My heart broke in New Mexico,
But I made love in the San Juans,
Forgave you in the Tetons,
And washed you away in the Colorado.
Help support my work by buying me a coffee: https://www.buymeacoffee.com/warpoems
I’ve spent months in daydreams,
Where the mountain brooks flow through timbers,
I longed for the briars to pierce my skin,
To know that I am alive with cadence,
Lullabied by the breath of morning,
Stirred by the reflective sighing dawn,
I came to know,
Men were made to be wild,
With heightened senses,
Erasing the hue of artificial smells,
As dew washes away the contempt of solitude,
I am free where only the eagles can see me,
Laid bare by winter’s afternoon,
Drifts of capes dances in the background of fire,
The wood burns as deep as my soul,
As my breath labors for a full moon,
I swear at daybreak,
For I wasn’t done drifting in dunes,
I search for gratitude in the tension of remembrance,
As the new day incubates, the cauldron of memories.
I hold the mountains if they were my own,
Losing a part of myself in the sunrise;
The cresting warmth against the moody cliffs,
Hugs the snow-capped peaks;
So high they could shake the hand of God,
I sink into the forgetfulness of urban life,
As I fall in love with places,
That I’ve never been.
Culling grey skies of winter sets a chilling warmth;
Soft as a silk handkerchief against the skin,
I feel the vibrations of the cunning solstice,
Nothing too vain I suppose…
Clustered in her independence,
Her rocky edges holds the artist’s heart,
A sea of change in her Gaudi atmosphere,
Small bites along her back,
Charms the weary seamen to her shores,
Barna they call her,
The vibrations of a thousand guitar strings,
Hums the embrace of an American’s heart.
I thought of you in Barcelona,
And thought of nothing,
I think she healed me,
But who knows….
I thought this would be an allegory,
But I became distracted,
The Sagrada stole my gaze;
I suppose that’s the nature of God.
Subway windows fogged with containment,
Bach is the ocean that holds the eclipse of life,
I am no more darker than light;
Bliss has put to sleep a creeping moon,
A man who was the sum of his missing parts,
Becomes an adolescent art project,
A halt settles on a counter melody,
A duel of sorts creasing into a crescendo,
This is beauty I reckon:
Where a disheveled desk holds the great
mysteries of life,
They say Bach is played for God,
And we are so lucky to receive an echo.
The destiny of skies and objective ties,
My wrist have grown weaker by all means,
Pushing the weight of artificial suffering,
To horizons that fade with every tinge,
As a man’s skin hardens,
I clasp my hands in religious fervor,
As the Chaconne hums the sorrow of my past,
Am I a man in spite of my weakness,
Or is that my respite?
The lighted cries of homecoming and well,
Flesh crusted, cake with a million yard stares,
Epics written on the back of men,
Not old enough to dream. What’s a Hero?
What is it for me that I should see?
Old medals that rusts, and a gut that purges,
The drunken youth that fuel the absurdity…
That Parades could drown out the massive strain,
We’ve come home to a war of our own,
Man vs Man, Ideas vs Ideas,
Dogma vs Domga…what’s a hero?