Not only do I love writing but I also enjoy reading. So many of the amazing things I read are enjoyed by so few, as not every literary marvel is also a marketing mogul. It’s this, i care to share most.
I love smelling clean out of the shower
and tossing on my comfy, blue sweater.
Then, I feel cradled by the familiar.
Combining with my fresh and soapy skin,
I’m consumed by a scent that “takes me back.”
It stays on me like golden amber sap.
Shutting my eyes, aroma takes me there:
To a warm, cozy time with family.
The smell of thick incense all over me
from the church service before our dinner,
blended with all the flavors of the food:
Black pepper. . . oregano cutting through,
The sweet cinnamon that spiced the dessert.
And when we hugged, it rubbed off your cologne.
Yes. . .it’s all there. . . though today I’m alone. . .
Just as spring came, so did the day of that flower so particular that it graces our gardens. The one that perfumes our days and brings us joy with its multicolored petals, which despite being in evidence in the spring remain beautiful in any season, not only physically but from the heart. It has thorns, of course, but it does not use them with the intention of hurting, it uses them as a shield to fight evil. She sings, dances, plays, smiles, and laughs at everything, she has no bad time. She knows how to be a friend, partner, girlfriend, warrior. If you know her, you know that what I say is true and should be flattered, it is not always that you find an M with such an open heart.
The Battered Mannequin
"She" leans nonchalantly on a lamp post
in her fancy shoes. The rubble around "her" includes
both "her" arms. "Her" breasts are shot off,
"her" head is dented; This civil war has killed
"her" trade. Now, "her" display is not new
clothes. They were all stolen, along with
"her" dignity, by rampaging looters jumping
through stoned glass windows.
"Her" best friend lies beside "her"
in the dirt. Her torn clothes flap
open in the wind, but, her dignity
is much worse than the mannequin's.
The soldiers guard her rear.
It lies in a puddle beside them.
Their weapons point skyward
ready to wound her further.
More smoke and tear-gas drift by
and approaching rumbling tank
tracks are heard as it heads towards
the mannequin, not seeing "her".
Then, "she" is down, with "her" friend,
and the iron tracks crush her resistance,
quell "her" rebellious streak, silence
"her" model yielding pose.
U.S. Navy sailors and Latino youths clash in the Zoot Suit Riots, which began today in 1943.
The Government of China begins removing protesters by military force from Tiananmen Square, today in 1989.
I am hemming the sorrow of a courser weave, preparing to leave.
Voluntary simplicity is nonviolent. Choosing to leave lesser forms of loving is also the cultivation of elegant minimalism. The singleness of unity is not scarcity, although I have not succeeded in convincing my ego that it is not terrifying. My deepest longing is for an “other” to share my life’s vision but maybe “God” is the only One who fulfills that completion. I am left in a state of perpetual heartbreak over the world, the ache of authentic intimacy.