FOR ALISE: SISTER, HERMANA

For Alise  (Hermana , Sister)

A sister is a story and a song.

She sings alive as memory is strong.

Of things that only she and I would know.

For she is everything I am but more.

She is the only one I have of her.

Unlike ordinary people, my star,

A light so bright it shoots across the world.

Very much about us is as old

Though moon and sun would shine for anyone

To love as I love my sister, no one-

As the greatest and the smallest agree

She is the steadfast heartbeat within me.

The way that every person has a soul

The spirit of my sister is my own.

Walden was a Pond a Pond and a Book

Walden was a Pond a Pond and a Book.

It was written in the Dawn of American Gold.

The Age that ccame and Went without Wit.

I think of it Now, how Whitman was It.

A Daredevil for Sheer Lust Adventure...

Harpy of National Supremacist Views.

Engraved at the Foot of the Twin Towers.

When Lilacs Last Bloomed but bloomed Instead. There.

What Walt did for Mexicans, Place a Boot.

Dario at the Talons of Eage.

America without a God or Thought.

Trascendent, my Sons, Emerson Blind Born.

He hands him the Keys to his Homestead, Go.

Get away from the Hypocrites. Take some Time Off.

There at the Banks of the Turpitude's Prose.

Tried what he Might never have Done. Goes Poof!

Balzac, Zola, and Baudelaire

Balzac, Zola, and Baudelaire look on

The scene not so vast it can’t be too grand

A violin in its case plays a song

It travels from general to specific

From language to thought back on to language

Multiple so the vein of a rubric

Parallels for each note of opinion

Higher than ever expected to cry

Tears full of melody answer the words

Beneath the parchment blue ocean and sky

The music of sound rhythm of the world

Singing of its soul to eternity

Under and between until it has freed

What it is, what it was, what it bleed.

Federico, Pepe, y Clotilde

Federico, Pepe y Clotilde
fuentes brotantes semilla y siembra
eso pa delante que tiene que ver
esperate es tarde no se repetir
caminaban payaseros tintan
enchinan la sombra busca su bien
la pared de la escombra
vuela conoce distincciones, fue,
cabrones cartones destruye en caer
mulen a la inocencia a reir sonreir
plasticas gestos escultos malignos
dan en la vista eco mania ruir
a los ojos de belleza escurren
este de peor poder a suficiencia

University

The Ivy in the gardens at college

growing in the planters entwined within

sway with the hems of the pedestrians

walking side by side or across the lawns

the music that it makes how when and then

my thoughts as they travel forward again

go back to the same pair of legs and arms

carrying books in the shade of time

where as before they return and assess

the rituals of education less

than the education itself and past

sacrifices that are nothing but blessed

whatever it cost or came without

wanting, it makes me who I am and Not.

A Flower like a Circle

the flower is a circle made of truth

woven in the leaf parchment alphabet

by an abstract expression of its worth

when beauty was ineffable at first

and stood as itself the pattern of earth

spun from the same light fiber loom like wool

but softer far softer than soft can touch

drawn from liquid crystal dewdrops of dew

and sifted through the wooden green iris

with which light sees itself in its image

beauty is an after-thought adage

the flower is the answer in the dark

when nothing can be seen but the darkness.

SOUL MYSTERY

string of the moment and pearl of the past

these are the beautiful things that I have

signs of the letters brought to inhabit

the power, the patent, the attachment

linked across two objects of their beauty

which has for its purpose design and joy

movement that is tranquil and rests at will

along the outlines of the roses

invisible to themselves to behold

of lovely form for everybody else

alone in the absence of the other

yet the River of Time that traverses

the shore of my greatest mystery, soul,

destined before the winds begin to blow.

SUNNY PARTIAL SHADE

I walk to the corner for aspirin

crossing the sidewalk as it bisects me

the people all occupied with being

careful and cautious afraid to be seen.

I, too, wish I were more invisible

that the plunge in the maelstrom fingers

like a violin that becomes myself

played by a sound wave along a quiver

Silent orchestra, hour of stillness,

a vessel as celestial as a star

brimming in a whole and part mystery

the sacred noon hour has passed and filled

Taking two drops from a symptom of pain

to answer the pressure of life again.

HANDSOME ROSE

The petal-shaped hand, its dichodral leaf

remembers so well that it panics to speak

and with words of upturned blossoms it says

the answering of love is beautiful

part of the hand and from the open palm

is the litmus of a flower blessed truth

to love is to love by every value worth

beauty at once is beauty forever

the world is a rose pined in the hour

when it first broke through ether to descend

from the birth of its origin’s bower

through the rose with its form as its power

circling with the eye of the crown of thorns

piercing yellow pollen horn for the world

VIOLET PURPLE BLUE

The pastel tint warmed in milk of the moon

woven from astros from oceans the loom

that it fulfills in its culmination

body to soul to everything fathom

the eggshell existence carapace home

as extends to its free freedom free form

and for that pure reason the purple blooms

like a bubble between waves of fusion

the unanswered question is an answer

absolutely anything appears One

as it nurtures a mirror opened Poem

sheer celestial heather heaven on Earth

flowering in the gifts of its Glory  

SUN BLOOM SKY PETALS

The sun blooms a petal blue elixir

seeing for itself the visible sky

looks along inside eye of the eagle

over the distance as vast it reveals

or races on the features of vision

The lens of a wing a the power pulls

and silence awakes a season of sound

past the past tense and into the lion

that crosses the mountain into its own

and roars of time eternal from hours

the flame as it venerates the fire

the living tree trunk of viscous bower

Lava that melts like the wax of the moon

distilled into starlight draped in the Sun.

A GOOD DAY

A good day begins like everyday does.

Expecting the daylight to give us love.

We want good for others and through ourselves.

We hope to return by our force alone

To a New Dawn where suffering lessens.

It sparks a desire for more wakens

In the answers where mystery blossoms

An Echo of the sound of the sovereign

Who cultivates a sacred message song

This is a Good Day when Good Days are Gone.

Holy at Once is Holier Again.

The Pestle-Hearted stem of the Flower

Grows to the Earth against the Mouth of the Sun

And the Earth becomes a  Bulb of Absynthe.

TEARS OF MY FINGERTIPS

Tears of My Fingertips Cry out for Sound.

They twist and turn in Anxious Grievances.

The Feeling of Life lost on Providence.

How Nothing can be Taken Back from Wounds.

What that Message tells me is not a Rose.

But the Vice of teh Thumb Screw its Horror.

The Plight of the Slave Freed and Recaptured.

Brought to Point Zero reminded of THorns

Sentimental Rose Water over Leaves.

The Greenig of the Season with Crosses.

Born Time and Again on those who Freed Us.

Who brought the Cheek of Forgiveness to Grief.

How it Hurts Me to Know how Little Love

Can Pass Over an Alltar so Beloved.

POEM AS A PAPERCLIP

The paperclip binding the paper’s edge.

Reminds me of a poem I have written

And While crossing the Sonoran desert

A Roadside sign read something of eagles

I looked across the farm fields at the earth.

I saw the many hands at their labors.

I saw some birds as they emptied my heart..

Hearing with my eyes, their wings and feathers

A being “the edge of the eye” perceived

Something unknown of was making a sound.

As a birth cry of hate’s incubus moaned.

I told  the driver, he moved the mirror.

Saying something abotu keepint  Down.

But waht I had seen I could Not DIsown.

MASSACRE DE GRACIA

Evil is Certain not Impotent Yet

Its Bluffs crash down Impertinent Power

Without Precedence each time Again New.

How much Worse it can be, We all Know Well.

Thas Evil Grows Greater Bent Backlash Blues.

It Sates with Nothing but Dignity Rued.

Beauty in its Holy Sanctimony

Massacre of Grace where Grace had its Sources.

I  Know why Nobody Cries Anymore.

Why Shaking it Off is always All One.

FOrgiving Injustice for Forgetting

Evoking Hyperbole of Poems

Crying at Wailing Walls Falling on Knees

What can Sate Grace in Seasons of Bleeding?

ROSE SONG

http://ismealismaelillo.blogspot.com/2015/06/rose-and-song.html

TOLSTOY'S HAT

http://ismealismaelillo.blogspot.com/2015/06/tolstoy-and-tree.html

TOLSTOY AND A TREE

Tolstoy, brim hat, austere of autograph

platinum, stern, the lengthy cheek shaded,

his eyes underneath eye level shadow

leans on a tree that appears a finger

a vein wraps the trunk, casts off a sparkle,

while the master looks into the camera

wearing his gown and searching of gesture,

and seems to weigh or balances himself

a man and a monument both alive

dark clouds crowd the background like a curtain

as they close in around him he looks through

his image and directly for our view

from one side of himself to our own one

the embrace of his love with our union

MOUNTAIN*LION

I Stroke the Black Keys with White Letters, Tap

The Muscles behind the Eyes of a Cat.

She Was Small and Lean and Leapt across the Tap

Of the Rain as its Crystals Drew Light Cat.

She was a Mountain Lion just zapping Past.

Her Image Cast Head and Profile That

As I think of her Now, Road, Moon, and Last

The Light that she Drew from her Eyes at That.

I knew She had Seen Me and from a Distance.

Had she Something to say to me Then, Spread

Across the double lanes from RIght to Left.

Timed by Vehicles and Center Divide.

I felt as we’d Merged, she was Always on Track.

Her Instinct, her Fur, and Her Asterisk*

OAK TREE TOO YOUNG FOR ACORNS

The OAKS on the Avenue gave 3 Acorns.
They are TOO YOUNG . They each THree had Holes.
The Weevils had already Got Them. Before.
Like the Infant TUrtle had not made it to Shore.
But Instead was Trapped between Hot LEgs
AND Hotter Pavements Of Walls of Consensus.
They Broach their Great Hope- SPORT of the LIVING.
TO OUTLIVE One Accident Remain STRONG.
Like a Turtle to its Shell to its LEGS LENGTHS.
Traveling over Ocean FLOORS come Home.
The Roost in their Origins. They GO THROUGH.
From Time's Smallest Chances to its FUTURE.
An Oak Can Bend but it Won't Falter.
EL ROBLE DOBLA PERO NO QUIEBRA

AFRICA AND ARIZONA: WALCOT AND ENGLISH

The Senator is Handsome, He's Passionate.
He has Everything but an Agent of Love at Command.
Why do the Women watch On Think Lean but CUT?
Why do they ALLOW HIM TO CALL THEM SLUTS!
WE DON"T GO FOR THAT!  NOR FEMISWINE THONGS.
WE ARE WHATEVER WHAT WASN"T READ LONG.
BEFORE it DUG DOWN DEEPER than COPPER.
TO THAT DUAL CORE UNDERGROUND RAILROAD>
ITS WHEELS BEAUTIFY REASON WITH BLISS.
THESE ARE HIS SOURCES: AFRICAN SONG.
TRebled at the Quake of the Dawn Caribbean!
The Boat that the NOBEL GENTLEMAN WALCOT.
CALLED HIS AMERICA AND HIS PATOIS.
AN ENGLISH MORE CLASSIC THAN SHAKESPEARE'S

CONTEMPORARIES

I sat Down with the COntemporaries.
They found ME thus:  Too Much Wordsworth.
19th Century Backdrop without Melody. Pathos.
What has happened to her language or Tongue?
Not Quite English Not Fully SPanish.
Yet here she is at the Rambling of TUrtles.
Better for the National Geographic.
Science or Morals.  Not These Dirt Allays.
Where Poetry fights back at the PUS!
With its own Shame, Self, and HONOR's CRY.
YOU ARE DIDACTIC VASQUEZ GO ON.
ALRIGHT MY EQUALS OF NO MATTER MINE.
I LOVE YOU YOU ARE TEH EQUALS OF PINE.
YOU CRY FOR LOST INNOCENCE WHILE I SIGH>

TRUTH AND CONSEQUENCE: GOOD AND BAD, A MORAL TREATISE

Truth has no Consequence it has not Known

If in Nightmarish brutal scenarios

When the Knowing turn away a Blind Tongue.

The avarice Blooms ever Brighter Damn.

You see it in  Hallways of Eyes drawn Shut

The Ears that press back on the Violence, Shush!

Bystanders Witness what Grieves on a Bough.

Life in America is Nothing Much.

Death Walking Avatars munch on a Lake.

Philosophically speaking, One Side’s Sakes

Rumors and Gossiping replace the Oath

To Treat and Treat Alike ANother Oath

Yet Gallows are for Field Mice and Bees Wax

The Smaller the Mightier :  Good and Bad

I Cultivate Pink Roses

--para el cruel j.m. simple verses

I cultivate pink roses
in February and September
for that Cruel Disaster
That hardens at my soul
I cultivate pink roses anyhow

I wash up from a surface sun
The petals of the moon sing low.
And bloom a feather fan
The eagle and the doe begin again.

While you paint with white silk.
I have just a drop that mingles
With the blood of your great skill
In the dreams of indigenous girls.

They come as they Soothe me
In Pink Melodisia.
Oh Beauty On Wing Tipped Letter.
I go to your Statue with my Feather

GIFT SIGHT TO VISION

http://apachechangingwoman.blogspot.com/2015/05/sight-gift-to-vision.htmlhttp://apachechangingwoman.blogspot.com/2015/05/sight-gift-to-vision.html

SIGHT GIFT TO VISION

http://apachechangingwoman.blogspot.com/2015/05/sight-gift-to-vision.html

EMIL EMILIANO

--poetry

Stimming and Gasping Im having Asthma.
One Son and Another Arisen, Mom?
Are you Okay? I don't want you to Know.
Yet I can't hide the Sounds of my Breathing.

My Son comes to me takes my Pulse in His.
He stands with me in Misery's Throne.
But I dont' want you to be like me Son.
He Says LItlle to Nothing. His Lamp This.

His Wings have Encompassed my Heart and Lungs.
With all of his Strength he Calms the Thronging.
Just WIth A Look he Lifts My Whole Being.
I Surrender my Doubt. I take his Love.

While I have been Strengthened he has been Drained.
My Child, Same Mother, Same Pain Again.

POET

As poets we have one purpose only

though nameless and unknown, it still holds true

the reasons for poetry are many

they bely with answers the suffering

Nothing makes sense to a poet of death

as we know it-- mere speculation, myth,

and being as we know it more worthy

as time is required for the journey

For being is as something unalike

as never and always sleep or awake

to our ears a long and low silent cry

but to our ancestors are everything

A poet is another way to get

from one side of distance to the other.

ONCE,TWICE

The calabash broken broken two times

Once was a reason twice never reasoned

Both the partition and quartered a spine

I stop to think and wonder what I’ve done

To bother to stop thinking twice again

Cracked like a body, horse driven carriage

Medieval and omnipresent carnage.

What cease to let up what manner conduct

Ensnared as a lesion ghost of despair

Provoked, absconded, retired from care

Which purpose was abhorrent behavior

The behavior of power to torture

As it clutches for innocence broken

Once for a reason twice never reasoned.