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The words you write are crucial to the message you want to convey.
Spacing and commas create time in what we write,
Just as stanzas and line breaks are essential to what I want to express.
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Write. Convey.
Plainfield, Vermont
The trembling acres on those grounds
Were fit with trees as tall and tall
And swaying high from left to right
As far as I could see, they were.
They lined the trails of whitest snow
That covered plains and hills atop
A frigid cold that seemed to pierce
The birds that nest so far and high.
The coldest March I’ve ever seen
With branches stiff on highest trees
That threatened me with distant sounds
Were ominous with every sway.
Where the wind goes
Wind blows away goes
Away goes away wherever
The wind goes. Yesterday, my day blasé
blank stare from my countenance
Towards the wind and the rain
And the mobs of people
In the street in the car then in the
Pseudo friendly cavalier soiree
where the wind
Blew.
I stared
At the open windowpane,
And blank stared through the conversations at a friend’s
Soiree but not the window
Where Earth’s fierce cold whirl seethed through,
Stultified by the neighboring buildings yet.
Through the conversations there I
Stared askance, not through the windowpane
But at it.
From where the wind blew that
Day to night
And then,
A comma here, a comma
There,
Where the wind blows
The wind goes.
The plant
It’s the first day that I’m waiting
For my plant to grow.
The third times a charm, I
told my plant as
I grew impatient, “I’ll replant
You” I have said.
Once, I buried the pit of a mango
I could not tend to
And hoped the rain and hoped
The sun would.
“You should have
Told me” were words that my grandma
Uttered, and admonished,
I went to dig in her
Garden and couldn’t find it.
And afraid I tend to plant
Again and again,
Asking that an entelechy such
As a sprout of sewn seeds in any garden
In my garden grow.
Ten am
Today I woke up, the
Sun’s light fought its way
Through the blinds, not suspecting
That it would make its
Way.
I was in mid-dream,
I turned mid-dream,
“She is now elusive”
I said of a friend from my
Childhood, are
The words that woke me up
Saying; sorry… that
I woke up saying.
Not panting like
How I awoke 11 years
Ago, asking who
Was there after a night
Of reasonable debauchery.
Today what awoke me
Were the permeated rays –
The Sun soaked the room,
I turned mid-sleep.
Mid-morning sun,
Seeps through the window
Through
Sleeping sounds saying.
From the Moon
The sphere
That becomes the sun, well
Not becomes the sun. It looks
Blue. From afar, that’s what we used
Thousands of years ago to guide
Our journeys; it looked like
A light to us from here.
Northern moon,
Southern setting sun.
That from afar you created our
North. South. East. West.
Where
To
Look
Now?
Where to go? The blinding light
Will guide me tonight.
Now
That I am walking on stone, gravel,
And rock. I see our moon, and
Rays in the day,
The cosmos, with which we arrive.
Wind, Sky
Sometimes,
Clear skies make watery eyes.
An allergic flare,
Curiously brought on by
Winds and Northerly climates
That a swarm of birds forecast.
It’s the beginning of fall. The brisk
Air feels like cold dew.
Clear sky? don’t
Cry.
Can’t you see my eyes
Passerby?
Tell your coffee’s steam.
Just around the corner is a
Brick wall of a building.
Great
Brick
Building
of a wall.
Maybe up this way will do.
No haste,
Steady pace –
I’m wearing nothing,
Except clothes.
Clear skies, cloudy
Eyes.
Can I? take cover ’round the
Corner? there’s a
Brick buil d ing.
Great. brick
Building
of
A. wall.
To evade
The masquer ade.
Guess
Up this way Will do.
Línea, Luz
Ser, no solo creer.
Que nuestra luz que emite sus propios rayos
Nos ayuda a resonar y a expresarnos.
Es mi propio himno.
Un impacto de estrellas que al fín chocaron;
Un relámpago que ilumino los sentidos,
Estrella y mar.
Línea, luz.
Un camino con distintas salidas y
Entradas. Y Entre las salidas, entradas.
Un laberinto de todos tus sueños y empeños;
Tus esfuerzos y tus virtudes.
Quiero que empieces ahí.
Reverbera el himno.
Se me escapa lo que escribí.
Volví a aludir a un sueño.
Ser, creer.
Dear journal
How could I start it this way.
On a train ride from here to elsewhere; to where I am unsure.
To where I am certain.
When should I call you you?
I don’t want to write this, I want to tell it.
I know you can’t see what it’s worth.
If you called me, I’d know.
Please answer.
Even if
it’s
you.
Safely Home
That night was filled with
standers-by, thus
A surge in city cars. Even then
I walked, well, tread, from those certain
City blocks.
I walked, well, tread, to my group
Of city blocks, despite the many
City cars,
Not to clear my head but mind.
I always am wont to notice
The change
-of- view:
The transition of blocks paved with concrete
To those laid with cobble stone.
The segue of scenes-
Of buildings glass and upward built,
to brownstone homes to parks
with grass.
And old blocks with aesthetic
old-school fringe, from the ones
with glass and tint.
And If there is a fussy
Line, what is your store about?
That’s not to say by 8 I’d make
It home, rather that by 8
I’ll make it home.
At last in my group of blocks!
Ill make it safely home from where
I tread. Up from where I headed,
Finally here, finally home.
Your Being
Ode to your benign
Longevity.
Like a ray that pierced the atmos-
Pheres
And emits
the light
of stars
And stars;
Supernova.
Like light, bright-like light
Shining
When there is no sun –
Your light was piercing
through and through;
Oh upward beam.
Made for us by us.
This, on being benign.
Where there’s more
To tell, there’s more
To know.
Thank you for
Being you.
Write New York 