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