Poetry
Waves
Waves are the motion of a roller coaster
Waves are the motion of events
Waves are the motion of our emotions
Waves are the motion of a rising trend
Waves are the motion of sound
Waves are the motion of light
Waves are the motion of the sea
Waves are the motion of hailing a cab
Waves are the motion of curls in her hair
Waves are the motion of extreme heat
Waves are the motion of goodbyes
Waves are the motion of a heart rate monitor
Waves will never stop crashing
Dali
Wings as high as angel’s
Form the ears atop their tusks
The sky dives below
And resonates its cry
To the drinking water
The man stares into gravel
Perhaps he’s learned
This is harmony
This is a swan
Reflecting elephants
Nature can dream
He can have a nightmare
Of the canyons, boulders
And leafless tress
Planted in no man’s land
They never asked of him
To move land and water
They never asked him a damn thing
He brought trouble to paradise
What will you bring?
The Cycle
The first sign of color,
Falls from the sky,
Rustling in the grass.
Brisk, cool breezes,
Shake the trees
Into the chilly season.
Warmth is left behind.
Hoods and sweatpants
Are finally dusted off.
Wildlife; diminishing.
Birds elevate the sky,
Escaping until the next cycle.
Harvest springs out,
With pumpkins and spices,
All craving for fall.
We accept the cold,
Just as the flowers do,
Heading to hibernation
The earth, our blanket,
Wraps around the home
With its uttermost protection.
Watch it unravel. Relish,
Day by day, night by night.
Until the sun has longer visits.
Sit on the stoop.
Pay homage to the world,
As it revolves around you.
Ars Poetica
Poetry is sovereignty
Committed to touch
The sky, the dirt
Everything in between
To release
What we cannot speak
To speak
What we cannot fathom
From the heart
And to our bones
It lets us preach
What you haven’t known
Superheroes Need a Hero Too
Clocks don't stop ticking
But everyone keeps bitching
Scratching and itching
From your sorrows
I tell them there’s tomorrow
You never know where it leads
If there’s a message in the bottle
Go ahead and see what it reads
We all have doubts
So please don’t cry out
There’s no reason to pout
I’m there in a flash
Hundreds just crashed
When will the world learn?
You’re moving too fast!
The rest of your lives will yearn
See, I used to be their hero
But then I obtained this ego
Where I wanted to help absolutely zero
No more lives could glow
Realize every hero needs to grow
So when is it my turn?
I may be moving slow
But you all have no concern
It’s overwhelming looking after another
Can’t even see my mother
I love it but I hate it like no other
Now I’m bitching.
But a whole lot is missing!
I want to be able to fly
Hoping, wanting, wishing
As I see the globe pass me by
Not stop to lend a hand
Every time there’s a demand
This whole life is unplanned
Wondering what I’ll discover
All this ground I cover
Can I have a friend?
Maybe even a brother
Someone beside when I ascend
If this is forever, so be it
Life? I suppose I’ll still see it
If I’m not there, don’t you quit
Listen closely to the voice in your heart
It will tell you where to start
When there’s no protector
We all have to do our part
To make life that much better
Acquainted with the Night
I’ve come to worry out at night.
I’ve felt the strain of the moonlight.
I’ve seen candles over New York.
I’ve stared down a troublesome alley.
I’ve passed by the sniper and his heartbeat,
Turning away as my stomach unsettles.
I’ve felt the gravel rumble,
From afar a distant bawl.
Traveled through skyscrapers and floors,
Though not to bid me adieu;
Or judge me from my head to toes,
There is a cloak over the people.
For it wasn’t their judgement day.
I’ve come to worry out at night.
Prose
Monday or Tuesday
UNSPOKEN AND SUBTLE, allowing the air to pass through its feathers, the owl hovers over a nearby town. Bleached and effortless, it shifts, back and forth, from the view her species has coined. A pond? Fill the gaps with it! A hill? How lovely—the sun reveals gold down the plain. Up above, the feathers descend, white as snow or a rain-free cloud.
Wanting truth, pacing, wanting it—(echoes of the suburbs at rush hour)—continuously wanting—(the dial points to twelve, when the sun is highest in the sky; youngsters frolic)—constantly longing for truth. Prosperity climbs down from the clouds; pollution climbs up, from the succor of chimneys and factories.
High-heels clack and crack the sidewalk—(Care for some more tea? I’m swell.)—the fireplace turning walls blue, quite the color of her heart, as Miss Burns replenishes her tea with lemon, the animal hide draped over her back—
Trees recall they must transition from summer to fall, like head hair which begins to fall out, digging, scratching, twisting, crunching into soil, constant competition of who will touch the earth first.
The fire illuminates roars and screams out itself. A novel has plummeted in, crackling, sparks as forceful as pellets—stars wink at the Pacific, a black sea, a completely strange and unexpected world below.
Unspoken and subtle, the owl circulates, untouched, unarmed; the night loses the moon that captures it behind the clouds, of whatever they may be filled with.
Undated Watercolor
For years, I’ve prayed that the wooden floors wouldn’t creek by my bedroom. As I got older, I started to pray more and more for this. I wanted to sneak out, maybe have an adventure. The problem was that no matter where I stepped outside my room, the floors popped underneath me. I tried to step in different places, so I can map out where to put my toes in the short future I had in this house. As I got older, my room started to become smaller, which agitated me quite a bit. I’m now over six feet, two inches, and as I sleep, I feel the walls closing in on me.
My family and I went to mass every Sunday, but as all families with children, we begin to get busier with our lives and attending church unfortunately slipped away. We thought we wouldn’t end up like the type of families who only go on Christmas and Easter and other observed Christian holidays; needless to say, that’s exactly who’ve we become. When I stopped going to church is when I put a halt on praying as much. I would lie down on my bed, finding myself angrier with God than at myself. My problem was I couldn’t be patient. I couldn’t wait around for a sign because, truth be told, I didn’t believe in any. Was lightning going to strike down upon me if I did something horribly wrong? It hasn’t yet and I can assure you I broke some rules in the Bible.
It is possible that I lost my faith. However, I’ll speak for myself and not for my family. I know when I do something wrong; I’m intelligent enough to distinguish from good and evil. Over the last few years, there have been less and less eyes watching me. I believe it’s because my parents trusted me or for the fact that they’re separated; lately, I’ve been leaning towards the latter. Nevertheless, I’ve turned into complex person and sometimes; I don’t think I even know myself. To this day, there has been memorabilia of all sorts inside my bedroom; items and values that have lasted nearly a lifetime. The more and more I look at them, the less sentimental weight they hold on me. Undoubtedly, they will always have a place in my heart, but certain posters and concert tickets from a decade ago reassure me how much older I am and how much I’ve changed.
There is a mirror above my dresser. It is there as soon as the cracks from the wood floors and the carpet to my bedroom begin. A lot of my childhood is on this mirror. My room has so much stuff in it that I couldn’t think of a better spot to begin putting memorial cards from wakes. About half a year ago, I ran out of room for them on the frame that outlines the mirror. The only way I could fit more is to begin sticking them up on the mirror itself, but then I wouldn’t be able to see myself; this defeats the whole purpose of a mirror. The most heartbreaking realization to me is thinking about what all the lost and loved ones on my mirror noticed through the mirror. I prayed constantly as a child in front of that mirror, when the memorial cards had plenty of space to fill. Today, I come through my house at all hours of the night, trying to keep quiet to avoid waking anyone. The shameful part is that my angels never sleep and they have seen it all ever since they passed. They know what I’ve done even when I’m not thinking about it. As much as the mystery kills me and how much I miss them, I can still build up the courage to pray in front of my reflection.