We got these hands, you and me,
Take mine, I’ll lead you far, you’ll see.

I’ve walked this road a thousand times,
Each step, a different face defines.
With every threshold crossed and hand embraced,
Spring blooms anew, a family’s embrace.

Life and death, they dance as one,
The future grips tight, then it’s undone.
Through the years, I’ve found my truth,
Living through others, in the blood of youth.

Once, I was clear, a lucid soul,
But frail blind girls took their toll.
Yet lovelier than the moon’s soft light,
They showed me paths, both dark and bright.

A trail of moss, of mist, of dew,
Of young bodies, with life anew.
Wind, cold rain, summer’s embrace,
All make a man from that young face.

In presence lies my virtue’s gleam,
Solitude’s the price of death’s regime.
From delight to fury, I’ve known them all,
Through every being, I stand tall.

Through earth and clouds, through seasons’ change,
My youth endures, a life rearranged.
My blood, it rises over ruins past,
And in our hands, our bond holds fast.

Nothing can seduce, as we entwine,
Like a forest, returning earth to sky.
Night prepares for an endless day,
Hand in hand, we’ll find our way.

:: 07.28.2023 ::

We know, for sure, that while other lights seem to explode,
We know that babbling waters wash away all guilt, all woe,

Contemplating a flower amidst this modern age’s show,
Soon to don more color, this poem’s pace will slow,

The window bars, the breadcrumbs linger, though.
See, I’ve forgotten if they’re green or if blue.

But you know those words are created by plump hearts
loving you and anyway, what I really mean:

You are the sweetest thing I’ve ever known ~~

and I’m just a man making potions with words
within an ancient traveling show.

:: 07.28.2023 ::

LOVE, a flower blooming bright,
Casting shadows, gleaming light,
Beneath dew moss, its essence pure,
In meadows green, its charm secure.

Prayers, like moths in moonlit skies,
Flutter softly, as love complies,
Emotions deep, yet often lost,
In love’s embrace, we pay the cost.

As children sweet, we roam the Earth,
Lost in dreams, discovering worth,
Ghosts of the past, they don’t mind,
For love’s the force that we’re destined to find.

Like melting candles’ gentle glow,
In Victorian houses, time’s flow,
And like Emily Dickinson’s quill,
Love’s prose resounds, its power instill.

Gypsies, too, with colors bright,
Paint love’s canvas in golden light,
Against the canvas of the dawn,
The tapestry of love is drawn.

The things we’ve lost, our hearts do hold,
Sacred treasures, stories untold,
Humanity’s essence, pure and rare,
With love’s embrace, we learn to care.

Discreetly kissing, love’s divine,
Holding dear, our sacred shrine,
Wishing that God’s listening ear,
Blesses love, both far and near.

In Whitman’s spirit, love’s embrace,
Shall bind us all, and leave no trace,
For like the grass and stars above,
In love, we find our deepest love.

You talk about women,
The need to groom and travel without losing composure,
To wake up adorned with expensive jewelry and makeup,
Choosing between speaking up or staying silent, tears concealed.

But I, unfortunately, cannot join in the revelry amidst violence and chaos,
Your allure extends beyond the cheery surface,
Where everything that lives eventually decays.

You talk about women,
Stripping away everything, even a newborn’s innocent longing for love,
Your face turning pale as riches accumulate,
Yet, I yearn for the embrace of wisdom, defiant in isolation.

You talk about women,
Advocating self-destruction to avoid childbirth,
Endlessly waiting for elusive pleasures,
But I find no joy in love’s act on a carpet,
As sinister whispers echo in the air,
Your ring marking my thigh, a symbol of a rich man’s control.

You talk about women,
Supposed to be nurturing,
But in church, smoke fills the air with remorse,
Pregnant women dressed in tattered silk,
Heads severed, and you question why,
Those dreadful nights of silence at the pole.
I think I can let you go now.

Your legs rise high within the sacred place,
Knees pounding like a crowd of preachers,
I find comfort under my hat,
Even if your words carry all the falsehoods of marriage,
You insist that women are mad cannons,
As for me, alas, I only savor the idea of death.

:: 07.23.2023 ::