222

Posted on February 25, 2011 by urbansonnets

My face is a palindrome when smiling;

it folds upon itself with a jagged grace,
a symmetry of feeling, beguiling
but aimed at the truth, looking at its face:
Two stems left in the crystal, green and strong,
holding bulbs, purple and blue, closed off from
their light of mutual reception; it's wrong,
but we learn our true rights playin' possum:
The blinds are closed now, but when divine hands
take off the blinders from the window's eyes,
these flowers will bloom as true reflections,
shedding colors for light – brilliant reprise:
Like fireworks on ice, twin souls will glow
in Paradise or Earth – reflections show.
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221

Posted on February 25, 2011 by urbansonnets

White roses and green, the watery vase,

a princess disguised as ordinary–
these set the scenes for my notions of place,
as I trace out the sketch of this story:
With green hills, and green reptiles in hiding,
except for their slitty black-yellow eyes,
my stage screams out with perilous lighting,
except the gleaming that signals surprise:
The actors drop their scripts, and the flowers
fall from the chalk-rock hands of the princess,
and the vase falls, and the Spirit sours–
too many eunuchs, not enough princes:
Until the warrior-sage walks as Word,
and dreams up new roses, fresh, undeterred.
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220

Posted on February 25, 2011 by urbansonnets

Let me be direct. I'll never lose hope

in that which my heart and mind know as true–
you could bind my hands together with rope,
and I'd still send fragrant flowers to you:
Each petal is a letter unsent;
the fragrance is the aura of healing
that I broadcast towards the heavens unbent,
like green stems grasping straight for the ceiling:
I sent a prickly thorn through the ether,
after which I will only send vibes
that will crawl like vines so as to wreath her,
I mean you, in your most maidenly clothes:
The waves will come back eventually;
I'll have faith in that fact so long that I be.
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219

Posted on February 24, 2011 by urbansonnets

I write with my fingers to keep out the

devil; my core pulsates to the tapped beat
of fingers on keys with malingering
ease, and I live inside through outer deaths:
This is just how it is, like natural
effects; like gas bubbles that disappear;
as you sip your aranciata, feral
kittens line up to see your face unpeel:
That ten percent juice went straight to your head,
which expanded by bubbles, thought itself
higher than organic functions, unsaid
after centuries of science and poor health:
And so these digits stay nimble despite
the unerring conviction of my sight.
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218

Posted on February 24, 2011 by urbansonnets

Before things mattered, down winding backstreets

I walked, and walked, and I lost and then found
the open way to blossoms white and sweet,
inviting the air to their creamy sound:
And I walked along walls and crossed bridges
and sang about freedom and love before
I truly knew of the bondage bridges
entail in their linkage of crust and core:
Between rich and poor, the gap is tiny;
it is practical in that practice splits
differences between the pale and shiny
faces of the heart where bright honor sits:
I sang on that bridge that I saw the light
in some kind of love that Sevillian night.
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217

Posted on February 23, 2011 by urbansonnets
Acceptance of everything, anything.

Anything goes in this world. Acceptance
of this fact is the purest life; Giving
and accepting, living through acceptance:
From this grows understanding, true peace,
divine wisdom springs forth as fresh knowledge
that always renews its Source, as the East
engenders each day across the line's edge:
I accept my failings, those of my peers,
of myself and my tyrants; great learning
sprouts from them all, like the eternal ground
giving, yielding, growing across the years:
Accepting the path, it will accept you
and push you forward towards what you must do.
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216

Posted on February 23, 2011 by urbansonnets

There's venom in the straw; don't blow it out

into the sleeping man's nose; he will sneeze,
and it will shoot into your mouth, no doubt
in response to your inadequacies:
Seriously, to plot and scheme ain't cool,
and the truth of the heart always sputters
forward like a hesitant hydrant's drool
before the current takes hold and mutters:
"There are noble minds and ignoble too;
there are happy times and times of sorrow,
but the good hearted flourish through and through,
while deficient souls perish tomorrow."
Of course, this is the water's sense of time;
the heart beats–whether good or bad–as rhyme.
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215

Posted on February 21, 2011 by urbansonnets

There's a temptation inside of your heart,

and a fragrance on the tip of your tongue
that smells rather musky; my ears do smart
as you speak in flowers already sung:
There's no mettle in your purplish petals,
though the vase that contains you is graceful
and clear, green gunk at the bottom settles
as I disappear from thoughts distasteful:
Emptiness or aggression: two routes to
nowhere, absolutely nowhere worthwhile;
so I choose the high path, and it doubts true
signs of madness and evil and the vile:
I'd call that faith, not in time or in man,
but rather in myself; I never ran.
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214

Posted on February 19, 2011 by urbansonnets

The ice is melting, but the chill remains

due to a lack of vestments on the frame
of a sullen man, torso swathed in chains,
olive skin and brown eyes with singular aim:
Walking past him last evening was a true trip,
and he looked up to acknowledge your aura
with a blank smile, sounding like a strip
of paper ripped from a moleskin sore:
To write is a wound abstracted as thought
and reapplied to a flesh outside of the flesh;
skin and bone make a man; skin and bone does get caught
on snags at times for want of caress:
His stigmata dorado revealed his true self
to lie inside his skin, his bone, his health.
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213

Posted on February 19, 2011 by urbansonnets

In the forest of failure, I burned a bush

and it spoke to me with ardent words:
"Move forward with grace, but don't ever forget
the abuses that broke your cords:
We are here with a purpose; yours is to see
the hidden agendas that wipe out hope
in those unaware of the tragic scope
of inherited weakness and misery:
You must seek out those landslides with your finger
and point them out, projected towards the sea
where deep salt water burns but wounds don't linger;
your mission in life is to help them get free.
You didn't fail this time; you just saw how hard
even good ones can fall when they fear accord.
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