Thursday, June 19, 2014

To Mare de Lis (Poem)

To Mare de Lis

The night runs silently
behind my windows.
I stare at my ceiling,
eyes wide,
feet fiddling.

I am thinking of you.

Are you sleeping?
I wonder.
What do you sleep about?
Do you sleep in pastels
and canvas and acrylic?
Do you sleep in brushes
and colors and white lilies?
Do you dream at all?
Do I take a peek at
 your dreams.

I dream of stars and travels.
Of children that where never mine.
Picket fences, moonlights
at la Puerta del Sol.
My pen besides your brush.
I dream of you.

I am thinking of you.

In my head
visions form anew.
That amazing expression of
pleasure and delight
you unwittingly call your smile
is forever burnt in my mind.
And your eyes...

I close my eyes and I see
flashes of you and me.


Wednesday, June 18, 2014

Driving (Poem)

 (Note: Yesterday, I was looking over some old poetry and found this piece. I wrote this poem over a decade ago. I was still a grad student with no real idea of what I wanted to do with life. What strikes me now is that, today, I am one of the two heads stuck inside a shiny SUV talking about diaper brands.)


Driving along the
silent long road,
two walls of glass
between the back of their
and me.
They’re tucked inside
the new, shiny security
of their blue SUV.

Hands flutter, I wonder.
Their conversation, perhaps on rings,
perhaps on diaper brands,
perhaps simply on chess.
All planned out,
            the map laid out,
sure of the road to take

A flashing of yellow.
A turn to the left.
I am alone
driving along
with my rusty Fox.
Going home
to ponder the future.
Tomorrow I have a paper


Tuesday, June 3, 2014

Leaves (A Micronarrative Collection)


While SPC Santos was busy dying by IED in Kandahar, somewhere in California, his dog patiently waited.

She ate her fries slowly, with no hurry, savoring every bite. As of today, she had nobody to go home to.

The plane dove. Capt. Evander struggled with all his might. He had to save the passengers. The nurse gave him his medicine.

She always slept with his blackened shirt.

The soldier waddled through the limbs of his comrades, pools of blood embedding red onto his skin. He felt nothing.

He woke up asking himself what is the point of dreaming.

She posted a status on Facebook. He liked it and made a comment on it. She deleted it. He opened a bottle of pills.

He looked at himself in the mirror. He wished he still had the beard. She had liked the beard. He hated the beard.

Her finger lay on the bottom of a frozen lake.

Tom threw away his bologna sandwich. He hated bologna sandwich. Hank had dinner.

He saw what she had written and his world came tumbling down. She never knew. She had never met him.

As he cried in frustration, she threw it.

I walked ever so softly towards her and bowed.