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.

the birds in the trees sing so lovingly

the birds in the trees sing so lovingly

as perfect as perfection while playing

while decorating the flowers with spring

so kind and so merciful as it pines

for lost innocence is a melody

while beautiful and nameless it is time

equal to its unwritten timelessness

as sense is to silence and silent reeds

the birds in the trees sing so beautifully

songs of a promise that birds always keep

sing in the morning at noon and sunset

sing to the sun in its climb over earth

be its voice when it reaches for its heart

be its lullaby and its morning song.

Just Sonnet

I think and thought about a thousand things.

And each with its full table of contents

as complete as each one to existence

how they came to be and are and still ring

with a growing permanence as certain

as memory will not make omissions

and fate is just a starting point of rhyme

when sound and sense combine and separate.

I think of what to do for the sonnet

that is to say I try to fulfill it

though it be unedited and written

by formula, I hope it is unique

I hope that it will be blessed as it is.

Unedited and unrevised justice.

Songbird Sonnet

The Songbirds are Singing their Lovely Notes.

Their Song is heard while these words are SIlent.

They pause and allow one Bird the Moment.

It chirps in descending volume then Ends

For a brief millisecond Disappears

Or, rather, grows Inaudible Slowly.

First the image subtracting from the Flock

Pairs duo then continue, a trio

Emerges before a Quartet Begins

Carefully everything is bent on Sound

Enjoying its fulcrum against the Air

Wind, reed, and fascicle, the Orchestra

Plays as it Would for a Rich Occasion

Dedicates its desire for the Noon.