Tag Archives: spoken word

The Waiting Game

Alone again

I play the waiting game

I watch the clock

Ticktock the hours away

Outside it rains

Against the window pane

The Angels cry

And I feel my heart fray

Then thunder roars

As if to reprimand

It’s fury’s pelt

Is felt across the land

Then my heart soars

It’s come to understand

I wait no more

For your unfaithful hand


Yield To Love

Tears are falling

Love’s befalling

I surrender to your embrace

Hearts are beating

Our lips meeting

Hands wander, explore and retrace

Cupid’s aiming

I am yielding

For in your touch love manifests

Arrows flying

Not denying

I pray they pierce me through the chest

Bodies merging

Feelings surging

A space and time to be encased

Life, we’re sharing

Love, we’re basking

What’s in the stars can’t be erased


Terminal Epistle

The days are long.
The torment of waiting…

is longer.

The veracity of the later
stands without question.

My certainty is absolute
for I trust in your fertile mind.
Absolute in the confidence
that you still possess the ability
to comprehend my nature.

Deny me, if you will,
but know that I dare to disagree.

I believe
that the nature of events
which haunt my mind
and transcend onto these pages
are a fact,
long and well,
known in your heart.

Do you dare to disagree?
Then, why do I exhaust such energy?
Do not shrug your shoulders
in aghastment!
You know well the reasons for
my insistence!

The sound of the siren song
is yet blaring in my head.

My only hope to reach you
rests on these mailings.
Needless to say,
all other attempts to do so
ebbed without results.

Lord knows I am weak
in your torturing distance.
I pray He grants me the brawn
to withstand this silence.
I pray He grants you poise
and peace in these times.

My reason shakes
in violent tremors of solitude.

Sweet siren song
still deafening my senses.

Spare me the suspense
and strike me.
Strike me dead,
as I know you will,
mercilessly.

I recognize the splendor you find
in afflicting such torture.

Tell me,
what stalls you now?

Just take me,
as you’ve tasted
in a thousand vivid dreams:
Thrust your claw into my chest;
wrap your fingers ’round my heart.
Rupture this…

tormenting wait.


In Your Infinite Purgatory

You have me,
you know you have me
in your infinite purgatory,
in this emptiness,
in this agonizing nothingness.

You hold me,
you know you hold me
with your promise of posterity,
with an atonement,
with an increasing obscure torment.

In your nirvana
I’m chained to withstand your abuse,
restrained to withstand your ill-use
on my fair reason.

This oblivion
of yours preys on my memory
and leaves me with a vacuity
like a piranha.

My penance,
you know my penance
for you condone this nuisance
that dwells within me,
that dwells midway
between you and me.

My contrition,
you know my contrition
is minding this tribulation,
this nonexistence,
this nonpareil, vile, form of suspense.

In your nirvana
my fair reason is feast
to your gaunt piranha.

So you have me,
you know you have me
in your infinite purgatory.


Convince My Heart

I ask myself this question
each and every night,
it doesn’t change the world, I know,
but helps turn out the lights.

And as I rest my head to sleep
I cross check any lies,
it doesn’t make them any better,
but aids to close my eyes.

I’m tossing in my sleep,
turning till I wake,
encapsulated by guilt,
for peace I need to make.

I cross check any lies,
I find one in my sweater.
I tell myself the lie’s a lie,
but don’t feel any better.

I press my palms against my lids
and scream a silent scream.
You’re in my thoughts throughout the day
and now you’re in my dreams.

I rest my head to sleep
and hope to find you gone,
but as I drift to dream
I find the lies have won.

I ask myself this question
each and every night…

What will it take
to convince my heart
what my head already knows?


Estas Son Las Flores

(Para mi papá Fidel.)

Estas son las flores

que brotaron de las semillas,

que brotaron de las semillas

que tú sembrasteis.

Estas son las manos

que crecieron de las semillas,

que crecieron de las semillas

que tú sembrasteis.

Estas son las risas

que nacieron de las semillas,

que nacieron de las semillas

que tú sembrasteis.

Estas son las vidas

que floreáron de las semillas,

que floreáron de las semillas

que tú sembrastes.

(Tús hijos y nietos,

somos las flores

somos las vidas,

míranos crecer.)

Estas son las flores

que inunden tú vida

con el aroma de niñez,

con el sabor de juventud,

con la promesa de una mañana

llena de felícidad.

(Felíz cumpleaños papá Fidel.)


Naked In Your Mercy

I
am
guilty.

I am guilty
of every crime
I ever charged you with.

I am guilty,
guilty…

of every written word
that ever stole your blithe.

Come here strip me.

Strip me
’till I’m naked in your mercy.
Please find it in your heart
to reprimand.

Lay me
on a bed of wild, wan-white roses…
crumple me down ’till their thorns
I cannot stand.

Take the blood sopping petals
from beneath me
and smother these across
my quivering
flesh.

Lay your unveiled body
now atop me
and writhe with me
to the rhythm of my pain.

Curse the very life
dwelling in me…
exorcise
every last drop of faith.

Help me believe.

Avenge every ode
I dared conceive,
swiftly,
while my collar is exposed.

Like a buck under the fury
of a lioness,
you know very well
how hopeless am I
of escape!

Taste the very fear
that overwhelms me.
Deplete every ounce
of my bleeding soul…

For only you can,
this guilt, I confess.
For only you can,
this shame, generate.

And only you can,
this pain, nullify.
Only you can,
this heart, conciliate!

Naked in your mercy,
I am!

Drenched in the passion
of your chastise.

Stripped
by your forgiving soul,
I muse in the blaring sound
of our throbbing hearts.

Acquitted
of all crimes, are we.
Guilty
of none,
save rapture!


The Nightmare Of Want

She was right when she wrote,
“To want is not to love.”
And you, as well as I,
know this is true.
She was wise when she wrote,
“To use is not to love.”
No lie could change the truth,
but still we do.

We lie
in many cases…
for want of what they cannot give.
We lie
with nameless faces…
for what we know they cannot give.

The nightmare of want beclouds me
-keeping me from seeing through-
and all is obscure.

Many would expostulate
that God is to credit
for the creation of pain.
Others would remonstrate
that He is to credit
for the creation of love.

I’m left to speculate
that “love is the source of pain
and pain is the source of love.”

Oh what the human soul will endure,
in search for that which we all seek,
-Most in vain-
Just to feel,
for a second of our lifetime,
the warmth of Love.

The nightmare of want befogs me
-keeping me from seeing you-
and all is cryptic
when I am this far
from what I’ve come to accept as,
settle for as,
the genuine thing:
bona fide ardor.

We build-em-up so high…
so they may further let us fall.
And we resume to lie
to and with
-vainly in quest-
all the while,
knowing what’s best…
ultimately
equivocating the soul.

For coming to terms
with the feelings that burn
deep inside of us
was never easy.
Now ever-elusive Love beckons
But the nightmare of want
surrounds us…
keeping Love
at bay.

She was right when she wrote,
“To want is not to Love.”


Cursed Joys of Infamy

These words I write
cannot convey
the pain that thwarts within my soul,
-the aching vacuum of loneliness-
which fills my heart
in your absence.

A rage so fierce
beyond my grasp
takes hold and leads me through these lines
-like an obstinate demon of vengeance-
scrawling the words you now read.

To mask my fears,
deny my pain
and blame you for my misery
-on a route too trite to be anything more than tempting-
would be far too facile.

His eloquent rage
penetrates my every pore;
rushing through my veins.
-Like a drug racing feverishly to it’s destiny.-
And I’m in bliss…
a drowsy, dreary, dammed bliss!

Now
everything I loved in you
I’ve come to loathe.
He’s giving me the liberty
-as he and only he can set me free-
to feel the hate, the pain, the joys you denied me.

Oh, cursed joys of infamy!
Such wondrous sensations monopolize
-though not undiminish-
my character to the brink of adversity.

To claim the sum of these lines
as my brainchild
would be to conceit
responsibility of your destruction.
-But you know well, as I do, the muse…-

The aching vacuum of loneliness
like an obstinate demon of vengeance
on a route too trite to be anything more than tempting
is like a drug racing feverishly to it’s destiny,
as he and only he can set me free,
though not undiminish
my character to the brink of adversity,
but you know well, as I do, the muse…


Kept Covert In Your Heart

Although meekness is my weakness,

someday my pride will soar.

And I will find the strength to speak with you in length

of our divorce and more.

These words ring true when far from you

and batten in my heart,

but their efficacy when ’round you escapes me

and this tears me apart.

It could be thee, though more so me,

who burdens on me woe.

This childish game we play ’tis cruel in every way…

I’m certain this you know.

Although cynical and quizzical

sly words are your fortress,

I hear in these a tone, a distant longing groan

for our lost devoutness.

I know that you will not state “True!”

This game you live to lark.

And I’ll remain as coy as the imprisoned boy

kept covert in your heart.

Although meekness is my weakness,

someday my pride will soar.

And I will find the strength to speak with you in length

of our divorce and more.