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Monday, April 11, 2011

No One

No one
to love me

No one
to hold me
to skin.

No one
to show me
the meaning
of love.

No one
to know me,
my trust.

These are the fears
that haunt me at night,
cold, naked demons
not afraid of light.

These are the thoughts,
one hundred years old,
bubbling in my cracked pot,
leaching life from my soul.

No one
to mend me
when I am

No one
to defend me
when I am

No one
to Shine
a love light
on me.

No one
to pine
when life
I leave.

These are the demons
that speak to me at night,
cold, naked fears
not afraid of light.

These are my secrets,
one thousand years old,
growing in my sore spot,
stealing sun from my soul.

© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2012

Friday, April 08, 2011

Bob Seger Said It

Life is a series of
calculated compromises,
uninformed choices,
and terrifying crises.

Navigating unknowns
and savoring vices,
stark disappointments
and pleasant suprises.

Bob Seger said it,
I no longer regret it,
"those are the memories that
make me a wealthy soul."

Love is a mystery
without any heroes,
a storybook history
of losers and zeroes.

Marriage catastrophes,
and divorce court dramas,
deadbeat dastardlies,
scheming baby mamas.

Bob Seger said it,
I finally get it,
"those are the memories that
make me a wealthy soul."

Death is involuntarily engaging
the emergent process of aging,
and walking steadfast into sorrow,
averting eyes from a final tomorrow.

A series of illness and healings,
of perpetual burning and peelings,
until the skin of our soul breaks,
rendering death no longer opaque.

Bob Seger said it,
I no longer dread it,
"these were the memories that
made me a wealthy soul."

© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2012

Monday, April 04, 2011

A Father's Heart

How like broken glass,
a father's heart, a father's love
ground underfoot until it has
turned into shards, turned into dust,
leaving only gritty remains
blown into the eyes of
unsuspecting strangers.

How like a hummingbird wing,
the laughter of children,
the patter of small feet,
beating as fiercely as
a father's heart
as they run away with time
in a thousand different directions,
leaving only empty spaces
inside a life once filled
with only their concerns.

How like a sacred story,
the tears of the father
whose prodigal son goes seeking
in a world of wrong turns and vices,
whose only daughter goes weeping
in a world that holds no new surprises
for a parent who has contended with
all of its evil and tempting ways.

A father's heart,
a father's love,
as certain as the morning sun,
still as vanquished as the light
by every certain turn
of the world on its axis,
by every passing of the day
into ever encroaching night.

© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2012