No Man is an Island

Togetherness. Unity. Companionship. Love. These things can exist outside of a romantic relationship. Too many people live their everyday lives believing that they are islands. Solitary entities that have nothing to do with anybody else. I believe this is wrong. I believe the action of one person reverberates until it reaches the heart of another. We are not alone. We are in this together. And together doesn't mean we have to speak...or even have to know each other. "Together" is a penny left and a penny taken. A passing smile in the coffee shop. A knowing nod in the hospital waiting room. Together doesn't have to declare itself because it just is. Don't ask how something can help you. Ask how it can help everyone. Once we learn to focus our love and strength outward, only then will we be open and ready to receive. You are not alone. You are not an island.


No Man Is An Island by John Donne

No man is an island,
Entire of itself.
Each is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less.
As well as if a promontory were.
As well as if a manor of thine own
Or of thine friend's were.
Each man's death diminishes me,
For I am involved in mankind.
Therefore, send not to know
For whom the bell tolls,
It tolls for thee. 

Defy the Stars

"And when he shall die, take him and cut him up in little stars, and he will make the face of heaven so fine that all the world will fall in love with night and pay no worship to the garish sun."- Juliet. ( Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet )

The Weary

BEFORE YOU READ THIS. Please click play on the video, as the song is meant to be heard while reading the poem. :)





This is for the weary
Cold and pulled
from every angle.
Mangled, tangled
hearts of the past
that live in the present.

Blown and blustery
How your knuckles ache
and take and take and take
the cries of your children
and muster your own.


Through the grey paved streets of the city
twinkling in the moonlight-
you dredge;
pulling your old suitcase,
cracked Italian leather.

Moving on, moving forward.
Never knowing when the next stop is.
Inertia pulling you from the inside out.


The world goes by in a water colored blur
of births,marriages, and deaths.
Trains rushing on pulsing tracks
Billboards lit against inky black skies.
The city is alive, and it begs you to notice.

Skyscrapers, payrolls, stocks.
It means nothing to you.
You cradle a cup of coffee.
The steam curls around the edge of your lips.
Time stops.

This is everything.




THIS is for the weary....

My Child To Be

To My Child to be,

There is only one of you. Amongst a sea of rainbow faces that tell you to fall into line, you stand out. March at your own pace and tell them why. I will SUPPORT it. Always. You are beautiful. Do not let the pages of a glossy magazine dictate how you should feel about yourself. Everyone is different and that in itself is beauty. Seek knowledge. We were not put on this earth to obtain degrees. Just seek knowledge from all avenues of life and I will be satisfied. Read the books you are supposed to read, and then read the books you aren’t supposed to read. They usually teach you more. Read labels, old Journals, Street Signs, and newspapers. Make your own decisions about them. Know that Parents are people too, and we aren’t always right. Know that times change, but morals don’t. Be a good person. Give more than you take. Listen carefully. Laugh loudly. Love immensely. I will support whomever you love. Choose wisely. Grow things. Start with wildflowers, you can’t go wrong. Be humble, for life is a gift. Crying is okay, that’s what chocolate is for. You can play whatever sport you like, and love whatever color you love. Follow your dreams with your feet on the ground. I will support your aspirations. Speak up for yourself; it’s how your Mother survives. Be empowered. I would do anything for your happiness.

Love,
Mommy.

On being alone...

A brilliant poem by Tanya Davis.

Landslide

There comes a time
when the yellowest part of you
rusts gently at the edges, and you can just feel it happening.
My time came years ago, when Roxy reopened...

You see, Roxy was all the rage, and they never checked I.D.
Gina and I....we had a plan, and there was no way we could be stopped.
Dipped in the yellow of youth, and doused in Exclamation. We just knew we would get in.

Dance moves ready and hair sprayed to oblivion. Shhhhh. "Abuela is doing the rosary,it won't be long now until she is fast asleep." -And out the door we will slip, into the inky black night, and the smoke filled chambers of the nightclub. Chelsea Piers, we are on our way. Gold hoops loop at our necks and eyeliner is our war paint... and we have never felt so grown in our lives.

This is our chance. We are going to take back the night,no pills, no counting, no IV's. No nurses telling us what to do. At Roxy, Gina can blend into the crowd.. She doesn't have to be sick, she doesn't have to be a patient. She can be Queen Gina, goddess of Reggae, Spice Girls afficianado, and Menudo's number one fan.. and I, I can be her sidekick. I don't have to be the one who makes sure she doesn't skip a dose. I don't have to be the one to tell her "No, You can't do that." You're too sick. You're  too delicate.- And so tonight. We are gonna let it all go. Tonight, we are gonna forget the rules and make our own.

But when I get back from the restroom... Gina is crying...because her hair was falling out, and even though I covered it with a headband, she knew it was there. She said the room was tilting, and I said, "No, the world is." and though she still wanted to go to Roxy I said, "No, you can't."

I got into bed with her right then, and she said "Sing to Me?".. "Tupac?" I joked. "No, Landslide" she replied....

A week later she was gone. I looked around the room at all the Lipsmackers and Pogs and wondered, "Why did I have to be the one to say no?" I think back to the time I caught her with a cigarette and snatched it straight out of her hand. "You can't!" I yelled. Her eyes glared at me, "Could you stop yelling? My friends are watching!" she replied as if I was the wrong one and I never understood....

The other day I came across the word "cant" C-A-N-T. Defined as: "The thrust or motion that causes a slant or a tilt" and it hit me... all those times she complained that the room was tilting, it was because she was living in "CANT", and I wish I could take it all back now. I want to tell her that she could have gotten that tattoo, and that she could have gone night swimming, and that she could have stayed out past her curfew... and that I am sorry...but I can't. I want to tell her that she deserves to go to Roxy and that dancing...dancing will help with the nausea, and laughing? laughing will help with the pain. I want her to know that "CANT" was the only way I knew how to protect her, but now, now it all makes sense. The tilts, the slopes, the landslides.... and now, because of her, I live my life on the horizon declining all implications of "CANT". I want to run screaming through the gates of heaven yelling "I can! I can! and you can too!!!" and I would hope that she would hear me. I would hope that she would run to me and say..." Thanks Tiff, for the support and all, but could you stop yelling? my friends are watching".

The Grandeur of God.

This photo invokes one of my favorite poems by Gerard Hopkins:

THE WORLD is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.

And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs—
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.

Breathe.

             The world is wistful and hazy with each labored breath. I struggle. I pull. I wheeze.
        I am drowning. Quicksand. Undercurrent. Summer heat. Thick. Wet. Stifling. Unpierced Cacti. Unrequited embrace of Agave. I long for the Eagle's territory.
            Blustery storm. White feathered snow. Velvety and cold. Prickling my throat. Crystallized Fruit, invading my Mouth. Crushed Stone. A thousand Elephants. Tusks. Rust. Dust. Swallows me whole. Balloons fill. Tighter. Bigger. Wider. I am full. Fuller. The Fullest. I can't breathe.


                        

La caja

Mi felicidad está oculto, para proteger el suyo.


Mi risa es tranquila. Para que usted pueda escuchar lo que usted elija.


Mi amor es increíble, pero nunca se sabe. prefiere que permanecer inmóvil y encarcelados. 


Sin embargo, prefiero correr libremente por los jardines colgantes. 

Así que voy a correr de todos modos. Voy a recoger las flores frescas, y me aseguraré de que mantener en una caja cuando usted visita.

When Yellow Leaves Hang

When  yellow leaves hang

I will look for you,

silver streaks and frail.

My branches will reach

twisted and tangled

up your vined walls.

My edges will be

crumbling and veined,

but you will see in me:

my brightest hour

my hottest meal

my sweetest poem

and my golden skin.

The sun will slide south,

These roots will be watered,

and this rolling stone will moss.

And you will be...

My last leaf.

       

                                 

Mofongo

 The kitchen smells of crushed garlic

and the deep fryer pops and snaps

In excitement

The counter splays

A rainbow array of exotic spices

And edible elements of the earth

On the radio

A savory salsa swings

Green Plantains

Are not bananas

But they pretend to be

So that the unsuspecting

Might bring them home

And fall in love with their

Starchy nutty flavor

So familiar and comforting

That a ripened plantain

Weans  infants of the Caribbean

On warm summer nights

As the coconuts click in the wind

And Today is their homecoming

Peeled from their green jackets

Like soldiers coming home from war

They are mashed in a wooden

Bowl with a heavy wooden pounder

In comes the Garlic

Potent and earthy

Arrogant and aromatic

Against the bits of blue crab

sprinkled into the bowl

Pressed Olive oil drizzles

Slowly and thick

From a glass bottle

To marry the mixture

 Someone turns the radio up

And the kitchen is in full swing

Ingredients are added by

Invitation only

The finished mush

Is fashioned into a bowl form

And deep fried to crispness

Pots are clamoring

And the savory smells

Cling to the walls

And lure us from our bedrooms

Codfish and crab bubbles

On the stove in a bath of tomato broth

Salty and tender

Ready to be poured into the mofongo bowl

Mofongo

Mo-fone-go

I ran from the dish as a child

For the name felt too foreign

On my tongue

Not easy like Skittles

Or Campbells

But today

It calls to me

With a history,

With a culture,

And with the familiar

Faces  of  family.

Buen Provecho!

Daughters




I feel compelled to reach you.

To let you know we share the same moon

and the sun for that matter.

I feel the trouble trusting...

and the waves of solitude thrusting

their stormy jaws upon me.

I feel the words of those who wronged me

and the roots of the tree that sprung me.



I too, see the eyes of this man in my mirror

the moniker of a long line of

Patronymic tales

why do we mimic those we love?

The internal ringing of the trembling bells

that so badly yearn to be a part of it all.

I have slept with this thing called time

and have awoken to it whispering in my ear....


It spoke of a river of reeds

This sweet, sweet flag of kinship in which

I learned not to lose, but to let go.

That lost mothers fathers..are merely lost.

Yet they visit in your laugh

and in the early morning frost.


And sleepily I watched
Time drift out of my room
and down the candle lit stairs....



I reach out to every young and glorious

woman...

by the windowsill women..

swaying, praying women...

Waiting for the words of affirmation


I taste the seeds of this new fruit that found me

and I reckon this is family.

Sweet, dewy, early morning family.


I dedicate this to you.



CHECK OUT THE VIDEO BELOW TO HEAR THIS POEM AS A SONG.

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