence
during the off beat
of a song
so in tune with eternity
that reality
ceases
and the melody
creases
allowing time to warp
around dimensions
of the mind
unseen
to scientists
but elucidated
by artists
through intuition
and transition
of sound.
