Billy Collins behind

a double espresso

by Roberto Lavidez

love is

not as

simple as

getting up

on the

wrong side

of the bed

wearing the

emperor’s

clothes

to consider

the ruination

of love

a wisp of

smoke

rising from

a chimney

if there

will also

be a sun

and a

moon

and will

the dead

gather

to watch

them

rise

and set

who could

tell what

the next

moment

would hold

another drip

from the

faucet?

and who

cares if it

takes me

all day

to write

a poem

about the

dawn

I was only

behind a

double

espresso

and a

single hit

of anti-

depressant

I only

need to

slide into

place

the image

of Leonardo

at a table

by a

window

but where

are you

reader

who have

not paused

in your

walk

to look

over my

shoulder

to see

what I am

jotting

in this

notebook?

would the

heavy

anthologies

remain

on their

shelves

the word

that was

in the

beginning

and the

word

that was

made flesh

those

and all

the other

words

will cease

and get

my mind

off the

poems

of others

even as

they peer

down from

the trees

living life

to the

fullest

is the

only way

I am

probably

being

too literal

minded

here

I admit

to regarding

my own

birthday

as the

joyous

anniversary

of my

existence

©robertolavidez2014  

stuck with

unknowing

(Morse, McCaslin, Boskic, Lau,

Kenney, Holme, Rose, Gardiner,

Hagen, Schneberg, Roberts, Braid,

Rian, Reimer, McHugh)   

by Roberto Lavidez

to Proust off

disaster

to Proust

ourselves

off in

shower

of circling

image

stuck with

unknowing

all these

years

I wonder

blind

I will

walk on

earth

it will

rain

endlessly

I will

drown

unaware

I could

have fallen

forward

forever

the air

tasting

like honey

stillness

opening

at the

centre

of my

body

I am

infected

with dreams

at the

first moon

of conquest

I respectfully

request

to be

killed

I cannot

say

whose

empty

house

it was

that burned

throughout

the wrinkled

night

there was

no Canadian

hush of

things

not to be

talked

about

not all

of them

ignored

genocide

someone

is stealing

anatomies

skin of fish

bones of

bird

a step

toward loss

no colors

the glass

the leaves

the branches

all gray

charred

bodies

resurrect

themselves

noticing

a faint smell

of smoke

in their

sleek hair

for some

a seed of

instinct

suggesting

something

else

may

eventually

begin

your skin

fizzes with

the hot

and cold of

possibility

on this earth

it is always

morning

somewhere

as if we were

Baudelaire

surely Focault

never drank

so much coffee

in one sitting

and Virginia

Woolf wrote

in spite of

and not

because

of her

depression

teach us

to bear life’s

senselessness

and our own

insignificance

let’s call that

sanity

©robertolavidez2014  

every sort of light

( Auden, Macaulay, Wordsworth,

Moss, Masefield,Henley, Eliot, Yeats,

Thomas, Joseph, Betjeman, Johnson,

Kipling, Longfellow, Wilcox )

by Roberto Lavidez

thousands

are still

asleep

dreaming

of terrifying

monsters

while the

earth’s

bounds

reel and

shake

lest

battered

too long

our walls

and we

should

break…

should

break

my heart

leaps up

when I

behold

a rainbow

in the sky

veering

through

rapids in

a vapid

rapido

to view

the new

moon

from a

ruin on

the Lido

and all

I ask

is a

windy

day with

the white

clouds

flying

and the

flung spray

and the

blown

spume

and the

sea-gulls

crying

under the

bludgeonings

of chance

my head

is bloody

but unbowed

while I

stand on

the roadway

or on the

pavement’s

gray

I hear it

in the

deep

heart’s

core

there’s

every sort

of light

you can

make it

dark or

bright

its silence

I hear

and obey

that I

may lose

my way

and myself

I shall

go out

in my

slippers

in the rain

and pick

the flowers

in other

people’s

gardens

and learn

to spit

beg

pardon

I’m soiling

the doileys

with

afternoon

tea-cakes

drink

to me

only with

thine eyes

and I will

pledge with

mine

and if

you can

dream

and not

make

dreams

your master

if you can

think-

and not

make

thoughts

your aim

and in

the wreck

of noble

lives

something

immortal

still

survives!

sing

and the

hills

will

answer

sigh

it is lost

on the air

©robertolavidez2014  

George Crabbe

to spare

by Roberto Lavidez

speak not

to me

of lasting

fame

for I

am not

like fame

to last 

the silver

moon’s

enamour’d

beam

steals

softly

through

the night

where

am I

now

I slept

to wake

again

and to

forget

o now

I recollect

what I

confess

you may

as fact

believe

and what

I say not

to your

thoughts

I leave

of one

thing

would I

learn

the truth

if truth

to mortals

may be

told

that no

remonstrance

could remove

that no

indignities

could cure

away with

this accursed

pride

these visions

profligate

and vain

but there

are charms

that long

abide

through

years

that other

charmers

kill

over evil

passions

grow

as soon

as we

begin

to fear

my feelings

I must

all obey

can I

resist

what

mortal can

how often

I have

drawn

my breath

with such

o’erwhelming

pain

so lived

the man

his days

moved

slowly on

although

his years

seemed

swift

when they

were gone

but now

farewell

to every

prudent

care

to every

hope

‘tis useless

now

to spare

hard is

the dwelling

of the nymph

to find

and yet

we ought

not in our

search

to cease

©robertolavidez2014

that’s that

(Char, Ponge, Pleynet, Roche,

Eluard, Cravan, Daumal, Monnier,

Fellain, Mellarme, Martory,

Chassignet, Reverdy, Ganzo)

by Roberto Lavidez

I wake up

bathed

I melt as

I get up

I harvest

the grapes

of the

immature

sky

what is

more

pleasant

than the

blue sky

unless it’s

a cloud

submissive

in the

sunlight

laughing

with the

blue of

the sky

of the

sheets

toward

the

fucking

cloud

that’s it

never

an eye

into a

null

spiritual

result

no warning

as before

the pig

is sliced

behind me

my eyes

are closed

light is

burnt

night

decapitated

memory

can but

shift

cold ashes

around

when the

depths

of time

it endeavors

to sound

it can cry

it can burst

it can know

a black bird

bursts out

laughing

my blood

boils for

nothing

that’s that

and I will

know each

trembling

of a leaf

caused by

the wind

a sigh

a cry

a word

I content

myself

with being

glimpsed

and carefully

I cultivate

existence

to fall

from the

branches

to drink

straight

from the

source

water

that is

too cold

when the

wool’s

on the

sheep’s

back

there is

no thread

when the

book’s

in the

press

no man

can read it

send

20 copies

please

see what

happens

happy

without

knowing

what

happiness is

of knowing

we are

there

where we

don’t know

where

we are

so man

varies;

the poor

human

body’s

force

that time

abbreviates

and consumes

won’t be

tomorrow

as it is

today

but faced

with the

pointless

surge

the poor

man

sovereign

of himself

will keep

the pride

of silence

erupt like

a mirage:

island in

the highway

of the sky

©robertolavidez2014

Dylan Thomas

tells it with silence

by Roberto Lavidez

what shall

it tell me

if a timeless

insect says

the world

wears away?

I dreamed

my genesis

and died

again

shrapnel

rammed in

the marching

heart

tells with

silence

the last light

breaking

and the

still hour is

come of

the sea

tumbling

in harness

rebel against

the binding

moon

and the

parliament

of the sky

I make

a weapon

of an ass’s

skeleton

and walk

the warring

sands by

the dead

town

to lift

to leave

from the

treasures

of man

is pleasing

death

that will

rake at last

all currencies

of the

marked

breath

death

is all

metaphors

shape in

one history

I have heard

many years

of telling

and many

years

should see

some change

I saw time

murder me

I have

longed

to move

away

from the

hissing

of the

spent lie

now say nay

man dry man

dry lover mine

now I am

a man

no more

no more

and black

reward

for a

roaring life

©robertolavidez2014

Paul waking is in

Verlaine’s dream

by Roberto Lavidez

memory

memory

what do you

want from me?

beneath

the cloak

our hearts

race with

clandestine

thoughts

stings me

with a false

smile and

changes

my agony

into an

amusing

spectacle

often

I have

this dream

a strange

searching

dream

always these

feverish

phantoms

leading their

vast round

dance

sad and

tossing like

dust-motes

caught in

sunbeams

night comes

the owl flies

it is the

moment

when one

thinks about

old wives’s

tales …

in the black

night

a torso

made of

ivory and

shadow

the sky

was gray

the north

wind

wept like

a bassoon

me

I wandered

alone

walking

my wound

through

the willow

grove

melancholy

rocks

my heart

to oblivion

I summon

days long

gone

with my

weeping

like an

old man

chilled

to the

bone

like a poor

orphan

without a

big sister

tired

of life

afraid

of death

not unlike

a lost

brig

toy of ebb

and flow

on the

ocean

the first

groan

uttered by

the first

man

driven

from Eden

is nothing

but an eclogue

next to it

waking is

in the

dream

the worm

is in the

fruit

remorse

is in love

that is how

it must be

©robertolavidez2014