A day

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Quietly your self worth diminishes

like salt on a pavement

your voice loses its tone, forgotten.

Who will remember you?

A shadow in a system.

You cry. New tide comes,

covers the muddy river bank.

The white egret returns.

You survive another day.

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Note: Last week Mrs. Abstract and I and our two friends toured Andy Warhol’s art Exhibit at MOMA in San Francisco, California. Very interesting.

Books I’m currently reading: Moby Dick by Melville and Paris, 7 A.M. by Liza Wieland, a novel about a young Elizabeth Bishop.

 

Speak

Drink your poetry

spread your voice like a sunrise

a siren to wake slumbering streets and balconies

bringing new pitch, efforts, and emotions

getting lost in crowds, fiestas, and promenades

Speak. Be a poet

Be vibrant like bougainvillea in the backyards

flowers overflowiing over a concrete fence.

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Kindness

Sometimes we walk in a painted drama

Or a recited poetry

Not hurried or loud

Like a leaf falling on a stream

There are things we don’t understand like shuffling papers

Or how we fold an umbrella after the rain

And we smile

We continue our walk doing crossword puzzles inside our heads

That’s how we miss dogs sleeping under the tree

One of us steps on his tail.

Where can light hide if it wants to hide?

Changing our names is like moving away, hiding or flirting.

Our eyes catch the light

Showering over a leaf

Like a prayer

Light has no tail or face

But a field, of attractions

A woman rises at dawn

An undulating line with three points

above and before the line’s endpoint.

Abstract inside reality

Reality arising from the abstract

Crisscrossing lines and several daubs of blue and red

Circles ascending and descending.

She rises at dawn

Pick some apples from under the tree

Art is simplicity, simplicity is art

Like kindness.C2218A67-1C3E-43EB-ADA8-3F33436A0BDA.jpeg

Little Things

 

Walking to the river is my quotidian proclimation

A morning with flashes of sharp breeze and exaggerated cloud formations

A fugitive or a caged bird

Life, a quilt floating in time, fertile and vulnerable

Always lacking in certainty

Piecing  parcels together fuels the effort

Ages I scale are experiences of different personalities

Each stage has its own expressions and demands:

Writing, cooking, doing laundry—little  things, mundane and sacred

The progression, a knowing like I felt everything

Fishemen, artists, lactating mothers, even geniuses

Want to live a real life of home.

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