Flor y Canto = Poetry

The gente, they ask me

why free verse?

no rythym, no rhyme

is it really poetry without rules?

You’re lying esa

You’re not a poet – it doesn’t rhyme.

but

to me

free verse sings to me

FREE the Verse ESA!

the wings of that hidden poem

the one

beating on your brain

pushing its way out

to fly.

to be uncovered,

to shine like that

Hungry coyote

not so buried in my Xicana consciousness

eating pain

and memory

like the petals of

a soul in flower.

Black basalt bowl of my grandmother’s homeland

Home of my heart, Mexico Lindo

Sitting smugly, calmly and oh so silently

On your three squat legs holding

Your pestle, your scents, your secrets.

Black basalt bowl of my grandmother’s homeland

Home of my heart, Mexico Lindo

Now worn too smooth to be used from

Decades of pounding spices, chiles, tomatoes

Into delicious sauces, moles, salsas.

Black basalt bowl of my grandmother’s homeland

Home of my heart, Mexico Lindo

Holding your place of honor on my countertop

Quietly reigning over the cookware and cutlery

Holding your memories, tales and stories.

Black basalt bowl of my grandmother’s homeland

Home of my heart, Mexico Lindo

Made with love by my grandfather

Used with love by my grandmother

To bring to the home love, plenty and aroma.

Black basalt bowl of my grandmother’s homeland

Home of my heart, Mexico Lindo

You wear my grandmother’s much remembered scent

That I so long for when I miss her the most

The smell of cilantro, chiles and garlic.

Black basalt bowl of my grandmother’s homeland

Home of my heart, Mexico Lindo

You watch over me with my grandmother’s soul

The soul of the kitchen, the heart of the home

Bringing love, plenty and aroma.

I found this today in an old notebook as I was clearing out some drawers.  It’s dated 2/10/2007 and from the look of my twisted scrawl, I must have been on the bus to work in the morning.  My handwriting varies by time of day and where I’m at and this is definitely morning bus writing, the words almost sliding down the page with the occasional jolt.  I must have been pressed by work and missing the solace of words.

Once I had time

for poetry…

the romance of words

trailing like stardust

upon a paper sky.

Once I had time

for poetry…

the soul of words

beating their rhythm

like a broken heart.

Once I had time

for poetry…

the dance of language

sensual tango on the slick floor

of a blank page.

Once I had time

for poetry…

the dream of that one word

ethereal like a spirit

floating heavenward

Once I had time for poetry.

A space of days no more

a few hours

without your touch

Your smile, even your written voice

and i am left longing

for you.

The space of my empty days

without you is vast

and unrelenting

keeping busy does not help

i long for you

a word, a kiss, a sweet embrace

You in all your glory

the light in my eyes

the smile that graces my face

i long for your return.

The Sculptor

The Sculptor walked along the roadside
Seeing up ahead a quarry of stone
He saw one glistening off in a corner
Bent and gazed
Scooped it up in His hand
Feeling its weight
Practiced eyes saw the beauty within
Saw chips of other chisels
The marks of the stone being cast away
As too hard to work
The beauty within not easily reached
Not worth it.

The Sculptor caressed the quiet stone
Seeing what others did not
The roadmap to its beauty
Its soul within
Carried it away leaving all others behind
Mind changed
About what He would create
Day after day, night after night
He coaxed, cut,  molded, shaped
Smoothed each errant chisel mark
Healed the stone scars
To find its core.

The Sculptor worked for months
At times frustrated by the stone’s
Reluctance to shine.
Angered by its resistance
But still He worked
Tempering the stone
Polishing with sandpaper
Then the softest kisses of silk
One day the stone gave
Showed him its heart
Full and brimming with love
For the Scupltor
Who knew its worth even when
Itself did not.

GMR – July 2008

I found out my daughter is HIV positive today.  How I can breathe is beyond me because every breath is an ache.  She’s 27.  The following photo and poem are my initial reactions.  The photo is me right after finding out my daughter is HIV positive.  I wanted to document it, I feel I’ve aged 20 years in one day.  It’s odd but the lighting was weird and the shadow over my face in this picture seems appropriate

This day had no right
to be so beautiful
the breeze so fragrant
the sun so sweet on my skin
This nature had no reason
to wear its finest colors
to show me a clear sky
the blue so scintillating and bright.

This day had no right
to be so lovely
filled with ordinary joys
like the laughter of children
This nature had no reason
to soothe me with its smile
to seduce me with flowers
and a cool, sensual night.

This day had no right
not to cry in rage
not to thunder in horror
the sun eclipsing black
This nature had no reason
not to be wicked and taunting
to send a storm of locusts
to consume my pain and fright.

This day was just a day
like any other
it’s beauty a mask of lies
The phone call bearing the news
my daughter is HIV positive
tearing through my soul
carving out my heart and watching
it bleed.
This day, I curse this evil day.

She swam quickly to the surface
following the road of light
the sun on left on the water.
From the bottom it looked
like polished jade.
Breaking through,
she couldn’t find the green splendor
only the vast emptiness
of the sky.

I was coming home one evening and felt my life so wonderful as I walked up the hill in Silverlake where I then lived.  I was just hit with this poem and rushed home to get it on paper before it got away.  I haven’t looked at it in years but I’m really glad I managed to capture it and not let it get away.  It’s raw and it’s true.

To Dare To Dream

When I was growing up

My mother would curse me for daring

To dream

To want more

To aspire

To reach

To hope

For more.

She would say with a sneer

“Little princess”, in that hateful tone

“Look at her,

Who does she think she is?

Listening to opera,

Reading her books,

Dreaming her dreams

Head in the clouds

Useless bitch.”

I’d ignore her words

Her slaps and fists

Her cackling laugh

As she put me down

To my sisters and her friends

Reading my diary out loud

Still I dared

To dream

To hope

To wish

To pray

To get away.

One day I ran

Ran and ran till

I thought my heart would burst

But I felt so free!

Just to be me

Running like Atalanta

I got away

Ran fast enough jumped high enough

And landed

In shit.

Married a man

Just like her

Didn’t know that at first

Still I dared

To dream

To wish

To change things

To hope

For a different life

For me

And my children.

One day I ran

Ran holding a baby

With the others running

Alongside

I ran far and fast

Dreaming as I went

Weaving my hope

And dreams

Around my babies

Like a blanket.

I made a life

That is so much more

Than what I was given

Than what was taken

And still

I dare

To dream and hope

Seeing castles not ramshackle homes

Seeing the view from the hills and not the smog

Seeing the roses in gardens on the hill coming home

Not the trash in the street

Or the wino on the ground.

I look out my windows

As I write my tales

Claiming the sight of my neighbor’s garden

Calling it my own

Seeing the honey of my wood floors

Not the scratches and scuffs

I dream

I hope

I wish

I believe

I conquer

I win.

I was always so taken by two paintings of Frida Kahlo’s, that of The Little Deer (1946)and What I saw in the Water (1938).  I wrote this as an exercise, an imagined conversation between the artist and the subject.  My first experiment with the ekphrasis form.

Frida Kahlo and The Little Deer

Oh painter!

Why did I choose

this of all days

to wander

in the forest of your painful

imagination?

I ventured

and was struck

by the magical colors

of your canvas.

Held captive by

tortured beauty, the raw

insolence of agony.

Deer in the headlights

Frozen in time

barely noticing that you had

switched my head

for your own.

You sharpened

your brushes, aimed

true your art

pulled back your vision bow

with the great force

of your rage

Sas! Sas! Sas!

Immortalized me

A startled and bleeding

pincushion.

Deer, venadito

Don’t you see?

It was me – like you

wandering thru a forest

minding my own business

that September 17th in 1925

laughing with my Alex

when BAM!

the bus crash

the axle

the pain.

The never ending

PAIN.

So you see the forest

around you Vendadito?

Do you see the ocean?

Or do you feel only

the pain of your wounds?

Such is my world, little deer

Beauty around me

Beauty before me

but the pain is first

I see the beauty

I paint the beauty

but the pain

the wretched pain

is my reality

Pain,

always

first

Corrupts reality

They say I was a surrealist

Pero que saben?

What do they know?

I was just painting

what I saw in the water.

I wrote this a long time ago for someone I once loved very much.  He left to war and nothing was ever the same after that. I don’t remember if this was about him or the what we lost in the war.

Promises whispered in the dark from

Lips wet from your kisses

And swollen from traveling the map

Of your beautiful brown body

In the moonlight.

Dawn’s pink light tinges the curtains

A bedroom smelling of sex and wine

Crushed perfume, tangled hair

My pale leg thrown over you

Like a strange duvet.

Coffee sipped, rich dark brew

I make you breakfast

As you lace up those damned army boots

Try to trip you back into bed

After our shower

But you gotta go

Duty calls

Time to drill

No time to play.

The Harley roars out of my driveway

You smile at me and wave

As I stand on my porch

You promised you’d hurry back

Belgian beer still in the fridge for you

But you’re not coming back.

Another promise broken.