Rise

You think the smoke has consumed
My dark dignity
And my hallucinations have
Clouded determination

I reach out from my grave of wild dandelions
To remind your souls
That my ruby power is not yet lost
I am not yet gone

My dears,
Wait for the pierced sun to rise again
Because I will rise again.

Running at Night

Running at night feels like

A windy midsummer’s night dream

Feels like my sneakers disappeared

Somewhere in the obscurity

Feels like lullabies caressing my ear

Feels like stubby dotted fur of deer

Brushing up to my cheek

Feels like everything rinsing clear

Except for the residue of dirt on my knee

Feels like these feet are two blind seers

Feels like a little more than weird

More like my personal discovery.

The Candle

Fragrance of

Dust and Paris and his

Cologne masculin,

Mostly of

The cologne, fresh muskiness

More than four years.

I never touched it, and told my visitors it was

   ‘juste une chandelle’

From a relative, not useful anymore

But when I sit alone

Attempting to write stuttering chips of poetry

On yellowed paper

It starts to haunt me, subtly, as I can never get it

Out of the corner of

My eye, and memories sing from its

Thin rope until I am all

Tears and regret.

He is making a

Living in America,

Land of Gold, so I wonder if he remembers

That one cloudy afternoon

When he chased me into

A pebbled street near the

Eiffel tower, when he

Handed me the waxy farewell gift --    

Ode To Lemons by Pablo Neruda

Pablo Neruda is one of my favorite poets so far. I have just read 3 of his odes. Here is my favorite.

From blossoms
released
by the moonlight,
from an
aroma of exasperated
love,
steeped in fragrance,
yellowness
drifted from the lemon tree,
and from its plantarium
lemons descended to the earth.

Tender yield!
The coasts,
the markets glowed
with light, with
unrefined gold;
we opened
two halves
of a miracle,
congealed acid
trickled
from the hemispheres
of a star,
the most intense liqueur
of nature,
unique, vivid,
concentrated,
born of the cool, fresh
lemon,
of its fragrant house,
its acid, secret symmetry.

Knives
sliced a small
cathedral
in the lemon,
the concealed apse, opened,
revealed acid stained glass,
drops
oozed topaz,
altars,
cool architecture.

So, when you hold
the hemisphere
of a cut lemon
above your plate,
you spill
a universe of gold,
a
yellow goblet
of miracles,
a fragrant nipple
of the earth's breast,
a ray of light that was made fruit,
the minute fire of a planet.

Falling Asleep

gray misty haze
of dried chamomile leaves

seep

into my dreams and
drives away the

monsters.

And Sparrows

I gaze out of the windowpane blur
Out to the rolling fog and cold oxygen
No one breathing but the oaks
And, from the corner of my eye,
A pair of love-drenched sparrows.

Infinitesimal tears

Infinitesimal tears, cerulean
lovely strokes of sadness outside the windowpane, unseen
by the naked eye yet felt
by the naked heart

Infinitesimal tears, cerulean
quilt of water under my feet
whisking reality away, and emotions become tangible
cool and burning on my shivering fingertips

Untitled

I open the bathroom counter

   For some cure to my insomnia to find

-- You won’t believe me --

the writhing, tender shoots of unadulterated aroma

 lavender and I think –

the spiciness of orange slices

stretching out from the caresses of

a blue      glass      bottle

their floral fingers of vine gently

gracing the line

between reality and

                             fantasy

       there is no resisting as the

curling infantile wood wraps around

   my bare shoulders, lifting me

up, up, up as I fly

into violet dreams

      of midnight.