Re; Poets ; Casino Spanish Eyes

RE; Poets

Someone once dared me to explain Poets and Poetry,
And I simply replied that it was a reflection of me-
For I think that people are blind to the very things they see
And in my words they can discover what I aspire to be-
I can take the time to craft them a picture,
Build them a city, experience an adventure -
For there's a certain power in trying to relate
my causal experiences in regards to my fate-

So-

They now know my thoughts, what I choose to pen
A carefully constructed facade, in a truthful, youthful blend
Open hearts given a start will break apart into words of art,
And all these beautiful things, will end.

However, the end doesn't mean that there won't be a beginning,
There's no falsehood in wonder, questioning isn't sinning.
Poets are the explorers, the builders with words,
They explore the condition, through adjectives and verbs-
They give chase to the worlds flights of fancy,
They are the ones who dream of romancing -But why are we so often, not heard?

Casino Spanish Eyes

This man; His heart was close to frozen
And forever ached for time to thaw it.
He had worked on his warmth-wont wall
So that no-one could ever hurt him.

His eyes had turned to crystallized ice
Reflecting nothing in their brilliant blue
Betraying nothing but false emotion
To everyone whom he knew.

His hands held the kinds of worried warmth
Known to men who were short on time,
As if life was merely granted, not given
And could be taken at proper sign.

So he slowly started to lose himself
In the wild winters of an improper world,
Growing numb to others troubles,
But then he met the girl -

-

And she beautifully betrayed him,
So his walls were brought back in force.
To never again let the sunlight in,
To never let emotion beget remorse.

El verano siguio el invierno,
el hielo se empezo a descongelar.
En el agua, encontraron amor-
y ahi es que se perdio todo

Return to Poetry

A stranger?...no, a friend, a foe?

He takes a courteous bow tipping his hat to his toe

"Hello my good friend, it has certainly been a while"

He greets me gracefully, I'm lured by his provocative smile

I notice this familiar face, I've been to this intimate place

Enticing the felling inside, to come from the depths they have begun to reside...

A name comes to mind, and before I can make the statement...

"Welcome to "POETRY" please enjoy it, embrace it!"

For Alex's 21'st

In life there are many winding roads

Which when approached, seem to give

No clue as to what's behind the bends-

We call this confusion - Youth.

As we grow, the roads seem to mold

Themselves into the "Straight and Narrow"

But you can always find someplace new

If you have the courage to continue and

Although things may seem confusing so

You worry about whats behind the bends,

Remember that a path can handle a few

The other willing being - Your friends.

So -

To where life takes us!

To a fate of becoming Men!

For honor, good hugs, the power of love,

To tackling those twisty bends!

From the Majesty of the Morning Sun,

Till the Evening Star greets our Glorious Ends!

For Stars and Flight, Infusing Light,

To our Fatalistic Forever -

To Friends!

Where is everyone....?

Whomever has time, please contact me to let me know what's your status is. 914-406-0844.


Peace, Love, and Words

Aaron

End of Summer Event

Hey all, I'm still trying to get together an open mic in downtown New Ro. Is everyone interested still? Tinisha, Nicole, Earl, how've you guys been? What's your status? Is there a phone number I can reach you all at? I've lost my phone and I need new numbers. Nicole, are you still busy with your internship? I can't seem to get ahold of you - Respond to calls! :( Nobody likes being in the dark :(. Tinisha! I will be looking you up on FB shortly, let me know what's going on with you! Earl, you're mia like a mofo. What's the deal bro? Paulo! Enjoy Africa :D See if you can find some inspiration and put something on the site!

Peace, Love, and Words

Aaron

Today I Dreamt A Word

Today I dreamt a magic word
And conjured it into being-
Then set about showing the world
That it contained some meaning.
To flustered ears, the dismal cry
Of Nonsense captured thoughts,
Breaking syntax and doubtful sighs
To change what they'd been taught.
But they couldn't learn, had no avail
And simply couldn't comprehend
That the source of language's travail
Is what the imagination portends.

To Everyone

My phone is broken and I don't know if I'm going to be able to save the numbers. Could all of you post your phone numbers so I can save/readd them to my new phone? Also, can you guys let me know what you're doing/what you're schedule is like so I can try and get this open mic thing going on?

Stay cool

Hey Folks

Hey guys, we might be organizing an Open Mic at Kaffeine in downtown New Rochelle. Let me know what you guys think etc etc. Meeting soon. Answer Phones!

I write to take refuge from my accent.
I am told that there is content in the edges of my sound, and history in my pupils.
But you can only know me here, alone, I am accentless, I can not dance or sing or articulate my flesh-
Better to be the lake beneath your curious eyes, silently hearing your soul.
Better to be the silence that we've never known exists.

If you want to see me properly, you must know that I do not exist; you have projected this content onto my flesh.
you have sprinkled my aparation with fairy dust, my beauty is an illusion-
I am just a joint and limb, startled by movement.

The color of my hair is up for interpretation, please do not love me for a freckle of a difference from any moving body, I am the same but to myself.
If you want me, be it only because I am a blinking consciousness like the dumb owl.
Do not disrupt me not talking, I am being my soul. See me like you see yourself, unrelated to characteristic, on a mountain above a fog; I am the pool of your reflection, see me only to see you.

And if you see me cry, do not worry your mind that I too must suffer humanity-
When I die, my tears will become the literature never to be heard.

City Drive

There's a certain kind of simulated nostalgia for me when driving the night-struck roads of Mid-Town. The evening air is as cool as the city is impassive, and both contrasted by the bright-fire neons and oil-slick refraction of a million unimportant lights. The metropolis creates a clockwork chaos that gives meaning to the fusion between a man and a machine.
The cars name is Vesper. It's a female name, yes, because she is my beautiful partner. I understand it means "Evening Star". Her electric yellow exterior adds another spot of light the the uninterrupted flow of mechanical luminescence that is The City.
But this light, is mine.
Along the worn ways of the FDR a sudden turn looms into view, and I give my life to her. At speed, any miscalculation will end in an extinguished flare. A quick motion with my left foot and right hand and she realizes whats going on, sheds her speed. Hanging idly, she waits. I put my right foot down and hear her purr. She grabs the ground, trusting me. She feels it like I do. The left foot comes up as the right hand moves again. Then I feel a smooth pull as she responds to my ministrations and takes us through. The broken concrete wall is a few scant inches away, and its the difference between blind faith and a trusting love.
She settles back into her groove, and I settle back into simple feeling. The stereo is illuminated by a shaft of of soft and simple light from a full moon. The speakers give a smooth hum, a blend of retro-synthetic jazz and a saxophone melding into the evening air and bright city lights; together easing all my troubled thoughts under a canopy of un-seeable stars and ever increasing shadow-chasing shine.
There's no room here anymore, under this substitute starlight, for things that aren't progress. Is it a shame, that the joy an unimportant man experiences here is the personification of a construct? The feelings are real though. I can hear her respond any time I want. No longer are we separate from what we create. If all these lights went out tonight tomorrow morning would be all fire and brimstone, the afternoon would be every man for himself, and that night would be the first time someone sees a clear night sky. Is the trade between man and machine even? It would seem so with all our dependence, but I wash her, I wax her. If she's sick, I take her to have problems fixed. And so it is with everything. Like these night bright highways all is communal, all is merging, and all is forward motion.
Maybe that's why there is something beautifully basic and pleasing in taking a city drive. The night is forever young, reborn every singe day, but we are not. Time moves forward, as do society and technology. So in taking the time to appreciate this fusion that we will never be able to avoid, this progress, maybe we can learn to appreciate ourselves. It's simple forward motion.

Check this out. Its an excerpt from my favorite existentialist writer. I'm in the midst of what is supposed to be a 6 page research paper in spanish about him, but with this one poem alone, I could write hundreds....I don't know how to limit my opinion about him to these six pages when this man translates my soul to literature....

"Análise"

"The idea of your being is so abstract to me
That when I look at you and entertain
My eyes with yours, I lose sight of you,
And nothing remains in my gaze, and
Your body moves so far from my sight,
Yet the idea of you is so close
To my intent to look at you, and just knowing
That you are, just by being
Conscious of you, I no longer feel myself.
And thus, by being unaware of seeing you, I feign
The illusion of sensation, and I dream,
Not seeing you, nor seeing, nor knowing
That I see you, or even that I am, smiling
From an inner blue twilight
In which I feel that I dream that which I feel myself being.
From the dream and little of life."

-Fernando Pessoa

After Rehersal

Melancholy; weighty and drenched limbs thrown to and fro and the meat of my muscle is dry off the bone.
I'm tired.
Trips to the moon driven by rocket fuel and the phenomenon is dilated with beaureaucratic paper work. Believe it. Because the taste buds of my soul haven’t been tickled in years and we are annoyed by your minstrel show. Remember me, but baby please forget my fate.

Photos from Don Giovanni

Hey guys,
I don't have the audio clip as of yet, I'll add it when I get it from my Uncle, but here are some pics from the last show that my uncle took:

the deepest kind of blues

The hardest thing
For my heart to fathom
Is the death of my own dream.
It lives too near to the heartbeat
And strikes so many nerves
You almost forget the thought and organ
Are distinct.
I am unsure why the loss of the
Intangible
Brings such physical hurt to my eyes
as if the connection
Between body and mind were fluidly
intertwined-
You’d think I’d have brought it to
Fruition a long time ago.
In this death
I am reminded I am still alive,
The blood continues to pump,
Only unlaced from the substance that was my dream.
Sometime, without that image
(or with it minus the faith)
I wonder who am I
And readjust my desire
And live so it can die
But the sadness of the loss
Is that its never really true
The manifestation of the death
Never really occurs
You hold on to the image…

But knowing
That one day you will
walk hand in hand with a lover
into the cemetery of dreams
and plant a rose,
is an overrated appeasement,
for the mind can only grasp
one heartache at a time.

And knowing
That every sunset
Gives birth to a dawn
Is also to infinite an emotion
To be felt.

‘Less John Coltrane
came back from the dead
and laced that lovely resolution
with the deepest kind of blues.

Why is it that whether everything is nothing, or nothing is everything, is a function of our thoughts? Doesn't the world stand as its own entity and not as the shadow of our philosophies? Maybe not. I would not know because I am not separate from my consciousness. The world is always tainted by my reality. It doesn't matter whether up is down or down is up, it depends which way I'm walking. Is it some kind of extreme individualism that weighs down our senses or is it that everything is a collage of images that we have already painted. Back when there were things that were new, were these concepts tiny births into a growing "universe?"(I put it in quotes because the word upsets me) Or are they the echos of parralel worlds and minds? They say that inventions all often spark up in places around the world at about the same time. But maybe that's just because of our technological and cultural connections...

Today i feel like the moderate choice inbetween everything and nothing. I am my physical characteristics, my personality, and my history I suppose(unless the past is something that disappears after you use it) but I am also a torrent of emotions, dreams, beliefs, fantasies and ambitions. I feel them, but none of them exist. I am a factory of emotions that is only distributed throughout my reality. When i feel pain, it is nothing to the world. Moreover, there is not proof. I can stare at these white walls or I can stare into my fantasies, it wouldn't make a difference; the concrete and the abstract coincide in our lives. I can take myself out of every concrete fact in an existential moment and fly to every star I've never known. I don't know what color the castles in Scotland are painted or the Amazon in Brazil, but I have been there many times; and laughed and loved and lived. I figure this life is a challenge to the molasses in my brains that wants to root my feet to a dream. But if the world is a shadow of our thoughts, then the challenge is no challenge at all. All I have is confidence to paint the skies where everything and nothing collide. All I know is that:
"El mundo es tan azul como una naranja"-The world is as blue as an orange(Marcos)

In the Middle of a Stream on a Rock

Not one for idle looks, I, myself betook
To linking fine fancy onto fancy.
Through the rushing, bubbling brook,
I pondered questions, and answers sook-
Though the position precarious, and the deed so very chancy.

Mercy

Mercy
love mocks me and I laugh at its jokes
it is the only comedian and magician that can sell me the same act.
Every time, I pay the same price for a show I've seen before
I can sit through the same movie and still cry at the scene where she walks out the door.
It shows no mercy, even when you are clearly defeated and can take no more.
tell me I don't have a role In your dreams and put my mind at ease from the constant thought of you.
tell me that when you hear my name your heart doesn’t smile,

then mine will forget yours

tell me you can't see your soul through my eyes and that our fates are just coincidence

and I will abandon the concept of destiny and the belief of a soul.

tell me love has never been our religion and that we haven't used our minds as a temple,

and I will no longer be a monk of love, instead I'll find more comfort in being an atheist.

Tell me I'm not the sunshine in your paradise and you will destroy mine,

the harsh reality of your words will leave no room for sublime imaginations or fantasies conjured by you.
Love has in seemingly sadistic manner given me the ability to find peace in loving you. Yet in a beautiful contradiction, it makes me withstand a torture by not letting me have you as a lover.
I am a prisoner with the key to his cell
(blinded to the key hole with magic by love)
it's making me pay for a gift.
Blessed me with a curse.

Given me strength as a weakness,
pain as happiness, certainty with doubt.

I’m drained to the last of my resources,
no more artillery, no other defense, and the begging white flag of my ignored surrender, bandages my beaten heart.

How much longer must I withstand?....

.....give me mercy...

Paintings

Once, I tried to paint a picture of you,
With words. It didn't work.
Somehow my colors didn't reflect your light
In just the way I wanted.
Frustrated, I tried again to master my brush
And set it to it's task,
But forcing it only marred the picture,
And that - I couldn't have.
I finally had to tell myself that I had tried
To bridge two worlds.
For my hued words were but your simile,
My painting - Your doomed metaphor.

Remembering

Remembering,
it was the not knowing
and the tears that made me a poet.
I reminisce about my passive voice
that claimed all pains
and joys absolute,
alloting each emotion its century of existence.
It was my incorrect grammar
and my ability to love
and know what love was even inside
the black hole of my identity
that allowed my naked soul
to translate itself to verse-
And God would speak through
divine cracks in my rhythm.
It seemed that ruins derived the truths
of my infinite subtleties,
and my sadness was the dark matter
that kept the stars in place.

I am an African

A poem I loved by this poet Wayne Visser from South Africa. My friend recited it at this African Art gallery over here, I thought u might like it Paulo!
Happy black history month!


I am an African
Not because I was born there
But because my heart beats with Africa’s
I am an African
Not because my skin is black
But because my mind is engaged by Africa
I am an African
Not because I live on its soil
But because my soul is at home in Africa

When Africa weeps for her children
My cheeks are stained with tears
When Africa honours her elders
My head is bowed in respect
When Africa mourns for her victims
My hands are joined in prayer
When Africa celebrates her triumphs
My feet are alive with dancing

I am an African
For her blue skies take my breath away
And my hope for the future is bright
I am an African
For her people greet me as family
And teach me the meaning of community
I am an African
For her wildness quenches my spirit
And brings me closer to the source of life

When the music of Africa beats in the wind
My blood pulses to its rhythm
And I become the essence of music
When the colours of Africa dazzle in the sun
My senses drink in its rainbow
And I become the palette of nature
When the stories of Africa echo round the fire
My feet walk in its pathways
And I become the footprints of history

I am an African
Because she is the cradle of our birth
And nurtures an ancient wisdom
I am an African
Because she lives in the world’s shadow
And bursts with a radiant luminosity
I am an African
Because she is the land of tomorrow
And I recognise her gifts as sacred

Love and me are Different-A Vday special

Love and me are different.
Because my tolerance has limits
Where love knows none.
When my hands and soul and heart and strength and feet and mind are done,
Love has just begun.
I have expectations, practical considerations-outlines of the ways I want to act out my every day,
But Love just sits around and blows all her plans away.
She’s careless as the wind,
as silly as the squirrel
And if I’d have to judge her, I’d say she wanted the whole world.

I think and plan a future
Love holds on to the past
I slowly make decisions
She throws herself too fast
I teach her moderation
She spits it in my face
I wipe away my hatred
She laughs at my disgrace.
She steals all my lovers
And puts them in her dreams
So I wake up alone
And she goes back to sleep.

Yes, love and I are different.
Though I need house and food
She can sustain herself
upon my mental residue.
No kind of stormy whether
Can at all affect her mood
If I were to die of hunger
It would take her seven days
Before she knew.
Love stays up too late
Calling people that forgot her
Eager for their answer
Wanting them to want her.

Love don’t even care
Bout the problems that she’s caused
cause she ain’t always right
but she ain’t never wrong
And she don’t never stay
But she ain’t never gone-
A little revolution in your palm.
I cannot live with her
But she has found a home in me.
Love and me are different.
We’ve agreed to disagree.

Orphan

Orphan of the sun, forsake his light-
Embrace the Moon as your mother,
Night wolves howling - Owls subtle sight
Moonlit dreary fields - now your brother.
You shall never need another,
Solo, chase the longing night.
Draw your strength from finished lovers,
Fight for your mist-torn might.
Watch as the stars melt and and fall
upon the midnights dying scene,
Then keep to yourself, need no one else -
Bid Life good night-
To sleep - Perchance to dream.

Coconut ruminisce

It is the ripped pages of all my rhyme
the chalk of every butterfly
we watch the red sun dive
and blackout on the time
The crack my voice
Arouse them fly
and open wings
like butterfly
But sing the night
a silent I
onto the moon
my singing rhyme
And them make love
a cricket song
softly and truly
a patient long
tiger's eye

Na scale the seas
for that kind of rum
ask lady luck
for iron thumb
just the moon and you
forever one
A lonely tune
a butterfly
I watch the moon
and cry.
If we could dive
along with sun
we dip our hearts
in golden waves
and hard our souls
to amber days
the memories.
And on the streets
the butterflies melt their golden wings
down my cheek

Snow Day

I should want to be a morning snow/
bringing beauty to a newborn day-
Reflecting the sun, warmth wont but won-
...
Before quietly melting away.

Patience

once again I'm being forced to endure the torture of stagnant time.
I'm forced to do what I've known to do best.
be patient.
but patience is skill that requires energy and strength I know I no longer have.
it's gone,
spent on hopeless pursuits.
it's like a slow flowing lava that deteriorates the mind.
when the brain has no other retort to the destruction,
when it has no other strategy,
when the pursuit of other thoughts deem futile and you are all that survives in my head,...
my will to wait will die a slow death.
suffocating in the absence of your presence.
and I will be shown no mercy, for that is something time has never been known to show.
and although in the end patience pays off, the cost was deadly and the job is one I never wanted to begin
Like a Slave i was forced to work.

Torment

Torment is a subtle breeze
under the fullest moon,
knowing that you want to scream/
knowing its too soon.

Silent as an ocean's wave
but miles more depraved...

The same chord over and over,
in and out of minor
wild is the wind
but my sighs are only silent.

If you whispered to the stars,
and they didn't answer,
does your hurt still echo
into abysmal forever?

Lucky I can still play
a single note at all,
it aches all that I've ever been
to make love something subtle.