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.