Let ivy grow over my grave.
Let God make my body
a joy, a beauty; and a testament
to His power.
Make a place for birds to
nest in my headstone,
so that I may look back
and see new life
following my own.
SeashellsI found a matched pair
Of broken seashells.
They were halved, but not from the same whole.
Each orange half-moon had been trampled
By a careless tourist with eyes only for the waves;
Each had been bored through and gnawed at from the inside
By some seafaring worm;
Each had been beaten by water and stone,
Battered by wind, tossed by the gulls.
Their tips had been worn down to points like wings.
It was as thought hey flew together and met in my path.
I threaded wire through them to make earrings,
So that the pair would never be apart.
Ella Violo - Chapter 2Ella liked autumn. The sun didn't rise too early or too late, and the air was still warm while gaining an air of crispness. She rose on the morning of the thirteenth with an enormous yawn. A mouse in the corner echoed her sentiment.
"Good morning," she said to the little creature. The mouse skittered back into its home in an old holey chest against the wall. "Gotta get a cat," muttered Ella as she threw off her blankets and poked Tomas and Alejandro awake.
Maria was already up and about, frying eggs in the kitchen. She was only two years older than Ella, but she already looked like a mother. Her brown hair was tied up in a messy knot at the base of her head, and smile lines were appearing around her red lips. The smallest thief, a four-year-old boy with quick fingers, clung to Maria's apron as she swept around the room, stirring bubbling pots of porridge and soup.
"Up already, Ella? Must
SistersWe are the worriers, the wishers
on low-flying Boeings, willing them up and
away from our homes and businesses.
We found ourselves in old England in
New England, winters with no heat and
summers of more weight.
We see love in white and wrinkled faces,
in cupcakes and pencil boxes, in train schedules
and in ordinary time, cut time, and thyme patches.
We may sit quietly but we will never be
silenced save by shouts and each other's
We were the perfect girls, and we are the working
women of east and west, the white North,
wit and will and worship.
Panick 3Do you ever worry about going mad, Mother?
I do. It started one day
when my mind stopped sounding like poetry
or conversation. The transitions rambled.
I found that my head was off-kilter, or my eyes
wanted blue and red more than usual. Did you
ever feel that, Mother?
I had hoped it would go away, but internal
monologues don't stop when the script does.
The crazy, I mean. Why does
it linger? I would think that better minds
than mine need the twisting. But what if
we all went out of our heads for a while?
Could that fix things? If we could forget,
maybe problems would vanish like the ponies on the highway.
Wouldn't they? Like the posies? I've never
seen a posy, Mother.
Ella Violo - Chapter 1Chapter 1
So, you want a story? How about The girl who grew up too fast? Its one of my favorites. I know, youve heard it before, but theres so much you can learn from it. Especially if you want to grow up to be like me. Dont give me that look, Tomas, I saw you watching my hands on that job earlier. Good thieves dont come from nowhere.
Here goes. But you only get part of it tonight. Weve got a big day ahead of us tomorrow and you lads need your sleep.
Once upon a time, I had a little family. Just me, my Papa, and my Mami. We lived in a modest house in Caligari territory. Papa was a merchant, and Mami sewed and cooked. She and her friend Amelia made the most beautiful things with linen and lace, and Papa sold them to traders from Castille. I went to the market with him one day, when I was about four,
The WorldThe World ( 1990's )
Life is a joy to me.
Life fills me with glee.
I love the things I see.
What wonderful things surround
us if you stop and look.
Try and see it for yourself,
instead of reading of it in a book.
But I have to say this although the poem it may change.
The people of this Earth are very very strange.
Some people on this planet are very very deranged.
Some countries want to kill and maim
just so if they win, they'll get a little fame.
This world used to be great.
The time to fix is over, it's really too late.
We have to start over, fresh and anew...
Destroy almost everything and leave just a few.
We need a good leader, someone who doesn't suppress.
When I think of who we have, it makes me depressed.
War hungry mongers, waiting to strike.
Someone ought to tell them to take a long hike.
People want change, they want freedom and peace.
But they look to the wrong powers for this kind of release.
They look to the governments to unite the nations and hea
samsara time dissolves material things for you.
for me it scrapes at the tight heartbeats of childhood
it patterns the senses
and carves new synapse for my sorrows.
fear not though my dear - we will together
roll in other waves, on other days
ii. Sleeping (dreaming/coping)
sometimes I wake to the hidden nocturnes – rustling
sometimes to the day’s first birds – high in the willows
the dawn births their silhouettes from the darkness.
mostly I am here, thick in the silence – stagnant and still like a loch
swollen to the memory of things
faded teacups, the bare wire of the washing-line
iii. Economy (of daily memory)
dusk, me. the old granite-quarry workers day is complete.
Fords throw up ochre dust along the roads
back to town
to neon bars - they herd in like tired sheep
to moan away the relics of the day
but since the Note - all actions are altered - something lost
along that slow corrugated way
Life is but a DreamWe are just unnourished frail bodies,
overfed with white lies and short-lived-euphorias.
Books filled with black letters,
etching lurid images into our utmost dreams.
Veering us from the big picture...
the one we fail to paint ourselves.
Our fists much too busy with fights,
that we are bound to lose.
Too occupied in line waiting,
for creativity to be let loose like a stray dog.
As if we will find home in this pursuit of happiness...
but we only enclose each other in small rooms
with nothing but old laptops.
How many times I've guessed which letter could it be...
Which letter could it be?
To free us from havoc-stricken-thoughts?
They come and go, unending like 24 hour subway stations.
There's no break for this lonely man,
heaving every breathe of stale air
into my overused lungs...
Living in confined walls of flesh
held up with brittle paper-mache bones.
Which day is it that I will burst out from this cage of a life?
And hover with the Gods found in carefully binded bo
The SaxophoneThe Saxophone
I pick up this golden bird,
and play until I weep.
For the sadness I play,
brings joy to others.
My mouth tests the foul taste of a drenched piece of wood,
and with tears in my eyes
I breathe like a ferocious dragon
ready to strike the sorry little man in the field.
For soon others will join in my song of many feelings.
This golden bird brings
and hope to this world.
The air from my lungs escape.
There I release my anger and pain, all through a solid breath.
Then my brothers join me,
while we release our burdens and curses
to suffer in the gates of hell.
This golden bird is not just some toy; it is our tool for happiness.
Imagine that 26 keys
can lift the souls of others.
White Crows in the MistCan you see the world
Can you hear its thumps
With death in my eyes
I know what is living
Can you feel the screams
Of white crows in the mist
In the blinding darkness
Light has become pure
In between our thoughts
Something wild is being born
So mindless and beautiful
Unharmed by the flow
Can you feel your decay
Can you sense your growth
On the edge of opposites
You transcend it all
HELP ME TO SURRENDER
THIS FLESH AND BLOOD
HELP ME TO GIVE
MY HEART AND SOUL
HELP TO BE THANKFUL
YOU SHELTER ME FROM THE STORM
HELP ME TO LET GO
OF THESE THOUGHTS AND EMOTIONS
HELP ME TO EMBRACE
ALL THAT IS UNKNOWN
HELP ME TO PLAY OUT
Who is he?The swish of his wings
The beat of his heart
The glint of his scales
As he glides through the dark
The gleam of his claws
The flames in his breath
Those violent eyes
The speak of beautiful death
This creature is one of myth and legend
Who's tales have passed through millions of ears
It's your turn now, to guess his name
Who is he?