Tag: Poet

How I Became A Poet

  Back in 2009, I stood inside my home, no longer Holding a brilliant job, Humbled by the sheer mastery Of how fate can work magic against you. And from inside my well, I drew a bucketful Of an ingredient, not found in my bucket list. It was just an arrangement of words That loomed

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To Neruda

There have been more winners, of Miss World and Miss Universe, From South America, than anywhere else in the world.  The beauty of the mixed-breed women, How genes painted over indigenous skin, And a man, who now lives inside a grave, Transforming paint into words. How inner beauty pollutes the poetic sense, Of how radiant

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Metamorphosis

The dreamy moment of Worlds and Worldsworth The daffodils, the narcissists, a mirror’s birth How proud the child who drills a poem’s nail How the earliest dawn, is a wishing well pail How the tallest sky, the eagle’s lair How the bluest ocean, the jellyfish’s prayer, How the child, the poetic eye, the third periscope,

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Making Up Sex

We are flawed, beyond repair We hold a goddess and complain how She has a little bump of flesh on her thighs And how the water is shallow in her heart-well. Still we look at her virtues, the insensibilities As mind canvases become masterpiece realities. When the wretched heart becomes a prince. Yet we say

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Underwear

I look at myself in the mirror, clad in loin cloth What we call underwear, and I see a large bronze man Who wants a little less fat and a little more bat in a perfect world. I’m not perfect. For once, I don’t wear my undies on the outside I’m not a super hero

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