A Passing Glance

Everyday is the same,
Whether at home or in town.
Even with those who know your name,
Only a passing glance down.

We look at each other,
But only with our eyes.
Never seeing anything deeper,
Living in our own lies.

Seeing only what we want,
That which we deem important.
Some take pride and flaunt,
Others relish their insignificance.

Never looking deeper than the flesh,
Never seeing what is inside.
Always missing the solid mesh,
That binds us and also divides.


That which binds us to this life,
Which keeps us full of desire.
And that which divides us like a knife,
Slicing through like artillery fire.

We walk around in a hypnotic trance,
Oblivious to our impending deaths.
Nothing more than a passing glance,
And that final drawn breath.

Shades of Gray

ok, i am not feeling well and have taken my headache medicine so i hope this is as coherent to everyone as it is to me at this time. :)


Without much distinctness,
I recall my humble beginnings.
When my palette was in full bloom,
With a broad spectrum of colors to sling.

The colors of flowers in the orchard,
The variations of the clays in the soil.
Small clumps strategically placed on a board,
Constantly begging to be blended and toiled.

Reds, blues, greens, and all other hues,
Ready to provide the backdrop of life.
I would think so carefully which to use
Before I even touched that palette knife.

Nothing was ever neutral then,
The intensity of life had a pulse.
My surroundings had a complexion,
Palpable textures from fine to coarse.

We all begin with a blank canvas,
Adding colors as we perceive them.
Years pass us on to a lower place.
Piles of pigment reduced to gems.

We are given one life,
Only one wooden palette.
Sometimes they collide in strife
As we fumble about our orbits.

The canvas becomes suffuse
As the colors blend and fade.
There are few hues left to choose.
Only black and white remain.

So, I live in shades of gray,
Searching for my deliverance,
As my canvas sits on display.
I wait in full reverence.

Por Mijo, Mi Amor

(written 5/17/2008)

Today I will visit your grave,
and that familiar facade will remain.
For the world, I will appear so brave,
yet inside, my soul will scream in pain.

At your feet, I will strongly stand,
staring at your name etched in marble.
I will shake as I softly place my hand
over your drawing and marvel.

Your art is forever displayed
on the stone that remembers your name.
Your shape is forever preserved
on the vase that signifies your fame unattained.

Your soft hands holding the guitar
that you so skillfully played.
The strings attached to my heart
echoing the sounds that your hands made.

Under the beautiful oak tree, you will forever lay.
The moss hanging down all around your grave.
And the river you face will bring serenity
when the overcast skies bring in the choppy waves.

Off the river comes the sweeping winds.
Softly blowing through the moss that hangs,
yet coldly brushing across my skin,
drying the unseen tears that leave the salty stain.

For today, you would be only fifteen.
But fate chose another path for you.
A life barely begun before it saw its end.
A path that the Lord and You only knew.

Who will blow out the candles from your cake?
My own breath lacks the strength.
The winds from the river shift and fluctuate,
extinguishing the candles as if you sent them.

I will pray before I turn away,
that I will see you under the moon.
The wind makes the moss sway,
as I hope slumber brings us together soon.

I can only see you in my dreams,
under the twinkling stars whose names you knew.
Impatiently I wait for that slumber so sweet,
under the beaming light of the blue moon.

It is then that you still feel so real.
Your smell, your skin, your hair.
As if you were still near.
All this waiting, it is so unfair.