Enduring the Duration

How to make a special place, to make a welcoming home, a place of rest, a place of excitement, a place of understanding.

Written on the walls are the words you've shared, but not yet enough
to cover these walls, and I'm still not sure the colors suit you.
And framed for reference and entertainment a collection of your faces,
some so comforting and some so blatantly alien...
How to make them fit this room of ours?
I would always have comfort food for you on the table, but I don't yet know your junk food of choice, or what makes you feel balanced when you've been indulgent.
I'd want to be indulgent
with the space though tasteful, but I don't know yet what words I could bouquet for you
to please your heart,
or what textures to wrap the room in, to always leave you tingling.
I could love you, adore you, give you comfort and pleasure,
but not without time to read your books and
beauty spots.

Saturday

I've been trying to rationalize the

Various pulls in my life, ahora.

The looks that say "come talk to me"

The looks that say "go away"

     Pulls and pushes dependent on

     The wind, and electronic

     Devices, and schedules.

The conflict specialist says you prepare

Various aspects of yourself, you put them on,

And learn to balance the compartmentalizing

So that it all feels real, natural, normal

And it all is, though you are not.

I am drifting, floating more like, the clouds

Are various friendly faces, places of ease,

Normality cushions, and that wind oh how it blows 

But so slowly

How am I to know if no one points out the direction. I miss,

And wonder if I am missed,

Amiss, scattered amongst the misses,

The would be, the could be but

You'd have to ask

Miss, will you be mine?

Progress

They had trained since childhood
in games, sandcastles,
toy towers
the teambuilding to
make walls of themselves
netted together, these rocks
packed densely, to forestall,
the last peacekeepers,
guards without gates.

The experts said it was
coming, without pity, swallowing
whole, progress for the one,
the incorporation of all others,
approaching, testing the cracks,
the holes, determined to
fill "vacant" spaces,
the mountain, would ruin
us.

and then came the day
when they pulverized
us to shreds,
a thousand of us
merged with a thousand
of them,
and the cement mixers
said we served the
greater good
in their desperate attempt
to contain the spread.

but it wasn't long till the
latest measure couldnt
hold them back,
so the bombardiers were
called to cull
and the hardest
straightest edges of us (and them)
and the veins and arteries
deeply hidden,
and the humming vibrations,
 the songs we sang,
the soft and smooth curves
of us became so bomb ridden
until nothing but
dust was left of
them and us,
and the experts sat
back and proclaimed
it progress,
and named us heroes for our sacrifice
and said the blood would one day
run clear again, all the way to the sea.

Cuenca dear, a question

Cuenca Dear, A Question

In a hundred hours not once 

did I feel unsafe, or unwelcome 

familiar streets, even when

even in the moments I was lost.

Lost but welcome.

A lit up church, foundations and towers

                 Highlighting what has                been and what could be.

Your street sweepers come out while the band is still playing,

and in our listening to he heavens

we turn around to find

cleanliness     in     the

cleanliness of your brickwork

the curved lines of your stonework 

-you never quite understood the culture which birthed you.

In 6000 minutes 

I indulged in,

Every aspect of your kitchen

With eyes, and smiles, and a tummy that grumbled - I sampled,

And sampled also your

Artwork, the museos

Of a thousand years

The museos of ayer

Sometimes your sculptures

Weren't yet standing,

But I recognized the shape

Of what's to come.

Your center boasts

A pledge to preserve

You for all humanity -but

In all the love you gave me

None came with a touch

How can I help preserve you

If you won't share with me a partner?

Welcome,

but lost.

20/30

Of all the things I've seen,
nothing more beautiful, than the galaxies
of stars on the mountains of Medellin,
and though I knew it to be a dream, squinting just right, I could see
the constellation of your hand in mine.

A place to put my thoughts

Poems. Stories. Musings. Etc.