You are browsing the archive for 2011 June.

My Winds and Rains

June 25, 2011 in Poets At Work

my winds and rains

Stardust winded
Wishes dispersed throughout
You wait
The sacrificing pigeon;
as white as neon

She flies over our head
Builds the nest
For the progeny of Liberty

I kiss you in the spot
Where the star sealed
The enveloped skin
To see the unseen

Your dress
A heavy couture
All brocade, gold and platinum
Twisted muslin with the damask
All over

Releasing the smell of Oud
To bring hot Oriental breeze
In my Occidental body
A victim for the Cross

Somebody wants to
Peace prevail in our realm
Somebody wants to read my writing
Jus as they wish to read

A flying something lightly
Lands in the front of the shores
We by stand the external bygones
Amused and bewildered
We are
Silent as stone
Erected in the midland

All kinds of spices and species
Even slices and pieces
Verbatim’ and Originals
Assembled

Never-ending gratitude
Goblets of Ambrose
We drink in the name of the Supreme
Tonight rains and winds ceased

Digg This
Reddit This
Stumble Now!
Buzz This
Vote on DZone
Share on Facebook
Bookmark this on Delicious
Kick It on DotNetKicks.com
Shout it
Share on LinkedIn
Bookmark this on Technorati
Post on Twitter
Google Buzz (aka. Google Reader)

The Sorbet of the Divine

June 25, 2011 in Poets At Work

the sorbet of the divine

Arbor had fear,
From a passing stranger
I fed the canary while
They sung in unison
Scared they flew away
A stranger approached me
I was about to faint
The crimson ground
Made tectonic sliding
We feared death

She lives in a distance
Yet she lives with my
Breath and the soul
Radiates in her ether
She remembers the Lilly
I brought from the garden
Of certitude, and
The roses in a blasting white

I bestow as a final touch
Where freedom smells Love
The two-sided medal
Has the love pentacle
At the abyss of the surface
I taught on Kernel of the Kernel

She prayed in the biggest Temple
In synergy with the rolling through
My burning cheek, fried
Crystal tear in nacre transformed
I evoked Salamanders
To extinguish the fire
With the fire

The crystalline cup
Of the wine, Divine to obey
My thirst

The wisdom approached in
An old fashion

The knowledge bangs
The manifestation of freedom.

The Love eternal Lady
Wowed the platinum thread
An oracle tapestry
She made
I sat there…
I felt there…
I saw there.

Those I met in
The realm of the hanged forms
I saw her dark sapphire eyes
That kept the beauty Secret
The body that sticks
All fallen stars and
The heart of her
That is a sarcophagus of
The secrets; of the chosen

Her voice is the symphony
Of the golden leaf wheat
And the hush of a Sybil
The argument written in
a forehead
Bears testimony

What the holy womb bears
The witnesses are
Two lights
The Angel of the left and the angel
Of the right shoulder

She recognizes the seal of
A prodigy’s scalp,
And double up and down turned
Triangles
In my Plexus

She is not Mary
She is not Amina
She is not Bathsheba

She is in a circle of curiosity
I’m in the square of stability
Who cares for the mouth?
Of the Cantankerous

The conundrum is set Mandala
The white rose of my being
Bleeds the blue
Because I Love eternally
As a Luna full
Careless of the barking

For a quantum of a moment
I disperse in those I met
They hardly recognize
The quintessence of the “I”
They only remember
Occasionally
The smell of the rose

Even this is for me
A Sufficient Something

I may only rest and
Breath as infant
Marked with the seal
In his forehead

Digg This
Reddit This
Stumble Now!
Buzz This
Vote on DZone
Share on Facebook
Bookmark this on Delicious
Kick It on DotNetKicks.com
Shout it
Share on LinkedIn
Bookmark this on Technorati
Post on Twitter
Google Buzz (aka. Google Reader)

A Short Opera

June 25, 2011 in Poets At Work

a short opera

 

 

 

(to be sung by a man)

Paul lives like a squatter in his own body
his ghost walks along the Hudson park
playing his guitar and making love to the city

Which has forgotten him as a one more piece of graffiti

On  back the walls of CBGBs .
His eyes work best under the low hanging

Lights of reflections

Of putting on make up before each show

Every mirror lacked the static

Created by those who hate

What comes back on them

In those reflections.
He says,
“there is nowhere else I’d rather live
then the upper west side.”
But
no plan lasts forever.

 

(to be sung by a woman)

 

In the cranium sits the hour

which cuts everyone down to size

with the perfect clarity that he’s hung out here for

too long

in rooms which consumes

those who have never learned how to lose well

and every hope that all directions come to a single point vanishes

no matter how many songs he writes.

There are no seas

In a mind which turns back on itself

Like 45s which now sit only on the bottom

Of trash piles that hide his floor,

only the drainage of those hours

which take the form of a gun that is always

loaded

and pointed at the heart which beats in empty space.

Its waters

flows under the pressure

of living between the lines

of the

wards

(where the price of admission is your name which is so easily spent

In the Lightning storms between the synapses.

This is the birth of those dreams with edges that make the perfect cut

every time in all directions,)

stacks of eviction notices

intrusion of cheap music from the other side of the walls

and the fear of

what moves on the other side of his door

who is coming through that door.

 

(man and woman sing together)

There’s just so many
sleepless nights that he can keep it together
before the oceans of insomnia
washes him away
back into the cold embrace of Saint Luke’s

where his ruin sits like a pearl that is carefully placed so far below

or his greatest art only waiting for a signature.

“Ok it’s meds time! Youall get in line.”

Digg This
Reddit This
Stumble Now!
Buzz This
Vote on DZone
Share on Facebook
Bookmark this on Delicious
Kick It on DotNetKicks.com
Shout it
Share on LinkedIn
Bookmark this on Technorati
Post on Twitter
Google Buzz (aka. Google Reader)

Ode To The Upper West Side

June 25, 2011 in Poets At Work

ode to the upper west side

By Matthew Abuelo

 

 

 

What do you see?
What do you see?
What do you see when you lift the drawn shades?
What kills your reluctance
to performing without
the fear of riding the
express line to common bathrooms
in dead residences.
All of those around you were born
in the season of genius.

2
Bernie the crier still performs his gimmicks on his knees
in mid-town
as an intrusion to
the senses of all the beautiful people
who smile lightly behind drawn shades.
He can turn the tears
on and off
to attract the tourists
for a quick dollar
or the remains of one’s dinner.

This game does not work
in the Subways
where everything is allowed
but nothing is permitted
and the conductors become ghosts
of the tubes vanishing into the brief points of light
from the A Train.

3
Zoe is at it again
walking her dogs for pay
keeping her ear to the concrete
to hear the drum beat of
another developer
whose only love
is to pave over
those who made the scene
and knew how to play the part.
She seems so out of place
she feels like a guest in her own skin
waiting for the eviction notice
and the coming
of the true owner of her body
who seems to have been gone
far too long
like the wandering Jew.
Zoe still
throws her fortunes to a theater
of incense,
and an audience who lives on their knees
and
whose minds expand
into their
guru’s dark room
and burn themselves
into photographs
where the pain
is still
in time
only to drift into the Hudson
riding the tides
beyond the grid
of West 86th Street to
midtown.
The chimes promised transcendence
but
those inside
that temple
only found wings
which carried them to
otherwise empty staircases
which do not care for
your coming
or going
up
or
down.
don’t make too much noise
though
because unlike
each stair
your neighbors do not sleep to hide your presence
but slowly grow mad
while living as shut-ins
in their rooms.
This show is not new
it’s old
here
There are no marquees
or the bright lights of Broadway
only the silent testimonies
of those who sold out
to the brown and tattooed thumb of the Guru Mai.
But Zoe will always surrender to
the hotel that took her beauty
as she smiles after being left behind.
Her face will never dissolve from here
like gray smoke in a rain storm
but it will remain like a finger print in time
which governs where she lives.

5
Karen still is stuck out on the island
where the fury of Ennui
which breeds at the cellular level
turning all female minds numb
drained
and used
giving boredom color and weight.
Love here will always turn back on you
like a wild animal that you trusted too long.
In this waste land
all identities and
the pain of being human
break at the property line
and roll back in the waves

6
Me
I’m the room
down the hall
where
Images and Ideas
are stored like newspapers strewn along the floor
and cracked 45s
the kept us all company when
radio died.

This ceiling is designed
for fly paper chandeliers
which secures the last outbreak
Of each year
That comes as a farewell to the summer
And welcomes in the fall.

Each story belongs
to everyone one I’ve stolen from
with a pen or a keyboard.
There is too much stored here to forget
but
the connections have dried up
since we left for Washington Heights
where the real rent
is the payment that the gringo must
pay for his anonymity.
No one here has a name
and the only thing left
is to
pass like a dead jelly fish into the sea.
This room has grown cold
all the radiators bled
and everything saved
frozen in time.
This is preservation
turning all ideas
as pure as photographs taken
on the last ship
to Ellis Island.
Heat
that’s where it all breaks down
turning everything you know to ruin.
The only thing I release from these doors which have formed
two lips under a mustache and beard
are dormant ideas
that gasp to be known
on the sidewalks
at readings
never in universities
where only winter
is the season which meets these words
and sentences never form in the frozen air
of politeness.

There is a price for staying too long
in this place
to consume the images of those
who will impose the hell
of needing you
the cruelest of all animals
and
to watch your vanishing
complexities as they disappear
into the rooms of shut-ins.
The hours of isolation
which we hold between our thighs
are plucked from our day
by the friendliest
Thieves.
There is no color of being used
only the gray winter of
writers block

Do you know this dance?
Never to be sold
there is no money to
be made here.
I’ll take the book seller
who sits by the curb
or the hoarder who hasn’t been seen for six days.
You can take the clubs
the sweets and the over priced rooms
you take the con which comes through in
the waves of ads
and
Movies made for those
who only know how to be truly strange
behind drawn shades.

Digg This
Reddit This
Stumble Now!
Buzz This
Vote on DZone
Share on Facebook
Bookmark this on Delicious
Kick It on DotNetKicks.com
Shout it
Share on LinkedIn
Bookmark this on Technorati
Post on Twitter
Google Buzz (aka. Google Reader)

“TEA” after a painting by Henri Matisse

June 3, 2011 in Poets At Work

tea after a painting by henri matisse
“Tea”
   after a painting by Henri Matisse
The gallery finally opened. She waited all morning, fingering the change in her pocket,
looking at her watch, pretending to be fascinated by her fingernails.  The gallery finally opened.
North wall, light focused perfectly: two women talking intimately over teacups.  
Matisse dreamed and his dream shimmers on the North wall of the gallery
Sound of steps on path
Greenery stirs, flash of sunlight
Summer suspended.
(To view painting, see:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/artimageslibrary/5684463582/)
Digg This
Reddit This
Stumble Now!
Buzz This
Vote on DZone
Share on Facebook
Bookmark this on Delicious
Kick It on DotNetKicks.com
Shout it
Share on LinkedIn
Bookmark this on Technorati
Post on Twitter
Google Buzz (aka. Google Reader)

مكسور (BROKEN)

June 3, 2011 in Poets At Work

%d9%85%d9%83%d8%b3%d9%88%d8%b1 broken
 مكسور  (BROKEN)
You don’t have to speak Iraqi Arabic to say
“murdered child,” or
“murdered aunt of nearly dead child,” or
“murdered grandfather of critically wounded child.”
It’s the same in any language
whether you love or hate the speaker.
in the villages where women
hide their expectations
under their burquas,
All men are interrogators.
The women live in a no-women’s land
frozen in sand,
bullet-riddled walls
where sweet Sanaa and
funny Raheem
mull over childhoods that won’t end in death.
We’ve broken their backs, America.
We are Pharaohs over a paraplegic population.
What more could we ask for?
Still, we ask for more.
We are our own pasts, America.
We are destroyers of what others cherish.
S O U L is a country we burned to ash
longer ago than there is memory.
How can we survive when our
journey begins with a funeral procession?
How can we dare to live a present
that teeters on the edge of
a history without remorse?
The average American is lonelier than
the average jellyfish and rightfully so—
urine doesn’t calm our country’s sting.
I wish this was an abstraction,
an allegory, but it’s not.
These words spell reality,
they spell lamentation,
they spell oceans’ endless accusation,
they spell the-whole-planet-can-explode-

and-we-will-stay-at-war.

 

Digg This
Reddit This
Stumble Now!
Buzz This
Vote on DZone
Share on Facebook
Bookmark this on Delicious
Kick It on DotNetKicks.com
Shout it
Share on LinkedIn
Bookmark this on Technorati
Post on Twitter
Google Buzz (aka. Google Reader)

A newbie posts…

June 3, 2011 in Poets At Work

a newbie posts

I am new to Poets At Work.  So far, it seems to have a low-key intensity which I like very much.  I am a writer, mainly a poet, for the last 10-15 years.  I look forward to seeing exactly what goes on here, who goes here, the poetry emerging.  It’s all exciting.  I’m glad to have found PAW.  I hope some of you will visit me at http://www.rollwiththechanges.org.

Digg This
Reddit This
Stumble Now!
Buzz This
Vote on DZone
Share on Facebook
Bookmark this on Delicious
Kick It on DotNetKicks.com
Shout it
Share on LinkedIn
Bookmark this on Technorati
Post on Twitter
Google Buzz (aka. Google Reader)

PEARL

June 2, 2011 in Poets At Work

pearl

PEARL

Are we in the last days?
We, here, not far from the temple of anachronisms,
is time welling up out
of a natural spring with us trying to catch all
we can catch in our hats?
It is a perfect day in November, but it might
be the day of Chronos
doing his eternal thing, leaving us to do ours.
Inquire of yourself:  why
the despair?  Why the migraines?  If you were expecting
this poem to be a pearl,
you may want a refund.  Me?  I’m just my own bones, my
own cloth.  I’m a compressed
sort of concubine, growing my parts into something
which may or may not rise,
but will most certainly burn.  All of my moods suit me
fine and, while I do notreflect the light as I used to,
I still burn in it.

 

Digg This
Reddit This
Stumble Now!
Buzz This
Vote on DZone
Share on Facebook
Bookmark this on Delicious
Kick It on DotNetKicks.com
Shout it
Share on LinkedIn
Bookmark this on Technorati
Post on Twitter
Google Buzz (aka. Google Reader)