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Editing - rough draft

Long ago on a small island in the Caribbean, (Puerto Rico) there was a people who worked the sugar cane fields. There was an abundance of cane in the town of San Sebastian.
This town was the largest producer of cane on the hills, in the village of Alto Sano.
The men of Alto Sano lived and died by their machete.

A TIME TO WRITE

While wrestling with a wriggling muse
I sit and look out rear glass door
and try to write of sylvan views
which have washed up on creative shore

Pen in hand and butt in chair
spiral notebook in my lap
snatching rhymes from the thin air
ink flows slowly as spring sap

Reckon I'm so deep in thought
that at first I do not realize
that my attention's being sought
by someone with emerald eyes

reciprocal hemorrage

dawn crawls up the floor
to my room
my echoed chamber
full of you

I can feel my pockets full
the soft sweet dampness
hanging on straining
wire with shoulders slumped

we wore lives in radiant expulsion
transfiixed and fickle
while radiator spoke her
murmur messages throughout the
past
and snowflakes ticked against our
glass

Flames

Sometimes I feel the flames
surrounding the form around,
make me dwell in moments of ecstasy
then devour me
as in consummation

Life’s just a flickering flame
worth seconds only
ere the flame blows
wow,
all is lost in the moment
of once having been
a being,
like a scorching feeling
petals or wings of butterflies feel
ere they are consumed…

The Home Fires

Oxen of the sun
birthing canal
Wilde on his rock
colouring banal

Bram stoking fires
Behan's door ajar
Kavanagh with kindling
hailing Synge from afar

Yeats in Ithicabra
polishing his horse
Beckett in Bray
waiting in morse

Joyce yet awanders
ash thatched to hand
plitting a plot, plotting a plan

TREASURE

TESOURO

O homem quem gasta a vida
Procurando um tesouro
Perde aquêle que deixou
Atrás
Não sabendo

Eu sou os raios dourados
do sol
meus olhos lapis lazuli
e meus labios rubis de sangue vermelho
meu coração opalas puros
brilhando reflexões na luz
da minha malancolia

TREASURE
The man who spends a lifetime
Looking for a treasure,
Loses the true one he left behind
not knowing.

Arnald and The Red Baron

There he goes again
the defiant determined
young fighter pilot

Racking up kills
never getting enough
scanning the skies
for the infamous Red Baron

A bright red plane
with iron crosses
on the ends of its wings

Constantly thinking how if only
he could shoot him down
the amount of fame and glory
he would receive

How he would be the one
who shot down the Red Baron
this infamous German fighter ace

A Hopeless Romantic Daydreaming of Love

Sitting on the edge
of the railroad tracks
watching the trains
going by

Thinking about
the woman
I left behind

Closing my eyes
she is in my arms
I can feel
her shoulder length black hair
blowing in the wind
brushing against my chest

As the hem
Of the dress she wears
Flutters in the gusts
Created by the passing trains

This sweet perfume
of an aroma
emanates from her into my nostrils
bottling up inside my nose
so I can carry it with me
where ever I go

The Little Sparkle In Her Eye

The flickering light of fireflies
in the dark
are no match
for the sparkle
in her eyes

They are pools of water
of which I never
want to come out of
so cool and comforting

Two constellations in the sea
we call life
always calling and
leading me home

Beacons of light
in the darkest of times
leading me away from
the deadly rocks of disgust
keeping me in calmer seas

H A R D C H R O M E

soul handset
I hear the sigh and whisper
breath against my heart
as the day turns dark

you the hunter of the spark
the hardcore scrapes
the soul crash stark

when you smile you glitter
melting all the ferocious
fears
and claim your mark

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