CUBA APOSTOL

CUBA APOSTOL

Cuba, APostol, Isla, Sagrada.
Le mando mi verso recibenla
Con el mas alto saludo Elegua
Yemaya, guieme, Santa Seren.

Me acompana alabanzas y sed.
Busco su aparencia en palmas
Altas sus contestas no las capte
Las horas pasan se hacen ojas

Sinceramente son suyas mis letras
Llego mi ensayo al instituto
Los ideales abarcan saeta
Guardenmelo cerca del maestro

Cuba Apostol, Isla Sagrada
Le mando mi verse recibenla

EDITH WILFLEUR

Wildflower growing in Memory.

Were they the songs of my Father’s own?

Placed in the veins of my mother’s body

Discovered in grandmother’s poem tomes.

Smaller than anything I ever knew.

The Eyes of the Pansies so detailed.

Pupils of tears spilled in Heaven’s dews of Heaven.

I like that it goes past the Measure See.

I never fell apart though I was broken.

I merely switched feet and toncinued, ounce.

Quantity of my Merciful parent

The poem as a Peony a Book as Home.

Because they TOuched me first I touched them Too.

As Releasing a Century  I Knew

IN THE WORDS OF THE DREAM AT TEN

 --for my teachers

I was ten years old back when I was asked

to deliver the speech “I Have a Dream.”

Summit Elementary School, sixth grade.

I was a very serious child.

I could hold an adult conversation.

In English or Spanish and write well too.

I won a mathematics competition.

But did I know anything about you

Dr. King? Though I heard the tiresome

ruinous exasperation again

the Letter was longer than I assumed

I had to hold the microphone alone.

When I get to the part about the Dream

I awakened to the Words of the Dream.

ODE TO E. SAID

As an epistle composed on the wind

so to Said is written this sonnet

for his contributions to epithets

the unspoken beauty of a silence

when brought to perfection is Arabic

Arching for reasons inherent to awe

the mysterious side of everything,

then to its ineffable anxiety

a love of the weary exemplary

for genius that no cure can avail

Wreckage of stars, oh, the ad hominem

what it crashes on top of and wails

As it exceeds the Poet, the Prophet

goes to the Microphone to clear his thoughts.

TREE ARBOR

The sounds of the morning are muted.

I hear what sounds like air turn to raindrops.

There is a symphony in the soundtrack.

It plays my favorite music the tree bough.

There is a world within the world, all knows,

Of many-colored rhythms in the spring

It mirrors as a forest casts shadows.

That it is aware of itself it knows

What beauty without limit would answer.

By words, “beauty, come forward” grows closer

leaf blooming palms eternally travels

the world it crosses crosses it ever

Rooted with restlessness stored in its feet

with heaven in its heart  arms of the tree.

Satelite CD. Juarez

SATELITE CD. JUAREZ

-- A la Colonia Satelite

I return to Juarez in a moment.

I enter the parchment memory of time.

And I can see under shade of cloud thought

I run without motion toward the sublime.

Next to the immanent feature of sound

arise the aromas of roasted corn

and moistened the heart dripping with raindrops

streams over the surface of my vision

The history the Revolution still groans

Effort as momentous as Creation.

Que Viva Villa Que Viva el honor.

Platicame Algo, di que me quieres.

Porque entre tu y yo Ciudad Juarez

No hay Olvido no hay Distancias

SPIRIT OF THE WORD FORCE

Forceful for there was a Spirit within

It contained more or less everything

that ever mattered or meant what it meant

as to write within a dream of a poem

putting to words what’s not easily said

for a place of new beginnings awaits

where beauty of images and rhymes dawn

almighty was love, love was almighty

which brought out the miracles of being

such as you, here, today, my friend

you are to me what eternity time

as you appear in these words as my eyes

with your head slightly lowered and neck turned

on the words of the same force and purpose