Heres Estrella

More Stars than There are

Facing A Twilight Sky

Who placed this horrific Thorn
In my Bone and Flesh?!

Was it a Tough Teacher,
Who, through all harsh disciplining,
Still intends to Nourish—

Or, was it merely
An ill-wishing
Witch?
.
.
.

Wise Shamans kindly remind Us
To not think only in what Lacks,

But We mortals remain too Hungry
For our own Sakes—

Wisdom passed on,
Yet scantily We digest.

Oh the Irony, baby.
Are we Rocks
In this Fountain of Life,

Wet, but never to have
Drunken a true Share?
.
.
.

If it is too hard
To stay Awake,
May I at last humbly ask
Of thee—

My Love, my Kin,
my Eternal Mate, whomever
I think You are—

Could You please contemplate,
Inconveniently, this corny and overused Notion,

“Have you ever seen the Rain?” 

Well, Have You?
Have you heard its Forthcoming,
And allowed its Simple Rumor

To have Stirred you
Deep,
Deep inside?
.
.
.

Now,
Shall We Sit
Side by side, and Once More
Try to taste the Ocean
In this Raining Sky?

An Addict’s Contemplation

What is it like,
to Be
Tonically Alive—

While the Flowers
Remain abloom,

We find
Fleeting affirmations of

Our routinely
Maintained
Lies.

Take It to The Heart, Please

These days
Are of endless novelty,
Absurdly modern:
High profits for the ones
Who trick passion with
Morsels of jittery confections—
Fast melting, quickly expiring.
Highly. Profiting.

Age of sensational Spasm,
Locked behind which, a long dusty
Book of delayed shame,
Regretfully nostalgic.
We cannot perceive the reality
of how we arrived upon
This existential wilderness,

Whilst being too busy
Occupying our conscious,
Shunning The Truth;

Rather to take it all
Up the Ass—
Than to bite real Peaches,
Causing them to Gush,
To Spew and Bleed—

The Sticky Juice
of Act and Consequence,
Pleasure and Pain,
Dispute and Acceptance:

Will We Ever
Relearn to open up
that rusty chamber,
Neglectfully sealed in our Hearts,
and refill its long-emptied
Reservoir to the Brim
with True Essence and Blood?

Mute Ecstasies of Summer

Sitting under the courtyard shade,
a block of dimmed rectangular architectural space
lays mildly cool;

Outside its precisely defined borders,
The sun seemed to have dyed everything
a bleached orange.

Waves of incessant breeze;
although felt in this unintended shelter, still carried
faint streaks of outside’s ubiquitous, gradually maturing
rolling heat. 

Once more, the summer winds carry us—
some of whom have either been much too weary,
or others having regretfully
not been weary at all—

Into an apparently constant state
of pulsating
yet nonchalant dreaming. 

 

For Our Soft Wrists and Brittle Faces

How cruelly did Youth
Dare us to dream so frivolously,
That every burger we flipped,
Every broom we pushed—
Every petty tip waged to our once
Or still hungry pockets,

Dimmed our Brilliance into
Barely containable and feigned
Smiles, veiled behind which lay
Heaps of deferred aspirations?

And are We so hypnotized to confide
In this modern, fast-forward dreaming,
That the weight of Hammer
and Chisel became too much to bear,
Too much of  a nuisance,
Unwilling burden
For our unwieldy wrists?

Or is it simply too much a shame
For our extensively kept faces?

.

Long ago, in a pre-man age
Championed by the gods and creators
Who lived under cosmic rifts and divides,

Among them, a tiny yet miraculous notion
Was suddenly conceived—
Like the cataclysm bringing forth
An all new Philosophy and Faith—

A race of thinking, civilized, even
Highly intellectual beings
Whose core conviction sang: 

“We are born to Dream,
To Work, and Sweat
Not as obligated labor,
But as Our birthright 
To keep our too often wandering
Souls Pure and Intact!”

.

We now sit in wonder,

“Who were They?
A People who proclaimed themselves
Through endless Shame
And its complementary Glory,
Mankind? ”

 

American Gothic: Part 2

Work

 

“I can change,
I can change,
  I can change—

If it helps you 

to Fall in Love.”

 

 

so help me God

when I was just a boy,
I thought I’d live and die
exhorting goodness, being through and through,
a protector of Innocence.

but as just a man,
I find myself losing Faith
in this world of sin—
promises of my crusader days
empty or broken.

now, I pray that I die not
having only been a hypocrite,
swinging like a hopeless pendulum
between self-destruct
and usurping.

Amen.

Something to Look Forward to

AD04D591-4F22-4EF2-AD78-28F526A6A531

Spring is surely a most wonderous time of the year, but it is not a cliché comprised of magical healing, nor does it promise total restoration of all that’s wrong with ourselves and the world around us. One could stand amidst sceneries breath-takingly beautiful, and still be haunted by inner shadows convincing him/herself that nothing is alright, that there has been too much wrong for glimpses of hope to realize into change or mending actions. However, if one chooses to see in symbols, drawing connections between observed physicality and metaphysical connotations, then a natural phenomenon like The Spring has much to offer: look at the Dandelion, never planted with intention, even conventionally seen as a pest, a weed that besmirches the neatness of civilized gardens; yet without any positive expectations, they flourish nearly everywhere, scattering on the sidewalks, swaying underneath interstate speedways, and sprouting in the middle church yards (as shown in photograph)—embodying bundles of wishes, waiting for the eventual breeze make them come true. Now think of us, how similar some of our lives may resemble that of the Dandelion—outwardly without deliberate meaning: we don’t know why we are here, or what is expected us on a grand scheme. We are scattered upon our Earth to germinate all over the place like the Dandelions. But does this  mean we ought not to bloom like them and erect our individual bouquets of dreams and ideals out of the soil beneath? Should we do so regardless of how undesirable or lost we think we are? The Dandelions do…then as their not overly distant relatives on this Earth, could we learn to live more as they do? Make a sincere wish for yourselves this year, and send its silky winged seeds sky-bound—may it germinate and sprout into existence when Spring returns again. 

Spring Forgives

Spring was late to smile upon us this year—Her sweetness felt shorter than usual, yet it was just as reassuring as the all the eternal Hope that She embodies. We shall take in full Gratitude what Grace, regardless of how ephemeral,  that She has kindly imparted upon all of us—whether we opened our sleeping eyes to See or not.