and the emptiness of

poetry of despair 2013

A weak wind
being bent as silent structure
on the margin of the hours
by the beach
a walk through the empire of rock

after death

love sits
with legs cold
and the storm of the sand

every crash
is wrath
looped in symbol

of being alone
with others
older in the corner
of mosaic

mystery is a heavy mist
pounded on our eyes

love sits
with cold legs
and the emptiness of the sand

those fingers
to carve in the skin of this earth
the folded name;

the forgotten
labyrinth of him.

Contemporary Poetry

near everything

new_poet_modern

Maybe the air is vertebra
only you walk home
bending the muscle
of time,
a drunk man leaves

on the pub’s counter
the fire of thought
nothing changes

we can amass anguish
into a dragon
and see it writhe in
its halo

find a way knower
comb a molecule at a time
to be handsome

for destiny
that now dissolves in your honey-
dripping cupped hands

perhaps we hang immense
with city at our roots
what matters to be
draped in cloud

when age has a swollen
idea buried like a spine on
the morning soft

earth
step on pure grass
who leaves this animal
to sow in structure

the dream the
struggle
the science

of being such
near everything.

Contemporary Poetry

her beauty

abstract_poetry

No one could deny her beauty,
her voluptuous center
her sweet ramifications
or her essential boundaries,
no one could falsify or ruin
her alliance to what’s desirable
and good in this life,
no one dared consider,
for a second,
that her decisive form
was a mode of deception
or biased perception,
no one ever attempted
to reduce her legend
by expressing platitudes
to describe or envy her,
no one,
at any rate,
saw in her the imperfections
and failures of our troubled world,
no one doubted the primal meaning
of her existence,
no one questioned her exclusivity
as being the only radiant entity
within the greyness and vapidity
of our routines,
no one ever challenged
her status of being the pinnacle of nature,
the overt instinct of some divinity,
no one, not once, asked why
she was visualized
as the mirrored image of ecstasy,
in the end
no one was capable of dying
without returning – in their minds –
to the pure concept
of her reality.

21st century Poetry

nocturnalist

poetry_of_time

There like a bolt
like a stone amidst
a dust beyond
deep in shine
a pocket w/noon
and no shadow
a golden fury
himself mad
speaking loudly
and evening
with lawlessness
into rivulets a feather
nobody wings
possibility’s a stream
hours whirl
he types ‘whiteness
merge with tear
and this earth
trickled like spark
upon memory’
he listens
apparently
the wind has a mouth
and the same questions
about time.

Contemporary Poetry

a thing imagined

new_poetry_2013

Preferably soft,
jelly-like
but resilient to heat
and the precarious nuisances of the jungle
tender but defiant
able to camouflage among
stones and clouds alike
its softness must be delicate
but decisive not necessarily static
as it can be allowed rigidity at times
equivalent to that of taut velvet
not too colorful nor flaunting
the impenetrability of black or white
capable of evaporating without dispersing
(i.e. losing its cohesion without sacrificing its wholeness)
different from the rest of its kind
without becoming an example of freak
it should waver at twilight at the risk
of turning ambiguous but never incomprehensible
its upper part magnificent
and evasive like the current of time in a dream
its lower part glorious and ubiquitous
like dawn in a desert’s sky
preferably sophisticated without being pompous
straightforward without being wholly divested of enigma
and existing mainly between
the eternal and the transient.

 

 

Contemporary Poetry

on the origin of things

origin_of_reality

There were no instructions
and everything had a gleam
with no in between.

Even for the mind
there was no concept
nothing to break off
from the rhythm
of nature’s
self-portrait.

There was no suffering
of a thousand of years
and the mountains
were idiots with hands
in the sky.

There were no rules
of proportion and
we were born
in the middle
of gray.

In the midst of howls,
the happy blood-stained
gesture, but there was no
relationship with being
and non-being.

We killed until
ethics was an abstract
form of tool. And language
built a house for
loneliness.

This was long ago.
When something came
to dance and we were its
feathers.

Contemporary Poetry

in a distance

phenomena

I’ve wondered
to know nothing.

Seeing
my sea
of conscious,
weave wasted waves
of experience
into hairdos of light.

I’ve wondered
of returning
to enormous view
and an amorous
climax of confusion.

I’ve wondered to drink
night from water,
in unabridged absence
of divisions,
without order ,
with rain ribboning
the eclipse of impulse.

I’ve wondered
to forget
the sounds and the signs,
to find a strange design.

I’ve wondered
to know again.

Spying new round volume,
phenomena impenetrable else
glitters like a city;

in a distance sleepless to remember.

 

Contemporary Poetry