The great desire we all share
Is our want to love and be loved,
That’s why death stabs our hearts so sharply.
You don’t get over death
You just keep moving downstream—
Water in a river on a journey to the sea.
Orange fades to canyon alpenglow
Hearkening hope in dim distant stars,
Emboldening embers impassioned in arms,
Flickering cracks, and bursts from heat throes,
Shifting winds and my thoughts down the slope
Of her back as we take off our clothes
Beneath naked skies only lovers have known.
A tired old tree
Born many years ago on the plateau,
Brittle with suffering from the warming desert, and
Unaware of a mass looming lasting displacement,
Holds firm to poor, thirsty earth
Hoping others are buttressed
By her desert determination to be, and
Uncertain her fate should she fail.
Clouds mushroom sprout the horizon
Finding freedom in less pressure on high,
Splash blue with white elephant billows of love,
Turn dark as new monsters, and
Rage wild through the night.
Morphing sky white afternoon treasures
Born in dry desert air light,
Rise angry in evening late concert
Clapping bright thunder with lightning loud fright.
Maria Flores was born with an uncommon share of beauty,
Uncommon even for the beautiful women of Monterrey, Mexico.
She was born the same day the drought ended,
Her newborn tears spilling onto the hospital floor
As the first raindrops blessed the parched flora of her homeland;
Her wails the harbinger of the echoing thunder and lightning
That brightened the stormy city skyline.
When she was young Maria’s father would recount the night of her birth.
He said the fires that raged throughout the countryside that year
Were swallowed up by her spirit,
That she saved the city, and
Brought joy not only to her family but to an entire generation.
The story always made Maria feel special.
And such was her father’s talent,
To make her feel as though she were a gift to the world.
It's a lie that time heals wounds,
In fact, time itself is a great lie and doesn't exist.
Time is an ironical part of our subjective, conscious reality,
It doesn't exist outside our minds.
Things only ever happen right now
And the present moment is all you ever get.
The past is a memory and the future only a hope or fear,
But neither exists right now.
Birds feel for the wind
Bent willingly towards thermal skies
Ascending nearer an objective view
Of a planet wreaked in mayhem,
Spying a species killing and cruel,
Fighting for their color,
Fighting for their food,
Fighting over Gods
Created by their fears.
Soaring high above the desert
Birds know not to care, they find
Upwind freedom from the chaos
Crosswind freedom from the grind
Downwind freedom from the worries
Absorbed in peoples’ minds.
Birds say give me flight
Man says give me more,
Lift is grace upon their feathers
Wailing ailing tearstained faces,
Diving desert brown escarpments
Daily dying beneath bombardments,
Is a life for each to choose.
Birds feel for the wind.
Poetry is life in words.
Surely your life is poetry
If only you learned to love the words.
Words are meaning
Words are experiences
Beautiful, eternal, ethereal words make meanings memorable
And worth our might and struggle.
Write about your life, because
If you’re not telling a story you’re not living right.
The music grew louder, softer, the perfect pitch
From the fog gray front between heartbeat and not.
What a slippery slope decisions and such,
And gravity the arbiter.
I am the test
Bravado no better than calm and sense of purpose.
Feel the waves alive within
Dare to trust.
The music serene, sublime, if even music there was.
Aware of all possible outcomes—
Frigid water, cold knowledge of people left behind
But the music is life and together we dance,
The harmony so smooth, so clear
And nothing else.
Then, after a lifetime and no time
And then, after enduring all that could have been
Oh sweet land—
Where all my love resides.