A Dream Landscape

original photo from AdoreMe.com

Dream of love in lace
covering favorite go-to places.

Dreams far from anything you’ve ever recognized,
all desires realized.

Dreams that leave you transformed, molded,
leaving you painted in bold colors.

Dreams of the most flattering shapes
forming a perfect match of colliding lovers in a dream landscape.

A divine love operating with mouths agape.
Sighs, not words, are the only sounds that’ll escape.

Disconnected

Particles of despair spin midair.
They soon become swallowed and part of me
before there’s a chance of being wiped away.

I try and I try and only return to asking:

How is this pain necessary?
Is not struggling even an option?
Is my negative perspective the only guideline I carry?

The nature of it does not resemble the ideal.
When it starts to feel like
we’re falling off track from living the dream,

there’s a knock on the door. We shake off the covers
to awaken where unicorns fly above rainbows
and oh, how we wonder with befuddlement,

‘how did we get here?’

listen to her

inside of you,

that constant voice

knows you better

than anyone else.

she’s been there

when no one else was.

she knows she’ll never

steer you wrong.

she’ll direct you forward,

& retract you

from uncomfortable situations.

no matter if they say otherwise,

listen to her.

friends know a side of you,

your lover knows another,

but she knows all of you;

all of your inner workings

shaping your heart

and points of view,

listen to her.

when the night is still,

when you’re in the midst

of looking across the room

but you’re 3,000 miles away,

listen to her.

she’s there to keep you

grounded yet dreaming,

enjoying yet wishing

that soon all will be right.

Don’t Walk In Anger

I twist in the night, in anger.

I wake in the morning, in anger.

I know the dreams are just dreams

but the aching is tangible,

it’s at the forefront that I can’t shake.

It’s too early to feel this way, with holes punctured through the heart.

A feeling that I’ve been used as target practice.

Congratulations, you’ve won

You’ve robbed me yet again from waking with the delight of a new day,

from appreciating the sound of rain

from appreciating the joy of sleeping in

from being eager to seize the day

from wanting to spark a conversation

from the lovely moments a couple should spend in each other’s company.

No, what you’ve done is created years of silence and regret.

You’ve created a longing to escape.

You’ve created thousands of miles between us.

And each step I’m taking, I’m moving in the opposite direction.

I don’t want to waste years in anger.

I don’t want my children to witness silent anger filled with despair.

I don’t want to hide my feelings when they question what’s wrong.

I take a deep breath and sigh.

There is love out there waiting.

These years will pass.

The storm that consumes and derails will pass.

And we will live under the sun.

Yes, these rainy day Mondays filled with aching & longing will one day be filled with the peace of love.

Or so we can dream.

A bump in the night

the voice comes to me
as a phantom in a dream.

as i write
the voice channels
from him to me.

laughter vanishes
to staring at the sea,
to the house
that no longer carries
his childhood dreams.

vacanies searching for occupation
from passing through stations
to platforms holding onto memories,
all of it comes to me.

in my internal screenplay,
is he the playwright
or the main lead?

the nature of it,
all of my opposites:
bruting arrogance
or brilliant confidence.

is my empathy a curse
or is this a curated character chiseled in verse?

Tears of a Poet

When I think of Carlos,
a beautiful soul of a man,
emotional, heartfelt poetry bleeds through
Tears creep on the brink of every reading
His hand held over his heart to keep it in
He makes a mark wherever he goes
The rhythm of his words flow
And it leaves you speechless
All you can mouth is ‘wow…’

Pondering over poems to capture what I believe in
A work of art always in progress
Instead of writing, I digress
I want the poems to come to me
It should be so easy
Poems used to flow without trying
Have I run out of reasons for writing?

‘Dreams are boats’ one poet says
It leaves me wondering,
Have her dreams already sailed on?
Are they docked and staying afloat?
Has she a ticket to the party boat of dreams?
Or have her dreams met the fate of the Titanic?

Whichever type it is, big or small,
and the condition it may be,
It got me thinking
And that’s what beautiful imagery does in poetry
It leaves you wondering, wanting to dig deeper
If there’s no wonder, no mystery, why bother in the attempts of poetry?

In Your City

Originally published in Clay Literary’s RAVEN: https://www.clayliterary.com/post/raven-issue-seven-08-30-2020

eyes squeeze shut all at once with
wishes whispered under breaths to be
anywhere else, anywhere cooler than

the constant heatwave of near 100 degrees.
Toes dip into makeshift sandy beaches
along the city’s river while children

play in water fountains next to erected sandcastles.
But here in my city, it’s another monotonous
day. I am wide-eyed making 11:11 wishes to be

with you in your city, your heatwave, along your river,
walking the streets when it’s your midnight.
My sweat drips waiting for you to wipe it away.

I’m waiting for the days where we open windows
to a gentle breeze and kick away the sheets for relief.

I wish it didn’t sting

I wish it didn’t sting
when rejection tears apart
what I’ve poured my heart into,
hidden emotions or fragments thereof
painting scenes that tiptoe quietly
or outright screams.

I wish it didn’t sting
when he doesn’t think much of me,
but rather holds a love
kept at a distance that silently breaks
both of us apart.

I wish it didn’t sting
when correspondence stops like
a drought after the flood,
after love cascaded faithfully
to comply with the dream.

I wish it didn’t sting
when I hear his poetry;
the voice that gets to the depth of me.
And I realize all those lustful moments
and longing nights have ceased.

I wish it didn’t sting
when my daughter looks to me
for answers. Her big eyes searching
for meaning and I come up empty;
I’ve got nothing.

I wish it didn’t sting,
when all I have
is nothing.

Deconstruction Site

How many times do we take
the leap before we realize
we’ve jumped in too deep

How many times do we stop
to realize we need to
protect our insides

How many times does this heart
have to break; this love,
you too shall take

He was the one healing
the deepest scar,
the wound he created,
only to tear it apart
as he twists the knife
churning everything
inside of me

What Happened To Her

What is she doing up there on the stage,
graduating with a masters in IT
when she should have graduated with Anthropology,
with Archaeology,
with Egyptology as her focus?

And why is she pregnant,
and with a child,
when she didn’t want kids to begin with,
when she wanted to be an explorer,
when she was going to sit among the pyramids.

Where did those dreams go?
She has tears in her eyes,
she may be sorrowful,
and wondering the same thing.

She may be full of regrets,
but I hope she is happy
with where she is
and who she is with.


This is part two of the writing prompt from the poetry workshop with Carlos Andres Gomez. The prompt is to look at the celebratory moment as if you are watching as a bystander in a different era. For reference, check the first poem in the writing prompt here: https://coffee-shop-sessions.com/2020/07/02/this-is-our-moment/