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Here is a poem I wrote after a heartbeak
Uninvited
Somber thoughts cloud a mind once
full of precious memories.
Harsh and vengeful words have deafen
a hearing meant for soft whispers.
Deceptive sights have blinded a vision
from enjoying true beauty.
No response to my many pleads have left
a voice a faint hollow echo.
Many deep scars from past encounters
have marred a caring heart.
For all these things together as one is why
I am Alone.
The door to my heart is bolted and locked by my Senses.
Please don't feel sadness or pity for me.
But instead wallow in your joy for love.
For I no longer do.
Love walked out of my life and is no longer
welcomed here.
Sigh.......
Another of my poems
Locked for love
Dear maiden, the battle awaits.
I must indulge in your beauty some other
day.
My soul lost without you in my arms,
but honor for my motherland calls.
Put aside your gentle loving touch,
your whisper soft breath on my neck,
taste of your sweet nectar deep inside.
I must go and fight for land and glory.
This armor is no equal to your soft,
rose petal skin.
Your arms are more natural in my arms,
Than this heavy bronze sword.
Hush my love....Hush...Do not worry,
I will be back by your side soon.
To keep you safe from barbaric hands
and your heart and soul mine.
This Chastity belt of gold, silk, and
rare emeralds,
will keep you mine and safe my love.
Only I have the key and around my neck
next to my heart it will stay.
Kiss deaply......
Five days in hell. Thoughts of my beloved lead me on.
I have seen death and misery to last
many lifetimes.
The yearning in my heart gives me coureage,
gives me strength.
I imagine your sweet warm lips all over me,
feeling your gentle bites.
PAIN parlyzes me. feeling a warmness,
a silence, blood bathes me.
The culprit is this two foot dagger
through my belly.
Thoughts of my beloved calm my mind
and run off my pains.
I feel your presence as I leave
this lowly plateau.
Old, grungy, bload soaked fingers,
reach for my golden key.
The necklaces is snapped into pieces
off my neck.
I am sorry my love....sorry.. sorry....
My newest poem South Florida The sun, radiantly basks my body like the finest spun silk. The ocean, blue like aquamarine and sapphire gem stones. The sky, beautiful and clear like those found in a master's oil paintings. The night, filled with an abundance of stars, bright and sparkling like diamonds. The plants and flowers, delecate beauties with captivating perfumes. The mighty Palm tree, towering overhead swaying in the breeze like a giant's umbrela. The wildlife, always there to amaze us like a toddlers first discoveries. The people, diverse in culture and color like a child's box of crayons. Here time is not told by a watch or a clock, but by the early morning songs of birds, the afternoon sun shower, and the nightly cricket chirps. Days just float by like the delecate leaves of the wild orchids caught in the wind. Why do so many come here to pass their remaining years? The answer is simple. Because they too know that this is as close to paradise as one can come.
A poem from one of my favorite Cuban poets I cultivate a White Rose. In July as in January. For the sencere friend, who gives me his hand frankly. And for the cruel person, who tears out the heart which I live. I cultivate neither netties nor thorns: I cultivate a White Rose. Jose Marti (cuban poet and patriot)
In the Faces of Flowers I see her in the faces of flowers, her laugh lying in wait in the sweet white alyssum, her smiles wide in yellow marguerites. In red New Guinea impatiens I see her tanned in summer shorts, garden hose in hand, watering the flower-filled pots lining the patio, paths, and walks. I hear her clear, strong voice in Shasta daisies, and the love of her sings out in the yellow rose, the pink rose, the white. Bright pink hydrangeas: her full life, her exuberance. All her garden appears and there she is, moving through it, through the random cosmos, through the waist-high gold of her life. Hollyhocks, scarlet penstemon, deep blue ornamental sage interlaced with the vegetables, fruit trees, the occasional grass, were all her domain. And, yes, red canna lilies, rich purple iris, wild blue speedwell along the back lattice fence-- is there a flower she did not love? As I walk among flowers she knew, in my body the buds of the golden cosmos open, open in abandon.
How Do I Love Thee? by Elizabeth Barrett Browning How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of Being and ideal Grace. I love thee to the level of everyday's Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight. I love thee freely, as men strive for Right; I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise. I love thee with the passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints,--I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life! --and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.
GENERATION ñ MAGAZINE Great poetry from Cuban Americans
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