Of painters

Somedays I wished I had been a painter
alone, in a room sketching sunsets
on an unknown village
by the sea.


To me, depression is not a blue
and rainy kind of day.

It is more like summer,
hot and with dead grass
and the hunger of
money fevers.

Count me such American,
but I am always third world.

When I am jobless,
I too wander in the cities
of my head.

I taste the staleness of
not having enough of bread.

At least, in painting,
I can live a muted existence.

My emotions, painted clear.

There is no need to explain a thing:

The birds on blue skies dive into
the sea with a crimson coating as if
burning in this beauty.

If it goes without saying,
then my career is already dead

and all the silence I do not say
reflects

 a thousand years of poetry.

12.26.2022

subtleties

A single clown
drowning in an ocean
making people laugh
to death.

An artist in a room
of torn fabric silks
creating beautiful paintings
that the world observes.

A musician in an empty street
performing to the wind
a soliloquy of pain
disguised as a masterpiece.


A poet in their room
writing little snippets of sonnets
trying to reach to her, his love,
a deep lakeside of words, of emotions.

A mother somewhere at work
busy pushing 18 hours at home
cooking meals that taste extraordinary.

Somewhere the meanings fizzle out
like a record player in a room of people
slowing skipping to the next song, skip
ping over lost thoughts
we forgot once.

12.23.2022.

Creating resolves

beautiful colors painted
on a crumbling house
filled with rats, mold, rot.

we are very much like these
places we find so pleasing.

placing fake windows over
broken glass views.

engraving love poems
onto dead wallpaper.


the cities are full of such scamming
creating long and open roads
with skyscrappers stacked in advertisements.


Are we such like robots
feeling synthetic blood clots
filled up in our cold hearts?

A weekend in this living consists of
paying bills and empty bank cards
where you are now today
bewildered by the freedom of the sun,
the warmth on us.

Never you mind how much you will have,
in the future already in deathbeds.

Focus on right now, the love you have,
willing to give, or take.

 

12.21.2022

symphany of the wild

Nothing is better than knowing you are here
with me as I struggle through the cold
the warmth of your kindness ignites us both
as we journey this incredible experience
together
our lives, racing through the universe
at the speed of light
passing through the darkness and the shadows
illuminating against the planets
cold and icy under a burning, dying star
our love is such of mutual resemblance
taking forms of silent breaks,
the unmentioned soloist inbetween the notes
in a musical falling down the eardrums
like a waterfall ending to the base of our hearts
we are the silence inbetween those aquatic notes
of teardrops speaking lines of rudimentary codes
i know
you are the one that hears my rhythms, singing
inbetween the words i never say
our love, like a sunday summer in the rainclouds
on an everlasting field of flowers,
a small puddle ripples
a novel of our harmonic emotions.

12.11.2022