Love is the light of each morning
the clarity of the air
the flight of the birds
the cold river run
and the warmth of the lake,
but mostly in the persistence of the ocean waves
returning to the shores
steadily
(with fresh embraces)
Sometimes a poem is like a painting
Of a moment and sometimes it is simply
A river of words
And it flows.
From our boats
In which we float we fish
A word about a word and wonder
What is a book about a book
A song about a song
If not a parable.
We teach about teachers
We study the students
We praise with our songs the bards
We learn to listen
From good listeners.
We hope for hope
And wish that the living stay alive
That some will give to the givers
That justice is fair
And at the end of the day
We roll the wheel and wait.
Sometimes
A poem is like a painting
Of a moment and sometimes it is simply
A river of words
And it flows
What is
A word about a word
And wonder what is a book about a book or
A song about a song
If not a parable
From our boats
In which we float we fish
A word about and word and wonder
What is a book about a book
A sing about a song
If not a a parable
We teach about teachers
We study the students
We praise with our songs the bards
We learn to listen
From goo listeners
We hope for hope
And wish that the living stay alive
That some will give to the givers
That justice is fair
And at the end of the day
We roll the wheel and wait .
She started gentle like a whisper
And smoothly glided on the road
To orchestrate a symphony of change.
She pointed to the ginkgo trees
And their response ? They turned to gold .
The maples when addressed
Rose into orange flames
Above the green grass sea.
The scarlet oaks turned shameless red
With all their passion on display.
The chorus gathers all the sugar
From the voices of the leaves to fall
Their sacrifice to feed the spring to come.
i am a limitless person
Confined in a shy body
I will not dance if you are watching
For fear that the stones
Might crack under my feet
For fear that I will grow wings
Or other strange extensions
Perhaps tentacles
Who Will randomly reach
Towards the intangible
The unbound
The ever expanding Universe
Of budding light
But if you look
And resonate
We could together
Catch a wave
And navigate
Wherever
Dreams may take
Vacations
The man looks stranded
by the big black sea.
The salt gets caught in his beard,
the wind carves his face.
This is his daily life.
The oil does not get lighter.
The steps do not get fewer.
The climb seems higher,
but he continues to work.
His solitary job is guarding
the beacon of light.
Night after night,
and all the same during the day,
he works.
His achievement
is keeping the ships clear
of shallow waters
and treacherous sands.
His success is defined
when nothing happens.
The ships pass
and never suffer
what might have been.
There is no reward
for what does not happen,
no one to thank him
for the wreck that never was,
only the small hope
that with every ship
that sails safely on,
he pushes his chance.
Joana your name is red
And sharp like a Toledo blade
Your long skirt makes the wind twirl
On a summer evening walk
By the side of the sea
Calling for breeze
Joana your walk wants to turn into dance
At the sound of your laughter
Your words into chocolate and mangoes
And a whole tropical forest could grow
Under the rain of your love
So love Joana for the joy of this world
As if ships carrying spices
Had finally come to port
Joana your name is red
And sharp like a Toledo blade
Your long skirt makes the wind twirl
On a summer evening walk
By the side of the sea
Calling for breeze
Joana your walk wants to turn into dance
At the sound of your laughter
Your words into chocolate and mangoes
And a whole tropical forest could grow
Under the rain of your love
So love Joana for the joy of this world
Like the ships carrying wonder
Have finally come to the port
The bus will reward you
With a tight company of people,
Short-range and short-term interactions,
And the occasional verbal explosion
When crossing a hole or bump
Or a difficult border.
The lights and the stops,
The necessary and long-awaited
Bathroom stops,
Mark the trip’s regular flow
And highlights:
Sandwiches and sodas,
The coffee the driver needs
To keep up his eyelids.
The songs undulate
With the road,
Their loud melodrama
Becoming the soundtrack
Of this temporary company,
Long after we have forgotten
The border cops,
Their stressful tricks,
The fears.
And we laugh
At the swear words
As the driver moves forward,
Piercing the night.
And we wake up
To light,
To the expectation of oranges,
The familiar road dust,
The road lying mellow
Through olive orchards
white buildings and rocks
Nathaniel your name
Sounds mellow and soft
Smells like sandalwood and musk
And just a little cigarette smoke
Nathaniel but your name
Rides on a Harley
And flies a red and yellow bandana
In the burning summer wind
I find no way to thank you
For the quiet bravery
To do the right thing
No matter the cost
Your smile Nathaniel
Melts icebergs
But your laughter causes avalanches
So your walk is restrained
As you walk through the gardens of Eden
So you push through the tempting desert
You think the millions of flowers
hiding under the sand
Remember, Nathaniel, if you cry,
these tears hold the promise
of saving rain
and restoring the balance.
The first time I met you,
I could see the potential you held
within your soul—
a perfect orb.
There was a thin layer of ice
and the sound of wind
blowing snow,
but I thought it was gently falling,
and the ice would melt
if I held the orb
for a while
in my hand.
So I reached out,
and the orb spun
wonderful stories
for a while,
giving birth to butterfly moments
flying into the sun,
shaping the world in all colors.
And the orb sang
on all frequencies—
a little song for every day,
enough sweetness to bridge
cold nights
and whole seasons.
And now that the orb
sits quiet, I wonder
how long until spring.
And I wonder
how many dreams
it still holds,
and what wonders
it will birth
if I held it again
in my hand.
First time I met you
I could see the potential you hold
Within your soul
A perfect orb
There was a thin layer of of ice
And the sound of wind blowing
Snow but I thought it was gently falling
And the ice will melt if I held
The orb in my hand for a while
So I did reach out and the orb
Spun wonderful stories
For a while
Giving birth to butterfly moments
Flying into the sun
Shaping the day in all colors
And singing on all frequencies
A little song for every day
Enough sweetness to bridge
Over cold nights
And seasons whole
And now that the orb
Sits still I wonder
How long until spring
And I wonder
How many dreams
It still holds
And what wonders
Will it birth
If I held it again
In my hand .
The geometry of joy
involves networks,
nodes of unequal gravity
connected by colorful bonds.
The geometry of joy involves pathways
where truth switches sides,
from top to bottom,
through repeating loops.
The geometry of joy—
you get to define its boundaries
or explode them
into superbly expanding universes.
The geometry of joy
involves networks,
with more and less important nodes
connected by colorful bonds.
The geometry of joy involves pathways
where truth switches sides,
from top to bottom,
while sliding smoothly into loops.
The geometry of joy—
you get to define it,
setting its boundaries
or exploding them
into superbly expanding universes.
She was looking for time
But whenever she glanced at her wrist
And what was wrapped around
All I she could see
Were Swarovski crystals
In shade of blue
Holding Pattern
These days arrive without edges,
a weather system stalled over the house.
Nothing breaks, nothing clears.
Even the clocks seem to hesitate
before committing to the next minute.
You move carefully,
as if carrying water in open hands—
meetings, messages, obligations
sloshing but not spilling,
because spilling would cost more
than you can afford.
There is a discipline to this kind of living:
to keep showing up without applause,
to choose steadiness over drama,
to accept that progress may look
like maintenance rather than motion.
Some nights you mistake exhaustion for failure.
But survival has its own quiet intelligence.
It knows when to pause,
when to narrow the field of vision
to the next necessary act.
If there is hope here,
it is not loud.
It sits beside you,
unremarkable and patient,
waiting for the day
when forward motion feels like movement again.
Until then,
breathe.
Hold the line.
This, too, counts as strength.
Becoming
Not the kind with announcements,
no ribbon, no clean before-and-after.
Becoming happens the way bone knits—
slowly, invisibly, under pressure.
You are not shedding a former self.
You are carrying her forward,
rearranging weight,
learning which burdens have become structural
and which can finally be set down.
Some days feel like standing in fog,
certain only of the next step.
But even fog has direction—
it moves, it thins, it obeys forces
you don’t have to name to trust.
Becoming is consent to unfinishedness.
To working without guarantees.
To choosing alignment over speed,
truth over comfort,
continuity over approval.
Look closely:
the patience you thought was delay
is actually form.
The restraint you mistook for fear
is calibration.
You are not late.
You are not stalled.
You are in the precise middle
where change is too deep to be visible
and too real to be undone.
This is what it looks like
when a life reorients—
quietly, deliberately,
becoming itself.
The kiss burns hotter in the cold
It thaws the dark ramifications of the frost
It blooms a pink carnation on the snow
So bring it on - I am afraid no more
Gold to rust and rush to still,
Title: Our Own Season (or alternate: “Where We Meet”)
[Verse 1]
I come from the South, where the sun always shines,
Olive-skinned children sing rough lullabies.
Even the stones hold the heat of the day,
And the sunset whispers, “it’s time to begin.”
[Verse 2]
You come from the North, where the winter is long,
Snow hushes the voice of the aurora’s song.
You wait in the dark, with a heart full of light,
Longing for stars that dance through the night.
[Chorus]
We meet in the middle, under sky-splitting flame,
When the moon steals the sun, or a meteor came.
We plant our small hopes at the edge of the road—
Berries that bloom in the cold.
Proof that we both still bleed warm.
Proof that we both still belong.
[Verse 3]
We carry the fire from our corners of earth,
Trade southern gold for your northern mirth.
The compass was wild, but it led us true—
To a season not born until me and you.
[Final Chorus / Outro]
We meet in the middle, where the strange things begin,
Not summer, not winter, not where we’ve been.
We go on together, like stars on the run—
Creating a season that’s never been sung.
I come from the South,
where olive-skinned children
sing with rough voices
their love for the sun—
where even the stones are warm,
and sunset signals beginning.
You come from the North,
where snow blankets the voice of the aurora,
whom you long to see
while you wait in the dark
through the long duration of winter.
We meet in the middle,
on the occasion of a celestial event—
an eclipse,
or beneath the thundering fear
of a fallen meteor.
We grow berries
at the edge of the road,
proof that still—
both of us carry warm blood.
And then,
we go on
to create our own season. whom you long to see
while you wait in the dark
through the long duration of winter.
We meet in the middle,
on the occasion of a celestial event—
an eclipse,
or beneath the thundering fear
of a fallen meteor.
We grow berries
at the edge of the road,
proof that still—
both of us carry warm blood.
And then,
we go on
to create our own season.
I wish you some magical mornings,
when you slip into the light of day,
unknowingly performing a ritual of healing,
as body and mind spring to new life.
You hear the birds,
as if for the very first time,
their song a hymn to your awakening.
And the weary world,
so often blunt and gray,
pauses to wonder:
Where has this beauty been?
And oh, how glad we are
to see you—
reborn into this day.
Lemons and mulberries,
a little acid to elevate
a taste for the sweet—
to remind you
that joy sometimes arrives with a sting.
The perspective you earn
from climbing trees—
beyond scraped elbows and bloodied knees—
is the raw view of courage
and the sky pressed close.
There’s a price in sharing fruit
with a friend:
a piece of yourself
passed palm to palm,
always an open hand.
To many blows have made a hole
The wound where all the blood
Of poetry poured out
Onto the ground
Drained she waits
For desert winds
To dry the tears
Into salty grains
Of rolling sand
Her body wrinkles
And contorts just like
A tortured scream
Into the night
The moons takes
Pity the man and turns her
Into the only tree
That can survive this moral desert
And she reaches out
An olive branch
Sometimes you get a very personal blow
To the stomach
And your are expected to recover and even
Get better
Because they say whatever does not kill,,,
But does it heal?
And what about those football kids who got
Too many blows
What ever happened to their heads
Ministers
Please pray for our souls and keep our dreams
Alive
If you continue to add
Lively colors into my days
I will write poems
For your paintings
And will run to find
A singer in the street
To add his music
In the lower left
Corner
The one that hangs loose
And ready to flow
Out of the frame
With grace
Though a dance .
This way
The arts will stay
With us
In the same room,
Will day?
I have broken 1000 times
In a million pieces
And all it took was you
to swirl by
in your form of light
From the north
To build me back
Like a column
Piercing the sky
The colder I get
The more fragile
Can you stay
Long enough
To make me green
Suple and soft
And ready for spring
For I have been long
hungered for light
November’s ending
But It sent a beaver moon
To get us out
With promises of light
It’s gotten cold and dark
And we are out with flashlights
Looking for ourselves
When maybe we should
only hope to find
Connections
To each other
Things should come in pairs
Like shoes
For symmetry reasons
And Redundancy
In case the left foot loses
Optimism
The right can kick things up
Powering through
Realms of quite silences
Or dips of energy
With the minimum
Required energy flow
Until restoration
Of full power and joy.
Writing with friends
If your own pen is undecided
Helps smooth the trajectory
On the floor of the ballroom
The words align
Sing to themselves
Sooth the listener
Dance in tandem.
Adversity can crash the spirit
not even words come out
and when they do
they walk with a limp.
But if they manage
to cross the long road
from me to you
why would you
not take them
and wrap them
with care
for me
because
they may be
the only gift
all year
I look around and I see
Small people trying to fill big shoes
Big people trying to fit into small shoes
The pain of adjusting to circumstances
That never change fast enough
Except for the few perfect ones
The ones that slip into molds
Silvery sisters and brothers
Of all the common
Cinderellas I deeply respect
And never expect to see wearing
Shiny, but merely comfortably
Their loving Souls .
Light was flowing gently at an angle
Upon tormented waves
tickled as they were they sprinkled drops
Through salty half closed eyelids
As they laughed and jumped ashore
Just barely touching at is feet
The sandy one pushed back
The waves took one more bite
The light tried and tried again
To tame them.
The 20 miles were rolling up and down
In front of my bike and this guy
Passed swiftly in front of me
With a pink shirt and totally fit
And I could read on his back
In plain white the message
“Stay sweet”.
At the crossroads we stopped
He turned his head back and he said
We are too light
then flew ahead as he smiled
He said
you will lose your soul if you go
He sighed
watch your step as you walk
He looked
as the light was getting harder
He listened
as the storm started to roar
He asked
will you chose love over war?
The time of magnolias is when biking is best
When old trees work towards filling your lungs
with fresh air and perfume
When you open your eyes
Because there are hills to climb
Lakes to swim and birds to applaud
For their lively concerts
And lazy mornings to unfold
Lay upon grasses and rest
thank you lord for this rainy day
without which i would have not had time
to find joy in the current setting
of the life we were given to live, just once
thank you lord for the rain, scars, and the shadows,
for the silence without which i would never have
appreciated the desert of pain, the light i have been bathing in
and the music of the morning birds
thank you lord for this rainy day
when i count my friends round the table,
and pour bitter coffee in unmatched cups
as we get ready to sing and sweeten the day
thank you lord, even if i do not know how to pray
i know the night will crack open
and make room for the day
with the hands of love, and force of joy
bring it on, this new day
you hear them lament
and you think their voices
are beautiful and still
too thin
as if they are never enough
to fill the air
to cover the ground
to stand on their own
occasionally there are voices
rising above the chorus
they lift and vibrate
my chords and yours
they speak with an intensity
that makes the mouths of man
speak their words
willing breaking the bonds
they lift up a storm
and then they fall sweetly
back into the chorus
now that we know
You say fabulous
As I say good morning
And the reality of the day
Turns from inside out
Like a flower and blooms.
