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>