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Bewildered by blazing bridges
where friends played, then betrayed.
Is it him? Is it her? Or did I set the flame?
No need for alarm. The dead impart the best advice.
I turn to carillon sounds to heal.
Search for seasons that didn’t appear.
I appeal to the skies for need-less allies.
Reach for rare breezes before Mother Nature
liquefies. Calculating how many more poems,
when to turn to bamboo.
Let’s plan a party on Pluto.
Sit beside me on Charon—
we’ll reign the other moons.
Frigid skyscapes won’t penetrate our heat.
Ice volcanoes will spew fire.
We’ll picnic on heart-shaped Sputnik.
The dwarf planet will be ours.
We’ll tap the underground ocean—
take a dip or skate away, hidden in the earth’s shadow.
I find comfort in the darkness
of late-winter days.
Frozen mind and steps
slow me into prayer.
Window views coated in white.
Calls of the wild silenced.
Family and friends lost to icy caresses.
Travel at a standstill—embracing
journeys without winding paths.
As I walked down Montgomery Avenue
days after a snowstorm,
I stopped to look up at the sky—
dark blue patched with gray and white.
Clouds quickly formed an angel,
her head bowed, short wings distinct.
And a mini rainbow of orange, yellow, blue
lit up beside her.
I quickly captured the vision on my iPhone.
Bare trees and snow-dusted rooftops below.
When I moved on, looked back,
she was gone.
Some of us believe.
We are not lost or fallen.
I still worship at the altar
of my childhood church,
mesmerized by stained-glass windows,
a white marble altar, reveries of my mother,
rosaries in hand, at a front pew during one
of our wars. Crucifixion takes many forms.
In Milan, I prayed at Santa Maria presso San Celso,
a church populated by old ladies and young families.
I learned to recite the “Our Father” in Italian.
I am not ashamed—edgy, restless, sinning poet that I am.
I long lost faith in mortals; I trust in a Being in the Heavens
who forgives me for trespasses I commit. Over and over and over again.
The foxy wolf
forgot his cap
on the way to
And he didn’t see
the 16-hand horse
and rider galloping
through the woods
on a brilliant fall day
until they landed on him.
Destroying his lunch plans
and shredding his new clothes.
They christened each day after breakfast at the piano—
a group of blissful people singing and laughing.
I was on vacation in Santo Domingo with my sister,
cradling my heart at twenty-two after a failed affair.
Harboring little appetite, I was smoking Marlboro Reds,
drinking El Presidentes and losing money at Blackjack.
But the singing intrigued me, propped up low spirits.
Oh, they’re the Venezuelans said the hotel manager
as the spirited clan returned to their perch at Happy Hour.
Hard to conjure up those echoes of cheer when a nation,
a wildlife haven, land of tasty arepas and the grand Angel Falls,
today has people fleeing or waiting in twelve-hour lines for food,
bringing their own supplies to hospitals, starving for hope and joy.