RWT: Michael's Poetry

What does the sadness in your eyes ask
“Have I misplaced the beauty of the heart”
What does the look of forgiveness in your eyes tell me
“I cannot find the answers to the questions you never ask”
In me there is a wish to find the colours to paint her many scenes for which I have no words
That on glance, given by chance, fashioned this dance
I gather the sounds of the changing weather
She cannot hear its music
And so it goes and so it shows
Is there a prayer for the healing of scars
Skin as parchment
Skin as leather
The rain softens
The sun hardens
The wind blows and nobody knows
Why we fumble with the beads at our finger tips
My eyes will always remember
What I may not have seen
What I may not have heard in that brief moment
Her eyes met mine, my lips moved
To explain to late, the string that ties heart to ear
Muscle, connected to anvil and stirrup, far away, or very near

Whispers are the servants of my past.
On Mondays, they are dressed in red
Their intent is to please
On Tuesdays, they are dressed in blue
Yes, my servants have moods
On some Wednesdays, they are dressed in green
It is their colour of preference, but not always
The colours worn on some of the Wednesdays depend
On what they want to whisper the next day
On all Thursdays my servants will dress in silver, for the caballeros,
gold for the senoritas
As I write I can see only a part of their faces
Tongues of ivory and ebony; eyes of emerald and lapis lazuli; ears of yellow coral; ear rings of burro’s cactus in the liquid of jade,(worn exclusively in the month of Noviembre)
My servants are happy on this day, their disposition is one of wanting to please me
My amigos are quick to remind me that Thursday’s whispers are of a cautious nature and forgive me, they are not to be shared
On Fridays, servants are dressed in white
It is their day to report, to record
Functional, necessary ….a day to tally the plus and minuses
On Fridays my servants retire early
Saturday is not just another day. Whispers are dressed in the colours of the rainbow, their light refracted through the crystal of celebration.
Some would describe them as salad colours. Go ahead use your imagination; carnival, market, tango in the late of evening and salsa por favor, no admission charged at the door.
Of course on Sunday, my servants are dressed in black, no exceptions. A day of mass. A day of silent prayers. On this day my whispers pray for me. Yes, my angels whisper the rosary, beads made of sand, baked by the sun, then slowly cooled in the shadows of the moon light’s extraordinary patience. On this day my servants do not speak
That evening when my whispers go to bed they know I want to see Monday’s rising sun; Tuesday’s changing weather; Wednesday’s, prosperity; Thursday’s opulence; Friday’s accountability; Saturday’s celebrations and Sundays, may there be many, Sunday’s immortality.

There was no evolution
All living things had a colonial start
A celestial caress,
The first touch, the first blush
Landed on Mexico ’s condition.
From distant worlds, hidden
Behind the bright folds of mythology
The navigator sent his son
On ships propelled by the solar winds
To search, to find, to multiply.
“Will you look at, that”…….
The blue pearl hung suspended
In the black of promise.
On the seventh day they left
I write, in urgency on the eighth.
One ship was left behind
Resting, but not forgotten
In pieces, workable fragments
Waiting for my command and
Patronage will not delay its departure.
Scattered from Villa Ahumada
To Cuernavaca to Salto de Agua
Slices of hope, splinters of curiosity
Are waiting for my command
But wait, the Mayans found…….
A photograph
A blue pearl suspended
In the black of promise
Quickly without so much as a thought
A cat’s eye replica of lapis lazuli
Was the offering and
Stuck with spit to the end of a javelin
The warrior priest hurled the spear
Into the heavens.
A calendar was prepared for the day
Of its return. I am still waiting.
I sit on a stone shelf, as a paying guest at The Posada Barranca. Buried in the imagination of someone else’s time line, I uncover the many grains of forgiveness that I will pocket and carry to the tidal lagoons of His blue pearl.

All and only butterflies celebrate
The creation of this universe
With Mexico ’s Morelia the centre
Of all possible explanations
Story tellers are divided
On the beginning and ending
Of all Monarchs that take flight
The prayers of the ancients are carried
On their wings, bound with the lightest
Of filigree silver, of woven angel’s hair
Butterflies ascend, resurrecting
Their need to discover the birth of curiosity.
This all happened after the first rains fell, before
The movement of ice could make time standstill
Before karma created its own repetitive destiny
Before Father Hidalgo wept over
The pain and suffering of cactus spikes and sulphur
Butterflies took flight, upwards
And caught the rising drafts of redemption
And the Almighty was pleased
On all occasions He welcomes
Every winged messenger of miracles
Each butterfly carries one wish and
Delivers it to the Creator’s ear, do you hear!
For the citizens of Mexico
For the living for the dead
For the not born, for those left behind
For those who worship the crucifix,
For those who kneel before all the altars,
For those who genuflect at all stations of the cross,
For all, who ever have or ever will
Touch the country’s soil, or walk on its moss,
Breathe in its dust, exhaled its hunger,
Marvell at its colour, celebrated its sounds.
One wish and one wish only
He listens, He gives some blessings
But these butterflies are never to return
Their effort, their spirit of flutter
Of travel, graces the night skies
As stars, as silver dust, as there is nothing more just.

As she talks, her fingers push
A rosary, by habit, by necessity
More of worry, her beads are worn
As is her hope, almost invisible
She feels, touch, texture
I cannot measure the distance
Between stroke and caress.
Finger tips calloused,
Each bead linked to some forgotten memory
My eyes connect with sighs that are beyond
The limits of hearing
But the leather at her tips
Defines what is and what is not
What is there to remember for eyes that have forgot.

Morning, evening or
In the sultry heat waves
Of this town’s dry noon
I hear the debate
About the proximity
Of blossom to thorn
Protected or defended
Each for the other
Like verse of poem
Like chapter of book
Foliage as disguise
Sheds the tears of dew
Without sound, soil as handkerchief
Absorbed are the remnants of the past
Absolved then released and rededicated
On the worn pages of the catechismus.

I ran in a hurry to catch the bus
The cobblestones objected
To the insistence, the intensity of my rush
“Slow down, amigo”
I could heat the cobblestones clatter
“You’re too much in a hurry
“Amigo”, they laughed, “you are a mad hatter”
Never mind, never mind I thought
There is the matter of the bus
I slowed down, I must have coughed
Another one is coming, eventually
I’ll see it. I’ll look for the dust.

Can you imagine, of all the places and time to think of my father’s death some 5 years ago. I am in the downtown area of the city of Guadalajara looking at a water fountain. It is not the shape of the piece, the cascading sound of water, but the statue of The Warrior Cow, protector of Guadalajara that puts me in this train of thought.
Singled out, alone and at last he knew
All of it would come down
To this, this kneeling on a silent pew
Not even a yell, a curse,
A fist, a spit from a chew
Who gave a shit, where was his crew
He could hear it, or was it a wish
The rider less horse, an empty saddle
Waiting to carry home this man in swaddling clothes
The walls of the room, the corners of halls
Collecting all of life’s piss
He smelled the sweat, saw streaks of lather
And drew together what was left out
To wish for, to hope for, to gather
Just one last dream, just one last shout
He thought “this is where I’m laid to rest
“This room, without a lawn, at dawn
“This room, without the smell of lilac, of lily”
“Where are my lovers, my haters, my distracters?
“Where are the silence of tears from all the years?
“Why was I blind to the colours made by the sounds of wounds?
It is here in this city of hope
Where I imagine what I could not imagine
I was going to spit on his grave
But no, I now cry at his feet, not needing his permission
Mourning the loss of never having known this man,
His complexities and my sins of omission

Would you allow me the measure
Of reading your book
For you, it’s your treasure
For me it’s in the pleasure
Of watching you turn the pages
Mind if I look
You know
I could read between the lines
From cover to cover
Chapter to chapter
I’ve read
You’ve had but one lover
No need to check for spelling
It’s laid out clearly
Just in the telling
Poetry, fiction
Ah, I’ve noticed the flair
Of the style in your telling
In the writing, in the reading
From beginning to end
It’s all in the breathing
So tell me sweet lady
After all these years
Would you change any part
I’m listening
Please go ahead, care to start

Vinegar flows in this man’s blood
He uses turpentine and pumice stone
To scrape away the calluses on the soles of his feet
The 1st mate likes to bathe his feet
In the ambergris of his slow moving memory
Not once distracted by the leviathan’s scream
Momentarily all is forgotten
Still, some eyes are focused, fused
On this cruel eyed seaman’s past
He pretends not to hear, he’s stuck in whatever tries to drag him down
Still his ears hear the condemnations of all
The citizens of the bigger empire, the sea
What does he care
He’d rather piss on the graves of all his ancestors
Than change, for he knows there is
Nothing to gain and nothing to loose
May he bleed, as dolphins are dragged
May he rupture the membrane that separates
His heaven from his hell, a prisoner of an empty shell
And may his dreams and wishes be pulled from
The stomachs of forgetful sows
Who would rather roll over their first born
Than move aside to take a shit
“A hit, a hit” the harpoon man yells
And blood roils in the rise and fall of swells
And all aboard hear the concussive muffled sound
Of the grenade. Implode, implore what makes the difference
There is a difference, as long as one sailor, aboard
Will cut his thumb and remove that one reminder
That………