The Higher School of Tte. José Azueta

I walk on this street
that I have come to call, so quickly,
and so presumptuously,
'our street'.
I pass broken sidewalks, leaking drainage pipes,
century-old buildings, made from bricks
that have been re-salvaged, many times over...
all made from the blood-red clay of this ground.
Open windows and doors,
some barred, some standing open...
some barred, with small, staring children sitting
with their arms and legs outside the bars,
catching the scant breeze while Mama cooks supper,
and older siblings play video games.

People. People like me, trying to make a life, carve a niche.
People who belong here...
whose great, great, and greater, parents
have lived and worshipped on the land beneath this street,
that I dare to call, 'my'.

Down the street, further,
a man lying naked, his pants too soiled to bear.
Woman, begging,
hands alternating between grasping coins
and scratching the trails of parasites,
that view her flesh as their Mother Earth.

These are my Relatives.
These are your Relatives.

Pray to your God,
that when your turn comes
to stand barefoot,
on a sharp and unfriendly rocky road,
that used to be home,
uncertain as to where you will find your next sip of water,
or what you will next swallow
to sustain your creeping, reeking body,
on its own trail of tears...
Pray that there will always be someone
who sees you for who you are...
Grandmother, Grandfather, Mother, Father,
Sister, Brother...
Child,
made in the image of our Creator.

A new prayer upon my lips,
born of this place,
that houses some of the poorest, and the wealthiest,
of my Relatives:
"Please, Father,
teach me Love...
even if the lesson hurts."

Now, Hear This!

Today,
I am going to sing,
loudly, and out of tune.
My unsteady, cracking voice
will scrape your ears and nerves
in an off-key assault,
offensive to your sense
of how I should Be...
But, nonetheless,
today I shall sing,
badly, loudly,
and with joy!

Only Yesterday, in 1986

Scant inch of promise,

cupped in my palm,

your song already written

in the Great Book of Life...

you never had a chance.

With hot water douches

and raw fear,

I wish-washed you away...

and then,

with a rush

of tears and blood,

I flushed you away.

New Song

Your face
is my touchstone.
Each line, each small scar,
brings comfort,
and is a source of strength.
Standing face to face,
I read you...
you are poetry.
You are a song
that I want to memorize,
until I sing you
in my dreams...

Summer Storm

Ground dry and parched,

its energy and life hidden,

lying dormant.

Seeds wrapped, waiting...

enviroment far too hostile

to foster growth.

No tender sprout

could ever survive.

Thirsty ground...

dreaming of life,

its need exposed

to knowing eyes.

Scent of water

on the air...

jars, large and brimming,

slowly tip...

no patter

of stingy, drying drops,

but a torrent...

Refreshment, Life...

and the desert blooms!

Shame

Front porch sags

under weight

of accumulating garbage,

thrown away but not yet

properly disposed of.

It waits there,

in full view.

Passersby pause

to raise their eyebrows,

shake their head,

then keep walking,

wondering.

The owner hates it,

resentful of the stench,

shamed by its presence.

It reminds him

of neglect, of waste

and abandoned plans.

Holding his breath,

he looks away

as he steps over it,

as though

it belongs to someone else.

No one likes

to live with a mess.

I feel sorry for him...

and for the

Garbage.

Fusion

Standing together,

we overlook a paradise.

I love the view...

brilliant, shifting colors

pulse skyward

with the beat

of a thousand hearts,

our vision warmed

by the gentle fires

of Amethyst and Amber,

dazzling Emerald,

Sapphire and Moonstone

blues...

I have come to believe

that our loved ones

become part of who we are,

allowing us to live

as walking, working,

dancing rainbows...

and We are beautiful.

Which colors,

which shades,

which healing hues,

has my love

added 

to you?

Back from the Dead

I was almost gone.
Lights dimming,
voices as through
a wall of water.
Then a large, gentle hand
reached down into my darkness
and took firm hold on me.
All you said was,
"We're ok",
and then I was.
How could I not love you?

The Cycle

waiting

waiting waiting

wait for it

breathe

shallow

brittle expectation

but

keep smiling

smiling smiling

wavering between

still watchfulness

and giddy gratitude

that pretend normal

is lasting so long

this... time

love is hate

and hate

is love

breathe

smile

wait

for

it

♡

Your Gifts

Just as my body

is my own,

so my mind, also,

and my thoughts,

belong to me.

You cannot inject me

with your wisdom,

nor can it be force-fed.

And so, my love,

when you bring to me

your precious gifts

of knowledge,

that you have earned,

and learned...

offer them,

then let me taste,

and drink of my choice.

It isn't that I doubt

the value of the gift,

only that I must

examine what you have

come to believe,

before I can accept it

as my own...

To My Sister

I am a tree...

strong feet planted wide

and deep,

anchoring me

to the cool, dark

body of our mother.

I am of Earth...

flesh resonating

with healing energy

rising through my soles,

my roots.

Our cycles

ebb and flow in unison,

life sustained

until it is returned,

re-gifted to the ground.

Am I a Greedy Child?

The greedy child stood

in the middle of a home

filled with good things,

all the necessities of life,

surrounded with love.

And she thought

about all the things

she didn't have.

Her mouth pulled down

into a pout,

her eyes began to fill

with tears.

She felt so sad, so...

so left out.

She didn't have... everything!

And as she stood there,

eyes blinded by tears,

she slowly lost

the ability to see, altogether.

She was blind...

blind to all that she had been given,

blind, even,

to her own strong limbs,

that were holding her upright,

in a room filled with all things good,

while she stood crying

over what she didn't have...

The Battle

A lone child stands,

screaming into the wind.

He has battled his demons

and ghosts so long,

he has grown old beside them.

His eyes are swollen

from the storm of tears,

and he swings wildly

at every touch,

unable to tell the difference

between friend and foe.

He is fiercely determined to

hold his fighting stance,

not seeing that his bones

have grown twisted,

shaped by the tortuous steps

of this cruel dance.

They would resist if ever

he were to try to walk away.

Eventually, all grow weary

of dodging blows, and

retreat to a safer distance,

to watch this solitary, 

raging figure as he battles

in an empty field...

and the wind blows, and

the grinning demons swoop,

and feint, and draw blood.

He is so very tired,

he will soon be on his knees,

and only those that care

enough to listen closely

may hear the voice

that rides the wearing wind,

crying out, "I want to stop!

Help me, PLEASE!!"

Guard Your Heart

It can slide into your heart

with all the power of a barbed arrow,

shot at point-blank range

from a compound hunting bow,

yet you may not even know

that you have just

received a death-thrust.

Your own body will betray you,

eagerly welcoming the sudden lurch,

the rapid pulse and breath.

And who would not choose such a death?

This sweet loss of lonely self,

where surrender is a joyous affirmation

of life still worth living,

and of love being enough, just by giving.

Words like,

'heartbroken, torn, shattered',

may be carelessly used,

but if you go behind the scene,

you will learn what they can really mean.

As you in horror view

what once was innocent and new,

now broken and bruised,

know that the devestation of any killing

is revealed in the obscene ruins

of jagged, weeping

Exit Wounds...

Party Girls

Do you remember her?

I know you've met her more than once.

She's a thin, fragile razor blade...

like brittle glass, she

slices to the bone

if not handled with care.

She approaches in a

deceptively innocent swirl

of chatter and smiles,

but you learn that

her attacks are quick and clever,

with a casual viciousness

that leaves you

gasping for air.

You are left standing,

smile still frozen on your face,

knowing you have been wounded,

but not yet, how deeply.

Stunned, you wonder where

all the blood is coming from,

as your skin tumbles down

in a mass of bright, curling

ribbons around you.

Who is this, who is able

to flay victims with impunity?

What is her name?

Ahh, yes, she is

Just Kidding...

and she has a sister,

known as Witty.

Although we often

try to forget,

most of us know them

all too well.

Do you?

Did a friend introduce you,

or have you perhaps even 

employed them,

to create an enemy or two?

And what could they tell me

about you? 

Taste this...

A loved one's name

flows sweet

upon the tongue,

like sun-warmed honey,

dripping from its comb.

Sweet, intoxicating, 

irresistible...

once tasted,

never forgotten.

hope

a

sad

hope

waits in

this weak

and silly heart

playing an off-beat

tune for the dreams

dancing round and

round the silver

moon

Joy

When the morning sun

breaks over the mountain

or through a bank of clouds;

when a long-awaited friend

fills your doorway

or sweeps you suddenly

into an unexpected hug;

when a lost loved one is at last found

among the crowd

that had swallowed them up...

for a moment, childhood returns.

The pure joy of one thing only

in your world, when everything else

falls away and pales to insignificance.

No games, no finding fault, no agenda.

For that moment, no multi-tasking,

no brain-storming.

How refreshing to experience

that jewel of single-mindedness,

when that which is before your eyes

is all there is.

Now, ask yourself,

should love not be the same?

Where sheer delight is found

in every tilt, and shade, and lisp...

where each of these, complete in itself,

refreshes, and yet consumes you,

with each newly discovered,

perfect imperfection.

Poor Reception

What's wrong with everyone?

When you look at people,

can you see that they're twisted,

like they're out of focus?

maybe

the storm finally

knocked their antenna over

it's laying across the garage roof

maybe

the kids got rough-housing

while they were home alone

and broke the rabbit-ears off

maybe

they're hanging

behind the bookshelf

by a thin copper thread

and the cat is playing with them

maybe

But wait...

is it Them, or is it All Of Us?

Is my vision blurred, too,

do I only see

as I want things to be?

At any given time,

do I see The News

as hilarious, or comedy

as dark commentary

on how far we've fallen?

How far?

Collectively, we reek of an odor

that cannot be washed away,

have lost the right

to hold our head up,

or to sleep peacefully at night.

We are broken.

We have not only

forgotten our Father,

but we have grown accustomed

to the rape

of our Mother.

We have been orphaned,

by our own greedy,

bloodstained hands.

So let's just try to focus

on how

we will live with that...

and what we will do

to make it right.

We, the Strong

If you have

wept your face to leather,

washed your youth away in a sea of salty tears;

if you have

discovered how to present yourself

to the world as you are, with no excuses

and nothing, no one, to hide behind;

if you have

learned the courage of

weeping without shame, head held high

and silent tears flowing like baptismal waters...

then you know

that learning

to stand tall at the epicenter of the milling crowd,

arms outstretched,

calm and naked

to cold eyes and criticism, 

is to learn

that you are who you are and you remain the same,

regardless of who is looking at you,

and you will have found

your freedom,

your peace,

your power.

Come,

we will stand,

together.

I am a Greedy Child

Why do I have to choose?
Why can't I have both...
you know, both colors, both styles,
flavors, or sizes?

Why must,
in this universe of abundance,
excess and surplus,
must I narrow 'Mine'?

What if I love both,
so much alike, and yet,
like a mirror-image,
or a photo and its negative?

The charm that captivates
is the essence of Unique...
so why should I have to
choose, for all time,
"Salty... or Sweet?"

The Librarian

When I label, stereotype,

or attempt to fence-in

my fellow travellers

on life's road,

I take a brilliant pallette

and trade it for shades of gray.

My chiropractor

is a sexy flower-child.

The chef at my favorite restaurant

is a philosopher

who invests in the stock market

and in every person that he feeds.

Last summer,

I threw hay bales

alongside a Goth kid...

he  wore eyeliner

and black nailpolish.

And the librarian... she's a rebel!

She's an anarchist who shows her colors

in her tattoos,

and by the way she rattles the metal book cart...

loudly, with enthusiasm and energy.

No disapproving "Shhh!!" from her!

This world is changing.

I rejoice,

and gather energy

from the riot of color

around me.

Time to Sharpen up

There are days
when I feel I have no
strength at all.
My outer shell, the facade
that you all look upon,
seems to resemble me,
but lacks substance,
stability... effectiveness.

Do you have days like that?
Days when you feel like
one of those drawer fronts,
with a handle and everything,
but no drawer?

'Plastic knife' days...
when I am a laughable
facsimile of the real thing.
It's like,
"And here's a knife
for you...
but don't try to cut
anything with it..."

I wonder,
if 'iron sharpens iron',
what will happen,
if I am made of plastic?

You've got mail...

A relentless love,

whose sent letters lay unopened,

unwanted and unclaimed,

like mail delivered faithfully to a vacant house.

thrown at the page

in a lonely, frustrated rage,

others written under covers,

the words tangling, trembling together

like first-time lovers...

such pathetic effort to find the perfect words

for a song that never will be heard

But messages are meaningless unless received...

and when the silence grew,

then came sad shame,

hidden like the first blood-stained sheet.

So then I learned to wait,

ignoring the crimson pool

growing at my feet.

surprise

I saw my heart today...

it looked a little bruised,

and was on the ground at your feet.

...and though I had laid it there,

I think I was just as surprised

as you were.

Opened heart surgery

I start to harden my heart

so the stabs don't hurt as much,

but it doesn't work

when the wounds are from the inside.

The cruel accusers living within

cut efficiently, precisely,

with the voice that is my own.

...and I don't waste time,

I know

where the weak points are.

post apocalyptic nap

what if

the sun never shone, rain never fell,

food turned to dust,

the stores all closed and then just broke open,

and our tidy little world turned into hell...

could I still just phone you?

would we text

where R U, R U home,

I need U...

or would it matter anymore?

could I suddenly just start coming over,

could I curl up on your couch

and sleep in the middle of the day,

because no one cared,

they had better things,

more real things to think about...

like getting food and stuff.

it would be stupid to be worried

about who was at whose house,

minding your own business

would be easy,

'cause it would be full-time job...

the only one you had.

The Gift

"Give me a rose," she whispers,

breath soft and warm against him,

"to take with me when I leave you."

Reluctant to leave the goosedown world

of love and pillows,

he slowly tastes her skin...

a heady mixture of them both lingers there,

slightly sweet and salty.

Later, she pauses before a mirror.

Lost in smiling memory,

her eyes and fingertips

gently trace the rosy bloom,

left as a gift

from Love's own laughing lips.

trubl

my hart luvs

2 B trchrus

my tung luvs

2 strt fires

my eyes luv

2 C wat is not

my ears luv

2 hear wsprs

my hands luv

2 tak wat isnt mine

my feet luv

2 run 2 trubl

my hart luvs

2 much...

'Send'

Shallow breath, fingers trembling, 

pouring privacy out,

onto a tiny, glowing screen.

How fitting a monument,

to our times,

this inadequate,  impersonal canvas.

One letter at a time, all non-essentials left out,

words and feelings reduced

to their most basic...

no sweeping gestures, here.

We prefer, no, we HUNGER for

the long, intense gazes,

the lowered eyes,

the fleeting brush of muscles under denim...

but, instead,

a solitary finger hovers,

shy and tentative, 

over

'Send'.

Flowers Weep

I leaned into your warmth, today...

breathing in, I deliberately, eagerly,

took what I could of you.

I stole it with delight,

then willed my senses to lock it away,

to where I may draw it up, like water from a well,

if you should become but a memory.

In the private garden of my mind,

your scent makes flowers weep,

knowing they have been surpassed...

for never has a flower made my heart leap,

my mouth water,

or my knees grow weak beneath me.

Like the Movies

There is a certainty within my mind...

it sprang forth, fully formed and beautiful,

the moment that my eyes found you,

and, since, it has grown, as things cherished often do.

You know how

sometimes in the movies, everything fades and blurs into a vortex,

then suddenly emerges in a single, crystal clear frame,

the culmination of the entire plot-line

up to that point?

Meeting you, was mine...

Towards this certainty, my lonely life had staggered.

My seemingly unending childhood,

with its lessons learned, its loves won and lost,

seems to have shaped me perfectly,

to fit you.

Seeking peace...

facts, figures, ideas, opinions, thoughts, dreams, wishes, wants, needs,

faces, memories, words, tunes, touches, smells, fears, doubts, regrets... HELP!!

It's far too loud, too busy, too full, too fragmented, in here...

my mind eats me alive, yet is never satisfied, never still, never... QUIET!!

Was the stillness of the delivery room shattered

when I arrived?

Were the masked figures startled

to hear the roaring between my ears,

while I was yet within the circle of my mother's womb?

And then, irony of life, they named me 'Peace'...

destined to bear the name of that which I so desperately seek,

earnestly desire, yet never find.

Therein lies the key

to why I am so irresistibly drawn to you...

because, my love,

this is as close to peace as I've ever been.

Your voice pours like healing oil over my restless mind,

and when I feel the sweetness of your warmth, I rest...

for there is nowhere that I would rather be.

Weaning Time

Air echos with sad cries

as large, wet eyes

peer through the bars and hearts pace,

seeking a way back to comfort.

A woman stands watching...

remembering

other sad tears and cries,

soft little hands patting, wanting...

Love watches, waits... knowing

it's with sighs and tears that we grow,

and that we gain power by letting go.

True love is godly... wise

even when naked pain slowly drips

from large, wet eyes.

Like Me

Back when I was young and fresh,
how sad it is, that I felt of so little value.
I should have known how precious I was...
should have felt it.
I've put a lot of miles on, now, and bear the scars
typical of a lifetime of roller-coaster joys and tears...
I love them all...
they are my badges of merit, my medals of war.
They make me who I am, and I've learned
to love much of what I used to try to overcome.
I can love the loud laugh, the raucous sense of humor,
the fact that I still blush easily, my hopes, my dreams and fears...
and that I still expect the best.
I love that occaisionally, young men still hit on me,
if only to hear my laugh,
and that old men love me, because I make them feel alive,
and how so many people
pour their woes and life-stories out to me...
I even like my body, though, at times,
I treat it like an enemy, to be conquered.
I like my arms, grown heavy with holding babies and lovers,
my scarred, large hands, and my graying hair.

I wish I had a friend like Me.

Life

Black carousel, turning
through the circle of life,
covering the same ground,
yet every revolution,  new.

Different costume for every ride...
daughter, sister, wife, mother,
friend, foe, lover, other...
each distinct, blur together.

Wait for the night, the world
where lack of focus, limits me not,
but takes the boundaries
out, far beyond where I can see.

No longer a child, but loving the ride...
so strangely familiar, dependably chaotic.
I continue to embrace with love,
that which loves to hurt me.

Here

Solitary figure works alone,

swaying in a shaft of sun dust.

Plucking bright threads,

she weaves.

Glowing tapestry, created with love

from memories and dreams,

half-thoughts that come

between wakefulness and sleep.

soft skin beneath fingertips

laughing lips and eyes

large hand in mine

delicious mornings

sweet, sweet perfume of you

I lie alone, eyes closed.

Only in this world, am I in control.

Here, no fear, no tears,

no disdain, nor shame...

Here, I choose.

Here, I am not the tolerated,

I am the chosen.

perfect vision

trying, struggling, failing,

sinking, dying...

heart still beating but beaten

far too often.

then...you.

in your voice, your face,

in your perfect eyes,

everything I want.

I see you as you are,

and I love

all that I see.