FEB 5.15

When February with its Fiery Green

Sweep across the fingers of a Palm Tree

Spilling they spread bare, flower’s cupolas weave

Blue and yellowed, yellowed its tips proceed

Angled hazardous in degree so free

the bloom in its tumult and precipice

impossibly as a bird sees escape

survival results of fear set fire

and flame just a paint brush its verdure plain

winter of green is summer of orange

where yellow alerts beckons elements

profusely the flame of life burns gently

early in February when fine things

can be wrought from the remnants of evenings

BELLE DE LA TERRE, EARTHBELL

Bell of the earth that rings in my ear.

I hear you. You spin a great and large wheel.

It’s covered with golden dust I can see.

Made of the forces of nature tuned far.

The music as its heard becomes a tear.

as sound it deposits in its chamber.

To listen is to love as love can hear.

The bell of the earth is brown and brick red.

It turns around its center on a rod

the rod is like the chord of a large harp

and at its core is made of purer air

than sound itself can utter all alone

the wavelength of the ringing of the bell

showers over earth the song of the bell

JANUARY MUSIC

--this is that sacred flower, "Yellow Flower" WCW

There is a town called Dayton, Ohio.

where in the month of January   snow

covered the recesses where it came down

and was a beauty freedom bellowed for   

while its music playing blows the notes

as though it were a violin and bow

performing as encroached by a shadow

a sacred song of feather and arrow

The Yellow River's tribute to the shore 

 its waters flows to memories then surface

a spectral color light casts on its course

and washes from its afterglow its ores.

Zenith of the golden fountain harbors

The time for even everything is now.

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.