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The only voice I have left

is to read you a love poem

assuaging like waves

caressing our shoulders

with the light of a sunset

and if you are far from the water

look at the mountain ridge

bathed in yellow and orange and green

I live with rabbits

owls serenade me at night

when the full moon 

makes all the stars envious 

I think of all the love we made

and the tall grasses 

I whisper pomegranates 

and divulge the very lips 

that services your smile

nothing is left to touch

if not loved

such a simple word, love

the very nectar of everything 

worth living for

trees whales harmonic resonances

conquats peaches roses

the only voice I have left...

Ten years ago poems- May 27th, 6:31 pm 2014, Half moon bay

Flowers in the gardens of hell

Thorny budless 

hybrid rosebush 

figless fig trees

bald apricots

no grapes

no olives

rotten purple jasmine

night blooming kumquats 

poppy seedless 

odorless lavender

Magnolias negras

amapolas heridas

weak orchids

opaque hyacinths

no bees flowers

flores sans picaflor-colibri

gardens sin ballenas

and delfines

no leatherback turtles 

in this garden

just choking seaweed

voracious kelp

carnivorous flowers

with poisonous stems

dangerous pistils

toxic chlorophyll 

burnt flowers garden

garden nero

bloody red

stinky garden

garden sin birds

garden full of scream 

and snails

flores de mal-ojo

evil eye flowers

flowers without lips

kissless flowers

garden sin musique

deaf gardens

mute

gardens blind

cold fires garden

fires without light

the fires of hell

scorched flowers

ash flowers

stone flowers 

dead flowers

in the gardens of Gaza

April 2nd

2024

--de aquí--

Se va chiquito
de minúscula

poquita pala

pisando ligero

sin caniones 

ni perdices en vuelo

garrapateado a este mundo

girando millas por segundo

sin mareo

con marea y luna

hacer callado

practicando con pacienza de nubes

pues me gustas tanto

tus ojos: un suspiro

tu boquita: pura miel

y tus caderas: nena!

a sottovoce 

al milagro de corazones

fierro a la codicia

y a los avaros 

desterrarlos al desierto

a la infértil planicie

a bosques callados

a sierras oscuras

donde poca luz visita

"os debéis iros de aquí"

dejad este manantial puro

sin la mano sucia del hombre..

versos de agua

poesía pájara

infinitos los besos

y más alegría!

--from here--

To go small

of lowercase 

little shoveling

without cannons  

nor flying partridges

stuck to this world 

going around at miles per second

not getting dizzy

with tide and moon

to make in silence

practice with the patience of clouds

because I like you so!

your eyes: a sigh

your little mouth: pure honey

and baby: your hips!

a sottovoce

to the miracle of hearts

hot irons to greed

the miserly exiled to the desert

to infertile plains

to silent woods

dark sierras 

where little light visits

"thou shalt leave thy place"

get away from this pure manantial 

untouched by men's dirty hands...

stanzas of water 

bird poetry

infinite kisses

and more joy! 

May 14th

my birthday again

martedi 

2024

a la p.m.

Count me in, lucky I 

Adonis, Nike, Zeus 

Gifted by the gods

touched by goddesses  

we were there

in a Brahma's dream

awoken by the sea

molded by lava

fragrant like a rose

in Rumi's garden

and we slept together

in a bed of flowers

petals soft as cotton

thorns absent 

the dew of morning rainbows

entwined our multiple legs

fingers grew long

into our hairs

it all happened 

and continues unraveling 

traveling in comet's tails

singing the music of the spheres

Is it you or is it me

radiant summit 

waterfalls

hummingbirds 

the very nectar of the date palm

the foliage of your brows

shades my desires

I laugh at the acquisition 

of more touching

more kisses

more resplendent light

reflected in your eyes

as the sun sets

over our shoulders

Atlas hold us on

together

Bajo el mar se encuentran,  ahogados, 

todos los besos que no te di

La culpa no es de nadie

la marea caprichosa 

no llego a recibirnos

Yo me fui despues de la luna,

tu, tu ya te habias ido,

mojado tu pelo 

como si hubiera llovido

No hay mas por hacer que  soñar,

soñar con flores y otros momentos,

soñar con nuestros cuerpos salpicados de besos, 

de la memoria de ancestros,

de tantas cosas lindas, escuelas y baldíos,

y el ladrar de perros callejeros

de cuando fuimos niños

Under the sea rest, drowned, 

all the kisses I did not give you

Nobody's faul but disencounter, 

the tide, capriciously , did not receive us

I left after the moon, you,

you have been gone already

your hair wet as if rained

Nothing left to do but dream

dream with flowers and other moments

dream of our bodies splashed with kisses 

the memory of ancestors

so many beautiful things

schools and dry marshes

the bark of stray dogs

as when we were kids

In many nights like this

when sleep is erring

and the waves keep me awake,

close to the shore they sound angry

but at a distance there are cooing me 

and although failing to make me dream

they tenderly blow mist of whale's breath my way

then, as the fog horn sings its mermaid song

and the owl joins 

I remember my evening walk by the beach at sunset

how lucky those mothers I saw

with their kids flying late kites 

on a sky full of birds

from where the only thing that falls

are autumn leaves

how lucky I am even if sleep does not come tonight

it is only because this peace and the stars

are too good to miss

the pleasure of seeing you 

by my side and hear you resting

my feet touching yours

your hair over the pillow

a bit stranded 

there is a peace on these nights

all people should witness

and lovers share, even when one is asleep 

and the other writing these...

Ha!, I "ve found the perfect rest

Ha! the chair in the right position

the room the rabbits the waves

my feet up, inhaling 

door opened to the sky, the field, the ocean 

the cypress tree and the birds

Ha! it doesn't end there...

Ha! exclamation snap of fingers

zapateo palmas, exhale

a: ha! moment 

solo y a sottovoce

alas: "el viento, acariciándome,

medita conmigo."

Friday May 3rd

almost 62 years old

(working on my posthumous poetry anthology...)

Half Moon Bay, California.

2024

February first and doppo morire

or vedere Roma.

Work at what, writing a poem ?

Never!

Writing poetry should be a paseo,

a stroll in the park, a deer park

full of Bodhi trees .

Candy poem

con candela

and camaraderie.

Poemas de cafe.

Poemas en Sausalito.

North Beach poems.

Big Sur poems.

Tangiers.

Venice.

Istanbul.

Bahia.

Half moon bay

Este febrero volvere un poco

a esa lengua espaniola

que me vio nacer.

Mauro.

feb. 1st .

UNO

XX XX

CONVEX OR CONCAVE

El amor sacro o el amor profano?

That is the question.

Tell your story, convex or concave?

So many questions

and it is just Monday.

Rain in the horizon

wind right behind it

The moon content

Jupiter quiet

and Venus in heat,

good winter heat

The rock rose bush thriving

in the greenhouse

All houses should be green

all roofs must leak

a little bit

All fences rot,

walls collapse,

have we not learned "any"...

Every year has its winter

and every four years a storm.

But what will the future be,

will it be concave:

                             receiving, amalgamation,

                             recruiting, accepting,

                             recovering...

Or will it be convex:

  exporting, denying,

  declining,

  embarging, molestation

Mauro

Monday
Feb 1st of the lunar calendar

Not 2021.

Like perfect pitch

the rose is a rose

rare ability to give scent

without reference

The sum of all being

actual and potential

the jasmine entwined 

wrapped around sentences 

Like perfect perspective

to see Turner's paintings

under the London fog

clear eyes

A "Mozarted" poem

written in a whim 

casual as a caged bird

singing

Arriving at the syntactic 

summit

with out laborious

climbing

Deaf to the rules

as Beethoven

and yet writing loudly 

But of course 

we have few Bachs

in literature

Is there a thing

as perfect grammatic craft

Will merit reward 

the hard at work

or the hardly working

I dont want to over do it

spoiling the vastness

of this short little present moment 

looking for words to describe a flower' scent

Of course one can not write for everybody

the whole of academia passing by

thru a window going fast on a bus

and you are not there riding it

Nor here nor there

occupied with the maintenance 

of the magnetic world and other daily minutiae 

nostril hairs ear wax

swimming with dolphins

praising and praying

in contradictory tides

For you to say : work at it

if you want to get good 

and me responding : the rose committed to being a rose

                                  has the scent to prove it !

Mauro

Feb.segundo.

In-between Poem.

numero uno.

Secede! time to go sailing
  

to new horizons,
 

 get the boats ready
  

let’s  aim for warm places.
  
  

Away from this insanity,
  

but wait... wait...
  

we are not going anywhere
  

we want them to go!
  

  In my book you are out,


  I am staying 
  

and making this union
  

all over again.

  

We will burn the old constitution 
  and replace all senators and congress men and women
  

and jail  some with supreme court judges and lawyers.
  
  

EXHALE.
  

We survived Monica,
  

we can survive this apprentice.
  

The joker sits at the white house
  but only does that, 

sits and eat peanuts
  

and talks golfing and sport fishing ...
  
  Let’s  have compassion
  

for this retarded narcissist

  homophobic racist mother fucker...
  

as history brakes apart 
  

this fervent union.
  

Secede California !
  
  

Mauro
  Feb. tres
  XX XX

I watched the sun set today
over the glorious Pacific,
the waves rolling perfectly,
parents walking their kids,
bikers, surfers, birds.
The sky Cezanne blue.
The light, Van Gogh



Hard to think that

in this beautiful

and industrious land
all is not well.


Things happen

in a particular time.
All deposited love
is in a crisis

no finance's wizard can resolve.


There is interest
sticking again

in the cumulative mud
of discontent
The fear

that feeds the anger,
sells



All is not well
The makers of faith and regulations,
from the podium of the senate

to the altars of temples,
insist in making us believe

we are better than what we really demonstrate

with our actions


From the sanctum of social media
far away in the south Pacific

the Titans rule: be heard, or not



All is not well
because friends are missing

the hugs of friends,
and the friendly kissing
and the things we did
when we were free

Are we really that late...?

Have we crossed the Mississippi?

Has the milk of our way soured?

I will not leave you with catastrophe,

but with music and champagne

I will end this poem with a song

I will end this poem

with the word: "song"

and the words of a song 

          that sings: Aauuummmmmmmerica

Mauro

jan 17th

3 days to the 20th.

Forza!