Spring Carnival

Oh the feel of the vernal air!
April arrives like a carnival
Of living aromas and colors,
With parades of blossoms
Riding the sun-soaked breeze.
As we dive into the fertile green,
Their cool caress against our feet,
We hear daffodils laughing
Softly, like when breath tickles your ear.
Wish you were here.

Pieces of Me

Some were left behind like the ones smeared on
backs of teachers' heavy hands in autumn.
Some where lost like the ones in red petals
of those tulips risen among the rocks,
my childhood springs in the construction sites.
And between cars beneath mulberry trees
lining the back alleys, in the presence
of us all playing ball in late July.
In Panchatantra, and Jules Verne's fancies,
in goodnight kisses every single night….
But now I stand a  porous skin only
wrapped around absence that festers and spreads
a nameless disease that tears through the past.

Sitting and Standing

My spine falters again.
Whose orders I obey?
Must I of all people
hold up here, these heavens?
My lungs against them too,
Struggling, swell, then fall.
My breath's chased down a maze
Where flesh contorts and aches,
Where echoed sighs are felt,
Escaping bony caves.

If sitting drains me so,
Perhaps I need to stand.
Should standing feel the same,
Might help this man to know
One day the struggle may,
Despite incessant doubts,
In time with grit and faith
That spring from love within,
Sustained by that without,
Let true acceptance in.

In the Snow

In the spring why
must we die?
I think
we were made
out of snow.
Moments preserved
in every flake
of every mold.

Memories melt.
Insensitive sun.
In the slush
sinking....Who's who
in the ocean?
I'm palpable me
A frozen smile
in the snow.

Rain

The rain must pour, the windows fogged; 
The gurgling cyclone spits and gongs
inside the bone-spring of acid 
where mucus seesaws up and down

The selfsame fountain feeds my eyes 
Aboil as conscience of a saint; 
or fish soup that prolongs the strain 
of homeless underneath the rain. 

400mm, Jun 1st , Across from McDonalds on Main

On the dash of a
spring-green garbage truck a well
used baby mitten.

Lips of Honey

Your lips 'gainst mine, they're
lumps of clotted spring honey. 
Of a stinger bee.