El Soul Por La Window

One day looking at the hill outside my bay window

sipping coffee, my first cup

awed at how the bougainvillea grow

when the bush, like a green curtain, opens up.

The hill’s earth now exposed, an entryway appears

framed by the pretty pink flowers-ballerinas in the air

humming birds danced about. My heart hiccuped, eyes filled with tears

to look outside my window and see such flair.

Then into the center leaps a furry little creature

dark hair, blue-eyes, skin tan, slender as a fawn.

The branches bow down, birds chirp, leaves flutter around her

such reverence. Like bees to honey, I too am drawn.

I want to catch her.

I want to teach her.

I want to touch her.

She nibbles on the fruit fallen from its tree

sits on her haunches thigh muscles fibrous-rope

I kneel closer to the ground so she won’t see me

“Please stay, don’t get scared” I secretly hope.

Furry little creature, I take a step closer

feet delicate under squeaky boards

but her faithful, furry litte-er

creatures, look at me vigorous like boars

Her companions’ tails-linked

around her while she nibbled away in peace.

They orbited in her aura. She never blinked

they had her back, she was at ease.

Outside my window

looking out, framed

I feel framed, some sort of Romeo

tricked by your image. Our story, pained.

Realizing it was a trap

a little too late.

Furry little creature, have me in your grasp.

Why can’t this be fate?

The Last Poem

 Truchas, New Mexico. Look at that moon!

Sitting underneath the cauldron sky

Far away from home

Still the same sky

I take in the stars

Looking like busted Christmas lights.

I wish I may

I just might

Cast a spell tonight.

Take deep breaths

Truchas air stings my dry nostrils.

The moon leans over my shoulder

Immersed in her glow

I feel blessed,

Forgiven for my wrongs

My pen waves across the page

Cuts across the lines

It writes-

Not Queer, not Latina, not brown butch

Writes.

Not poet, not playwright, not fiction writer

Writes,  “Be a writer the way a mountain is a mountain

Even in darkness

It can’t hide its shape.”

My stories stir inside me

Truchas Peaks’ deep

No clouds in the sky to top the night

A breeze plays footsies with my toes

Rises and rattles my pages

More stars appear to the beat

Of crickets’ chirping.

Birds, dogs and the brush of my pen harmonize.

We all have something to say at the moon,

My guided confession

A howl lost in the night.

Natural world, you have won me over twice,

A guilt free escape

From my job, the traffic,

The “how was your day”, and feeding routines

I’ve come to bury my poem about writing.

Flowing fields wave at me like cheering fans

Enticing me to jump off this deck and crowd surf.

I write down my last dribble

Peel the pages out like burned flesh

Rip into pieces

Cup them in between my palms like a worry stone

Massage, soak in my writing

My work wilts in my grip.

I open my ink-smeared hands

Release my confession confetti

Pieces fall, wounded birds, to the ground

Get tangled in the fields

The rest scamper like tumbleweeds.

Residuum

Our father

who art in heaven…

Is that why you were never home?

Is that where you’ve been

all these years? In heaven?

Hollowed be my cries

valley of tears at night

alone wishing

you could bring us our daily bread.

Padre nuestro,

el cielo esta tan lejos

y nos cobija

pero me sentía fría.

Padre nuestro, estas en los cielos

y la casa vacía

fría como hielo.

Padre nuestro

who art in heaven

hallowed be thy name.

Efrain!

Am I really still mad at you

or just mad for this trope?

Hollowed cries

like bark

termites of fear

hollowed me out- canoe inside.

Me pongo fría

en los tiempos difíciles

dura, difícil de traspasar.

Must forgive your trespasses

really, forgive and move on.

Forgive myself for feeling 

like I wasn’t enough.

Forgive myself for walking around

with a chip on my shoulder

really, I  had a chipped shoulder

all that shrugging and sobbing.

I want to deliver me

to me, be full of grace

blessed be all the fruits of my womb.

Our father who are in heaven

do you listen to my prayers?

I rummaged through this shit

so damn much, time to bury

la pinche hacha

at your feet, pin my milagro

on your shirt wear it

a badge of honor- El perdonado.

Glory be to you father

as it was for me in the beginning

but my eyes were not turned

the right way to see…glory

is now and ever shall just be.

Just be.