Tag Archives: Poet

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We Are the Reason


reason

There is a reason birds don’t fly here anymore.
The skies are filled with fear and lamenting,
and their wings are covered in blood and ash
– bones falling from the sky.

The deer no longer nurses her fawn
in the de-forested wood, and the fish flounder
and die in dry riverbeds
.
The gardens are choked with a villainous vine,
while the petals of every flower fall
one by one to the rotting ground.

The mountains no longer echo with the songs of valley life,
and the oceans lie still, lifeless beneath the moon.
The dimming stars no longer ignite the imagination,
and the sunrise is muted behind a veil of smog and filth.

There is a reason our lifeless children
have abandoned hope in their futures
and restricted their “friends” to Facebook.

There is a reason our churches stand empty,
except to mourn our dead and send them on their way.

There is a reason we scream instead of sing; why
we sleep alone and lock ourselves behind bolted
doors; why we embrace our guns instead of our neighbor.

Our cities crumble beneath the weight of hatred and
indifference, while greed feeds upon the impoverished.

We have deigned to wear the robes of God and we have
failed. We turn from one another in vile contempt for we
cannot bear the reflection of ourselves in their wounded
eyes.

We have consumed it all, and in the process, we
have consumed ourselves.

We are the reason.

 

by

Lady of the Night


moon-like-face

Her face is frost etched glass
floating in the blue-black winds of the night;
She illuminates footsteps hushed
on decayed and dampened leaves,
and grieves for freshly planted souls
who have turned from the light of day.

Her midnight corset is tightly laced
by the dazzling tails of falling stars,
and she moves in phases
with the hushed and tempered grace of a
childless empress wandering forlornly
through the cold shadows of winter’s garden.

She seduces the wolf and the poet with
equal ambivalence, each of whom
compose for her dream-soaked arias
and haunting sonnets that speak of
promises which will not be kept.

She mourns her powdered reflection
as it ripples across frozen lakes, and
hides behind silver-lined clouds when
she can no longer bear the loneliness
of her shadowy journey across granite
mountaintops and sleeping meadows.

At last, in the cool, grey light of morning,
as the sun softly caresses her porcelain
cheek with warm fingers of breaking light,
she sighs but once, then slowly fades into
the rose colored blush of a new day.

by

Fallen Angel


tear

He writes for a fallen angel
but the rhymes don’t appear,
not in words, but in stilted

verse, in outpourings of
watered down love. She spreads
her wings and hunts the night.

What the poet will not write is,
You hunger for your father’s love;
It never was, but may you find

through the spilling of my ink
Some noble affection upon
which to rest. But I cannot touch

your pain. He drinks a toast
to the memory of her beauty.
No one wants her faded

charms this night. She stands
beneath a waning moon

with a single tear, a cigarette
from her too red un-kissed lips.
The cars no longer slow

down to guess her meaning.
She traces a vein
to where the needles brought

peace a million times.
I hear your poem, thank you
but I must be home to
where the razor whispers.

by

The Poet and His Prostitutes


whore

He was a lover of street prostitutes;
not the sable-wrapped uptown girls
who sold their tight-toned wares retail,
but rather those working-class girls
perfumed by the sweat of their labors;
standing beneath broken streetlights at 2 a.m.,
in cheap, colorful makeup and Wal-mart lingerie,
with asses bubbling back and flaccid breasts;
those colorful painted whores of the night.
In his youth, he had been scorched by the beautiful
and he would never again have the fevered yearning
of lying with flesh more pliant and comely.
Street-walkers fed his pathos and filled his inner void.
They would let him kiss them on the mouth,
and wouldn’t complain when he couldn’t get hard
because of too much beer and whiskey.
They’d always wait patiently, filing their nails
and filling the silence with meaning-less chatter.
If he couldn’t function, they didn’t condemn him,
but would play with themselves upon request
so at least the failing of the hour felt sexy.
Most of all, they didn’t lie.
They wouldn’t tell him what a great lover he was
or offer up false platitudes on his endowment;
They used their real names and would share their coke
for an extra five, and he would pour them shots.
Sometimes, he would write beautiful sonnets for them
and they would be genuinely moved to tears.
If the sex was lousy, they took it in stride and didn’t bitch.
They didn’t conspicuously spit into folded Kleenex
or stuff their mouths with wads of spearmint gum
after he had come, just to lose the taste of him.
Rather, they swallowed because they, too, didn’t care
if they got one more filthy, fucking disease.
They were like him; defeated and empty,
just grateful not to be judged and discarded
like yesterday’s rotten fruit.

by

In the Dying Petals of the Poet’s Flower


poet sleeping

Past the tick-tick-tocking of the midnight hour,
Wrapped in sweat-stained cotton sheets,
Robbed of sleep and feeling sour
Like a muffled drum sounding nothing beats -
In the dying petals of the poet’s flower.

This syrup sleep removes the pain,
While dreams remain beyond my reach.
A whiskey slumber subdues the brain
While my toss-n-turn reveals a breach,
As time grinds on just the same.

I rise to write the poet’s dribble
And gorge upon liters of stale red wine.
Behold, my words, a bastard’s scribble!
Writ upon the passage of borrowed time.
Each tick, each tock, from my life is nibbled

I cannot rest while my muse is clanging
Inside my head a poor man’s verse,
Nor can I stop the incessant banging
As my thirst for libations meets an empty purse!
These words are ripe for a morning hanging.

Upon the tick-tick-tocking of the morning hour,
Sweet sleep descends upon my brow.
Within my bed I hide and cower;
An ink-less pen is a horseless plough -
In the dying petals of the poet’s flower.

by

Poet’s Defeat


fallen angel

 

Let the night unfold as may;
I am sleepless and nocturnal
a carpet of stars lights the way
across blank pages of my journal

Though little light is cast, and sure
No verse forthcoming pours from me
for all the emptiness I endure
One inspired word would set me free

Yet these droplets fall in un-metered rhyme
for me to unravel, on bended knee
I am as useless as soliloquy to a mime
Or autumn leaves to a winter tree

So loose my bonds and set me free
No more my pen to scribe
No vacuous lines of poetry
There’s simply nothing left inside.

 

by

A Bucket Full of Words


bucket-list-words

I went to the muse market
bought myself a bucket of words;
just a pail full of random nouns,
verbs, adjectives, pronouns and such.
Too cheap to purchase any rhyme or reason
(too expensive and out of season),
struggled home with my overflowing bucket
balanced on my hip, splish-splashing
similes and metaphors all along my path.
Arrived home just before sunset
and placed my now half-empty bucket
in the darkened corner, far from the open
flame of inspiration.
It sat there, settling, growing cold.
Later that night, I took a ladle, dipped
me a spoonful of now soggy words
carefully pouring them upon the
withered sheet of paper splayed across
my wooden desk.
I sponged off the excess dribble and
let the rest dry freely in the night air
The next morning, I rolled up the paper
tied it with a black ribbon
and sent it to my editor
He sent it back the following week
now tied with a red ribbon,
a matchstick tucked neatly beneath the bow,
both attached to a bigger bucket.

 

by

In Remembrance of Sandy Hook Elementary


Acosta

 

Written in Collaboration with HastyWords (http://hastywords.wordpress.com/)

“Friday, December 14, 2012 – on this chilled and inhumane date, the gates of Heaven were flung wide open as God embraced the 1st grade class of Sandy Hook Elementary School.”

The sun arose this winter day -
In Sandy Hook the children played.
Halls echoing with carefree glee,
As children’s days were meant to be.
Each parent dreams of such a vision -
‘Til life injects its cruel revision.

Yet, like a child’s lost innocence,
Cherished and held in reverence -
In just one moment swept away
No sympathy for child’s play.
Into their lives a darkness came;
Into our own, an infinite pain.

Screams of fear filled empty spaces -
A blur of frightened, tortured faces!
Malevolence came and stole their futures,
Wounds too big for mending sutures.
We heard the sounds of angels cry –
The day we watched our children die.

We swallow hard; prayed harder still -
Our heartbeats faltered against our will.
The deafening blast of pure insanity
As evil tore the fabric of our humanity!
A nation mourns with silent tongue
The senseless death of these so young.

Six teachers did their very best -
Each offered up their loving breast
To shield from bullets savage blow,
To buy these young ones time to grow.
Each died for love, lest we forget…
Upon their memory, no sun will set.

Such sorrow confines us to hatred’s prison,
Continually torments us with ungodly visions!
Of children lost and taken away
When the sun arose that winter day.
We are lost within an anguished grief,
As even celestial angels weep.

Impeccant cherubs laid to rest;
God took from us our very best.
The loss we feel is real and deep,
The pain forever ours to keep.
No answers to the question, “Why?”
Our babies were not born to die.

So, brush away our tortured tears;
this truth is too demanding,
and whisper in my silent ears
some prayer of understanding.
Twenty-six stars now shine above,
Eternal bright and beaming love.

by

Behold, My Light


lighthouse 2

Behold, my light so brightly burning
Guiding wayward sailors home.
Covered in breaking waves now churning
Battered ‘neath the angry foam

Awake, my Captain; tend my fire
The ships are blind upon the sea
Night has come so dark and dire
Bring them safely home to me

Push back your fear and never fail me
Do not tarry, nor think twice
No time for prayers on bended knee
The sea demands her sacrifice

Many a keeper survived the commotion
Tending my flame with ardent care
Many more forever lost to the ocean
Swept from my winding, icy stair

I am the hope of every seamen,
Warning of the rock and shoal,
And you, my Captain, tend my beacon
With all your heart and weary soul.

by

Fight, My Brothers


american-soldiers-in-iraq

Fight, my brothers, boys to men
And if you fall, to God ascend
Swear your oath on bended knee
Take up your march to victory

Do not fear to be laid low
Each hero has his story told
Arise my brothers, on lifted tide
Right this wrong – or else we die

For every decent thing within
Come we upon whose lives depend
Into the fray we march and send
The boldest and the best of them

Though weary, faint, and sore afraid
Through cold of morning, heat of day
We cannot take another way
Our path is clear, we’ve naught to say

Cross mountains high and valleys low
In starlight bathed and moonbeams glow
With every bone and sinew bowed
For every oath and debt we owe

Into the night and far beyond
Cross fiery fields, o’er foggy ponds
Our path is clear, so brothers bond
Take up your arms and carry on

Our time has come to march this road
For each of us must bear this load
To sacrifice what’s been bestowed
To ante up a measure owed

To live and die with equal grace
We must unite and hold this place
Conscious damned, I’ll plead my case
Prepare your foe to lay to waste

A new and evil day emerges
Full of hate and dreadful scourges
Sing loud and full your deathly dirges
Be stout of heart, your song, it purges

Ignore your fears, a devil’s charm
And when in doubt a haughty song
Lift up your eyes and carry on
Steadfast into the setting sun

Fight my brothers, with heads held high
Anything less and we all die
In battle pitch our freedom lies
We have no time to sympathize

With shoulders broad take up your arms
The threat before shall be disarmed
Quick-step into the fog of harm
So those we love may carry on

And do not wince or flee this place
A coward’s doubt is his disgrace
Be true to your brothers, stay this place
For yours is not to throw this race

Be brave. be sure and quick in pace
March beyond this arduous space
Laid low by arrows, bow and mace
Each death revealed upon your face

Though rivers tinged with blood may flow
Onward brothers, onward go
What lies ahead you cannot know
In brotherhood entrust your soul

And when the battle’s spent and won
We’ll lay to rest our bravest sons
Let their honor be widely known
For not all of them will make it home

 

by

Awakening Our Memories


SirMaxHotAirBalloon2

We shall sail through the air a thousand country miles -
watch the falcons pirouette in the summer sky;
lunch upon bitter green apples and fermented mangoes
and nap beneath the cool luminous clouds;
quench our thirst with melodious wine
and toss stones down upon frozen lakes.

We shall immortalize poets against the echoing granite walls of time.
In bare feet we will land and dance in verdant green meadows
that carpet a bottomless valley;
trace our fingertips along the gnarled grooves
of a dying oak and bid it farewell.

We will bathe in babbling brooks that giggle at
our nakedness and dry ourselves in the wispy autumn winds.
Upon mountaintops, we shall squeeze sunsets between
our forefinger and thumb and slowly open them again to
the shimmering glow of a new moon.

We shall sleep beneath a canopy of universes and compose
our dreams against shimmering stars;
build wet sandcastles fit for kings on foreign shores
and feed them to the ravenous surf.

Beneath cascading waterfalls we’ll write tumbling
verse, while angelfish nibble at our dropped metaphors.
In the Mascarene Islands, we will fly kites built from
forest reeds and raffia palms until they are swallowed
by drifting winter clouds.

The return to a new day awaits us, and a thousand more
miles beneath our balloon before this life is drawn complete.
Awakening a memory, we close our eyes
and the colors of life’s possibilities explode beneath our lids.

by

Song of the Freedom Fighter


Image

(In honor of the freedom fighters of Libya)

I have followed the path of freedom
to the shores of virtue and tolerance.
The soles of my feet have been cut
upon the jagged stones of liberty.
My children have been laid to rest
in the fertile fields of Sha’biya,
Their martyred and angelic souls
whisper “Marhaba!” to a new
generation of patriots.
A soft, warm wind caresses this
new and reborn Libya, and amidst the glad
music of my ancestors we dance
to the songs of larks and the twitterings
of sparrows.
I finally realize, I am home.

by

Echoes of Paradise


My memories are full and round.
I clasp them between my palms,
supranational spheres of times left behind.
They are unbreakable, solid, and beautiful.
Echoes stuck in an infinite loop of movements;
falling in love and dying over and over again.
It would be easy to let go.
Unbelievably easy just to separate my hands
and let them fall to the ground.
Instead I swallowed them.
They knock around in my chest when I breathe.
Ringing like a wind chime made of glass marbles;
if you listen closely you can hear the patterned glass
clinking against one another when I talk,
causing cracks in my smile when I say hello.

by

A Poet’s Affection


Measured in phases, the marking of time;
I lived four months, six months,
a couple of weeks before moving on.
There were no long-term relationships -
one night, maybe a week, perhaps two.

Love was too expensive for a traveler,
much too heavy to carry in a bag or box.
I put my days on paper, ending one story,
another poem filed away, me moving on.
There would always be another day,
another pretty face, a warm body
to hold through another cold night .
True love by the day or week, I could afford that.

That’s what I thought at the time.

I sold my poems, sad stories, many years ago.
I didn’t sell them for money;
it was always a trade , a fair exchange I thought.
The perfect and ideal love
burning so bright, but not very long.

by

Thorns on a Rose


Panic grips him in the talons of a hawk,
Pierces and rips him ‘round the clock
Despair and confusion tempered in rage
Conspire to fill the lines on his page

Clouds without rain cover the sun
Gray threads of meaning are slowly un-spun
From vision comes blood, from blood comes the pain
These are the tortured rules of the game

The poet succumbs to his dark reminiscing
No pretense of hope which is sorely missing
Hiding behind a contemptuous veil
His words swing wide open the locked gates of hell

So thirsty for truth, the throat starts to close
It’s so hard to swallow the thorns on a rose

by

The Poet’s Lair


Whiskey sour. The most appropriately named
of all libations. It dances circles around “whiskey
neat,” because I’ve never been neat about my
drinking, but I’ve often been sour.
“If you’re going to be scribbling in that journal,
howse about you take that someplace else,”
barks Rudy, my corner bartender. I’ve been
a steady since before Rudy came to work
here, but there truly is no sanctuary for the poet.
“Kiss my flattened arse, you bastard, and pour me
another,” I reply without even looking up. He laughs,
flips me the finger, and grabs a near empty bottle
of Maker’s Mark. “You ever published any of that
shit?” he rejoins as he pours. “Listen,” says I, “stick to your
areas of expertise, which I believe is football (soccer)
and whores, and leave the writing to me. We’ve
both problem enough with our own curses.”
“You ever write about me..the bar?” he persists.
“Not until this very moment.” I concede and with
that I slam my notebook shut with profound defeat.

by

Visitation


Gray shadows fall upon my face

Here within this sacred place;

The stone so cold, and roughly hewn

Beneath this waning winter moon

The air is thin and so am I

My heart is heavy, I start to cry

 

Each letter of her chiseled name

Is lit as though with golden flame

My fingers trace the shallow grooves

As though with touch I could disprove

She is no more, and I am less

Without her voice and soft caress

 

Bereft and full of memories

I rise up from on bended knee

I place a rose upon her grave

Each petal but a kiss I’ve saved

And slowly do I turn for home

Only now, I walk alone.

by

The Poet’s Defeat


Let the night unfold as may;
I am sleepless and nocturnal
a carpet of stars lights the way
across blank pages of my journal

Though little light is cast, and sure
No verse forthcoming pours from me
for all the emptiness I endure
One inspired word would set me free

Yet these droplets fall in un-metered rhyme
for me to unravel, on bended knee
I am as useless as soliloquy to a mime
Or autumn leaves to a winter tree

So loose my bonds and set me free
No more my pen to scribe
No vacuous lines of poetry
There’s simply nothing left inside.

by

Do You Remember…


Do you remember…

our first walk along the beach?
I didn’t think you would ever stop laughing
as the tide rushed in and out
to tickle your naked ankles,
and I, caught up in an impossible tangle
of seaweed tumbled absurdly into the
cold, frothing surf.

I sat there, sheepishly, looking up into
your smiling eyes and there,
beneath the screaming gulls and the hot summer sun,
I pulled you to me.

Do you remember…

all those lazy, late night strolls
beneath the star-flecked winter skies?
We would hold hands like innocent children
sharing the warmth of our closeness
and the shared heat of not so innocent thoughts.

I would steal a teasing glance
to catch the moonlight weaving silver strands
of light in your wind-swept hair.
You would catch me…and smile,
shyly pretending not to notice.

Do you remember…

our Sunday morning breakfasts in bed?
Was it just by accident, or guile,
that our eyes would lock above
the steaming rims of our coffee cups?
Then, being far too hungry to eat,
we would dive beneath the summer quilts
to satisfy our deeper desires!

Do you remember…

the little things I used to meticulously plan
just to coax the wonder from you liquid eyes?
The love notes tucked so obviously beneath your pillow;
the chilled fruit and cheap apricot brandy after
a hot night of fevered love;
the bubble gum stashed in your purse
for those days you insisted on being so serious?

But how could you remember?
I haven’t even met you yet.

Yet when I do, my love,
have I got some memories for you!

by

Process


Words fall like polished stones

tumbling upon the page with a splash

and I take no credit

for how they configure

A wind blows through me

and emotions stir

My only job is to give the wind

a voice and to put a new page

down when the old is full

Writing is less me having something to say

and more something which must be said having me.

by

Poet’s Lament


 

I’ve washed my life in an endless swash of
Smoke and cheap bought bourbon
I bathed my dreams in kerosene,
Set aflame in streets most urban.
My poets hand most still it stands
No words to ink most certain
My song is sung, my fall begun
Down falls the final curtain.
I wrestled with a weighty scythe
Laid low my expectations
And all for what? My final cut
Reveals no inspiration.
And yet I write, despite the fight
My hope not yet diminished
That still somehow, and even now
My legacy’s unfinished.