Americonorman's Poetry

[AMERICONORMAN]

From CUPID'S RETIREMENT By Jose Gainza

X

It is my turn to cook them candle meals,

To clean the garments of his toil,

To rub the back knots that he feels.

I’ll hide sweet verses in his pockets,

And await his landing with my garden roses,

And clean the sofa where he lounges,

I’ll be his torch’s thriving oil,

And rekindle his eye sockets,

When all he has to do is dream of me.

Too, he’ll be my maid, and be my “Gieves”,

He’ll be the ace that’s up my sleeves.

My wings will now only swing for him.

[AMERICONORMAN]

Llama Dama—By Jose Gainza

“Let me be your flame, Dame,

So I could spark and burn,

Consumed by passion without blame,

Near you dancing as I turn.

Deity, I’ve praised your name—

By you endlessly I yearn.”

Thus spoke my Romantico to me, his Nina,

Before I blushed and took his hand.

I let him sip wine from my cantina

Before he sang then with his band.

“I have searched the world for none like you:

An oasis to a past now considered tundra.

Many joys I did manage to construe

From a life fulfilled by mind’s Utopia.

Virtue, values, dreams, and work

All combined and made my happiness.

Now suddenly my pathways jerk,

And halt before the flower of your beauty bliss.”

Thus continued Tico with smiles sanguine,

Sending notes up to the wind’s embrace,

Blowing words in swirl scented by my wine,

Twirlings in the sand did his body trace.

“I dance for you to help you feel my beats,

And tell you what you mean to me to win,

A life with you earning daily treats,

That grew so ripe from all that I gave in.

I claim that there’s a part of you that swears

Allegiance to the happy minded seers,

And will avenge the torches all your years.”

Executing eyes of mine, how Tico saw,

Willing to condemn the evil men,

That dare to poke me with their law,

That makes our love forbidden.

“Francesca isn’t outraged just for me,

And your Papa is fuming not for me,

They hate the fact that we can find a joy,

Felt by all yet, O, so hard to get.

Don’t you know their anger is a ploy?

To hide the blatant evil they beget:

Hatred for the good for being good—

The why of life so misunderstood!”

And soon he swept me far away,

And my past dust to the wind.

Here we are in San Francisco Bay,

Winning life we never have to mend.

“The white dress that you wear,

How it stands for a soul the purest.

And your joy that I must bear,

Is the cause of our love the surest.

And tonight when I own you in our bliss,

It will be heaven you will kiss.”

Thus we stand here both,

Reciting the same verse,

In a sacred form of oath,

In a style just terse,

To reveal our burning lust,

Sanctioned by god Reason’s cast,

The halo of our trust,

And the blessing of our past,

That brought us here,

To feel this thing,

And know it without fear,

And promise you to bring,

The joy that always stays

Somewhere within me,

Even if you leave our days,

In death and cease to be,

But please don’t die,

No, don’t dare go,

Don’t tempt me, dear, to die,

Though you know how I’ll still grow,

As in allegiance to our life,

A life committed thus in love,

Shrugging off the strife,

Because peace is not above,

It’s here below and on this earth,

It’s been here since our birth,

It came with our straight minds,

And it’s the force that binds,

Us forever

And ever …

[AMERICONORMAN]

The Struggle For Your Love—By Jose Gainza

We metamorphosed into Superman.

Combined, we are exclusive members

Of the creature called Love that can

Inspire each as everlasting embers.

In relation to the mass who seldom passion find

Our superb love is the rare trophy of the mind.

Just remember when we were still apart,

How you made me long and hurt,

Dreaming of your gun fire start

To send me racing, ending the flirt.

Then I could sing my verses in our bed

And you showed that you had a poet’s head.

Now In my inbox I can find your lyrics sweet,

Not those curt responses harder than Morse code,

Filled with proclamations of your steady heat,

And promises of dancing for me in a sexy mode.

I no longer wait a lifetime for a chance reply,

Now without my kisses you will surely die.

I knew how hard it must have been for you,

To hate the world and think that love was luck,

Yet still there was a slow picture that you drew,

That at completion hit you like a speeding truck.

Your hunger drew the visage of this singing boy

Thus tearing down the wall that made you coy.

With my hammer I struck down at your idol.

I knocked the head right off Frustration.

Envy met severely with my wrecking ball.

Injustice would become a conflagration.

I consumed your trauma with my burning fire,

And pierced the wall with work that could not tire.

Despite the anger as the limelight of your theme,

There always was the gossip of your eyes

That did confirm what seemed to always seem:

That you caught from me the burning of your thighs.

Those irises let out the truth that they were mine,

“Condemned” for life to only on me dine.

When you first saw me gazing, dressed in black,

Suddenly, right then, was loose your happiness,

For it was clear you could get me in the sack—

For that I would give my life and nothing less!

But if dead I am I’ll cease to taste your juice,

So with Death now I have to make a truce.

I must now sell my soul to happy Life,

And treat myself to growing nutrients,

And make sweet Brandy my ex-wife,

And lay bare all my won achievements,

And contrast the splendour of your taste

To the bitterness of Dionysus waste.

I now feel what mothers get to feel

Upon seeing angel babies the first time;

And the mountain climber’s thrill;

Or the sun, to which Edison did climb—

For at present I have reached the height

When I command and need to hold you tight.

Feel!—my hands holding tight your back.

Feel!—my wetness on your biting jaw.

Feel!—the hunger that you cannot lack.

Feel!—the satiety that is our law.

Feel!—my manhood in your deepest part.

Feel!—the heaven now to where we dart.

Free!—the thoughts to plead my case.

Free!—the time to have me close.

Free!—the blushing of your face.

Free!—your love for one more dose.

Free!—the dialogues so wise.

Free!—the sundering of lies.

Think!—that once we were apart.

Think!—and know we are the same.

Think!—on all the gold that’s in my cart.

Think!—of how you used to give me blame.

Think!—that Apollo blessed our earth.

Think!—that now we’ve earned our mirth.

I!—know you want me hard.

I!—is where your love grows from.

I!—am a persistent bard.

I!—cannot bear a crumb.

I!—need the feast that’s you.

I!—will always digest you.

[AMERICONORMAN]

Someone sent me a personal message asking for more poetry. This one I wrote around March. It was very difficult for me. It was my attempt at integrating Romantic Love and the Objectivist theory of concept formation (as I understand it).

The Will As Ego—By Jose Gainza

I

My will is my ego;

It happens to be

A ball to and fro

Burning so free.

It shows me sweet life

Aided by eyes

Sharp as a knife.

And so too it relies

On the function of ears;

Life’s sounds it does catch

All through the years.

The stench of the match

Is caught by my nose

That aids my taste buds.

The wine that I chose—

How it floods—

Sweetens my tongue;

And flushes my skin.

Caught by my lung

Is the smoke I take in.

Lay do I on our bed

Massaging your hard will,

Preparing your head

For the quest we will will.

II

The tables they turned

When I won your sweet soul.

The table we learned

Written on scroll

Reads, “I think for myself so to live”.

Our table of values

Is one from Atlantis superlative—

Not Plato’s but ours we choose.

Smart, fair, honest,

Proud, solely, strong,

Ruthless, just, the best

Committed, hardly wrong,

Independent, able, stable,

Loyal to our love,

Yes, reliable,

Like a god from above,

Keeping up my head,

Oh, so wonderful in bed,

(Or, yes, right on the table)—

Always on my mind:

Are the contents of your table.

I table this proposition kind:

I will stay with you forever.

The table is set—

A sweet liqueur

Caviar on baguette,

Calamari, Shrimp, Lobster,

Crab, Olives, Wine

Hot sauce, Lime, and Oyster—

Come on let’s dine!

Now—And later when I’ll “eat” you

On this cleared table.

Have you grasped this concept through?

Know the meaning of this label: “table”?

III

“Two plus two equals four”:

This is the essence of thought.

To make one and one adore—

To string them as a knot—

To add a second pair to “two”;

Thus makes four, another group

With the same traits: two.

To tie like things we swoop.

To collate tables from chairs,

Merge wood with plastic tables

Under “table” and not “chairs”.

Then to complicate labels

As in the stanza prior

Written for you, my flame.

Sense levels rising higher;

Multiples almost same.

So this is thought,

The process I can will.

IV

A concept we fall under

Is the blessed “lovers”.

And you’re my speaking thunder.

Your voice it hovers

In my mind and soul,

The depths of me,

When you speak your scroll,

And inject it into me.

Though we are two as one,

Conversation is your cubbyhole,

My niche is my pen so fun.

I write plot stories whole,

While you are mathematical;

Yet both of us are rational.

Yet we are both aesthetical.

Fusing us together is the form

Of “exception”, beyond your friends.

Swept you away, did I, the storm;

Thus your god descends.

Before me was a sunny day,

And thus was your standard,

But I blew you away.

It was me, your awesome bard,

That came on you as darkness,

To foil the joy of longing:

You and happiness.

My thunder came knocking

And you opened your door.

I blew you a kiss.

You then looked to the floor.

I was not your nemesis.

V

Freedom have I to walk,

As I want when I want,

For I am chained to no rock.

I’m a man—this I flaunt.

I like what I like when I like

With unfettered evaluation.

The ugly I out strike—

But beauty’s a revelation.

No appraisal or action is free.

Every word is a demand.

I demand to open each eye—

And I see.

I demand my forms to fly

And they’re free.

No thoughts without your say so—

Look, just try, observe!

Volition thus you’ll know.

Turn gleam high or light reserve.

You can expand the vista,

You can narrow the scope,

Relentless thought insist, uh,

Or sleep, you dope.

VI

But how did I win

You? Some might ask:

The way a concept is formed in—

Two units of vision fused is the task.

I saw you and you saw I;

We placed that we were like.

Spoke of books did I

And thinkers we did like.

I spoke with wit and irony;

My songs to you I sang.

I won some games expertly

And you too beat me with a bang.

You sampled my thrilled dances

But I saved some for our peace.

And we did swing our lances;

And we did lose some peace:

We spoke with indignation,

We spoke of villains that we hate.

Power-lusters? Condemnation!

We did know of man’s happy fate.

VII

I did not have to think of you.

I willed it just the same.

I did not have to dream of you;

I willed it without blame.

I did not have to introspect

And ask ‘why’ to what I felt.

The passion strong was circumspect

Even if you made me melt.

I looked inside and found that your were there

Unyielding though I saw you oh so quick.

Your face was hot and your soul was just as fair.

You did hit me like a brick,

And left a bruise that made me see you more.

I asked and asked and still I could not kiss.

I feared that in your eyes I was a sore,

Never to be taken thus to bliss.

But you saw that I had talent,

That I was lonely, strong,

That I hardly could repent

For reading you my song.

It spoke of what you needed,

A will that stood alone,

Like yours that hardly heeded,

Even to my passion tone.

But then I held you,

And you obeyed your will like mine.

You said, “I need you,”

And my kisses were so fine.

I willed this romance,

You willed it too.

No need for temperance:

You did deserve me too.

We willed the concept “love”.

Edited June 20, 2005 by AMERICONORMAN

[AMERICONORMAN]

This is my latest poem. It is self introducing. I would just like to say, though I cannot apologize for the line 6 of stanza eleven because it fits quite well, I have not intention of offending anyone. So if you have trouble with the imagery it invokes, just change the last word's connotation, in your own mind, to intellectual-moral pride, in the Rostand's Chanticleer sense.

Mrs. Dominique Roark!—By Jose Gainza

She makes me will I be a hero

Almost more than I have willed myself:

To show her that there’s more to life than pain

Despite the terror-envy bugging us.

Loving her does tame the sorrow

Of not yet owning her myself.

That she is utter bliss is plain;

Her laughter and her beauty binding us.

She binds me with the grace by which she stands,

And the moisture of her skin of humid days,

And the bareness of her form in clothes of white,

And her fury when I love her so too much.

I love it when we fuse our greeting hands,

While its duration I do raise,

When I’m first noticed by her eyes’ might

Screaming that she hungers for my touch.

I know that she must love my works of art,

And damns me for my genius and my grace,

For they, tempting, beckon for my fame,

A fame that she could never bear to share

Because her truth’s passion wants me all alone.

And yes I love her for her art:

The role she plays with steady pace,

The passion that exhausts her tame.

Her worship she must hide with so much care,

The act for which I’ll make her so atone.

It’s true that on rare days there is a pain,

On early mornings lying in my bed,

Not knowing where she is or what she feels,

Dreading that she might have lost her soul,

Submitting to that melancholy realm.

I dream that she is standing in the rain

With thunder, lightning flashing past her head,

Her body bearing pounding hail that reels:

Her self-lashing for her blessed soul,

Her joy that seems to overwhelm.

Dream I: the reality I live:

Every time I break into new ground,

And plot the girders of my next achievement,

And lay the floors on which I’ll strut,

Raise the walls—protection for the storm.

I live this height that I can give,

I made this view that’s all around:

My love, my promise, testament.

This promise will remain my life-long rut.

I will be her malevolence’s storm.

Yes, it’s true I cry some seldom nights

And miss the beauty she won’t let me taste,

Or miss the passion I can’t dare to take—

Just yet—

Because she still can’t bear to see the light,

Or accept that bliss is my sweet cock.

Consider Isolde, her Knight of Knights,

And how quickly to their death did they make haste,

All for a promise he could not retake,

Like my promise yours for which I fight:

My love for you that isn’t just my talk

But my set.

Now I wait …

[AMERICONORMAN]

My Love Song—By Jose Gainza

Sometimes I feel like screaming,

Or I feel like crying.

Sometimes I feel like laughing,

Or I feel like dancing,

All for this lovely boy,

Though I feel like a toy.

I want what I cannot have,

And see it, and hold it, and taste it—

Dream of it much, too much,

Caressing it touch to touch.

I feel every movement; I want it,

I peel off the clothes but can’t have,

I see the black locks as they dangle,

Features that please at every angle,

With curves over lines that sting—

Oh, the joy that my love can bring! :

From the depths of me shouting free,

And my body that dances with glee,

For brown eyes that do arrest me—

My speech, and my breath, and my heart—

By a being that makes me make art

That can influence others to love,

And gaze at the towers above,

And work everyday with such joy—

Oh, the power of my lovely boy!

Sometimes I feel like screaming,

Or I feel like crying.

Sometimes I feel like laughing,

Or I feel like dancing,

All for this lovely boy,

Though I feel like a toy.

I think it’s driving me crazy—

This longing for loving,

This wishing for cuddling,

These kisses to nowhere—

For a face that is fair,

Though its gesture is not—

Though I can’t loose the knot,

That keeps me in worship,

Like some blinded bishop,

For this god upon high—

Oh, he gets me so high!

I am thrilled by his vision,

And I work with precision,

I create so much beauty,

It seems it’s my duty,

To make him a god,

To make him a man,

For I am his fan,

And this isn’t a fraud,

I swear by my life.

Though I suffer in strife,

I love what I see,

I feel all the glee,

That is erupting in me,

That is flying so free!

I create too much beauty,

It’s as if it’s my duty,

That might drive me insane,

If my love does not wane,

But keeps on waxing,

While I’m not relaxing,

But am tense as a bow,

Writing with flow,

Shooting my love,

Like some rabid dove,

That is hungry for man,

Set on a plan,

To conquer his love,

An asexual dove

That is driving him crazy,

That loves him so lazy.

Sometimes I feel like screaming,

Or I feel like crying.

Sometimes I feel like laughing,

Or I feel like dancing,

All for this lovely boy,

Though I feel like a toy.

I will conquer his peace,

I will win my release,

Because I soar to the sun,

With a heart filled with fun,

A determined mind,

And a passion so kind,

That will make him believe,

That I will not thieve,

But cash in my note,

And embark on my boat

To an isle just with he,

Where we shall love free.

Sometimes I feel like screaming,

Or I feel like crying.

Sometimes I feel like laughing,

Or I feel like dancing,

All for this lovely boy,

Though I feel like a toy.

[AMERICONORMAN]

I wrote this poem for a friend, thinking about a romantic dilemna of his. And now I realize that perhaps, even I, am in the midst of such a dilemna. And surely many men suffer from a similar dilemna.

This poem competes for my best so far.

Mother, May I?

By Jose Gainza

Stern mother, don’t you know

....... I want your girl?

If you knew what we unfurl,

And how I treat your girl,

And how she makes me dance and twirl—

Oh, how your tears would flow.

You would be weeping, you should know,

Not in terror but in fright

Of our love like dynamite,

That could blow your mores away—

Prehistoric as they are, so blown away.

Stern mother, you should know

....... I need your girl!

I need her sacred pearl,

For its scent does make me whirl;

But one reason why I love your lovely girl—

And I go “woh … ah … woh …”

When I penetrate her core—oh!

And her nails sink in my back

As we engage our lust attack,

Sending fire through our blood,

Making “heaven” seem like mud.

Deaf mother, you should hear

....... Your baby scream

....... While both eyes of hers do gleam,

Intermittent, as she does scream,

As I fulfill her grandest dream.

It’s not the nightmare of her fear

But the worship of my dear.

I bestow her with my kisses of delight,

And she bites me with a justice, Oh, so right.

She endures the countless rounds of our affair

But too often she just has to pull my hair.

Snotty mother, you should smell

...... Our aftermath …

...... But I’ll spare you from that path,

And just say that she does make me take a bath.

And please don’t think I utter this with wrath.

But there is still more to tell.

And I have so much more to sell.

I declare that I loved my prior gals,

So much so, that I’m the envy of my pals.

Coz I’m pure beyond belief and quite honest;

And brilliant, funny, charming—go, do test.

Blind mother, you should see

....... How much we do!

Everything that lovers do and often do:

Debates of life, jokes, inductions so much new;

Sports we’ve played and fights ensue

Coz we’re growing, and enjoying, and we’re free.

Yes, we’re lovers, but we’re friends—don’t you see?

There’s true love that keeps us hungry and content;

So much joy from life that we shall not repent.

I have seen her naked body but her soul

Is so also, and is pure, in our control.

Sweet mother, don’t you know

....... How nice I feel?

When I rub her back, and legs, and seal

The comfort that is ours—and yes, it’s real.

Layer upon layer of her soul I learned to peel.

All four oceans of her soul I fought to row.

And her heart I won by stealing Cupid’s bow.

We cuddle as a movie flashes in the dark.

And we picnic, munching tasties in the park.

I am hers, and she is mine, as you have yours.

So correct and change your “godly”, stupid mores!

[AMERICONORMAN]

The Prize of Reflection—By Jose Gainza

I sought through her the power of reflection …

I, through him, myself outside of me …

She’s the copy that exists beyond my will …

I, like him, have made myself perfection …

She’s the mirror that can make me delight see …

He—we—are strong by our own will …

................We have grown,

........We are two and alone;

................We have seen

........What our true love does mean.

What I see in her is my good attainment …

He has struggled, oh so hard, to win this day …

She has withstood the tempting from them all …

Looking in him is such great entertainment …

Kissing her becomes a pride-filled play …

I won him by still staying on the ball …

................We have known;

........So then we two are prone

................To be keen

........To maintain our love clean.

[AMERICONORMAN]

DARING OUR WRATH--By Jose Gainza (2001)

How dare you smash two planes into our tallest twin towers!

How dare you try to sink the source of all our powers!

How dare you take our strong, our brave, our weak!

How dare you say to us, “Freedom you shall not seek”!

How dare you forget the wisdom by which we started!

How dare you think our golden economy will remain retarded!

How dare you use your “god” to stop American ambition!

How dare you leave ten blocks beyond all recognition!

How dare you leave our thousands buried dead!

How dare you think we will betray what we have always said!

How dare you slap the face of “life, freedom, and happiness”!

How dare you dance proud of your damned wretchedness!

How dare you not have learned our pledge to: liberty or death!

How dare you make them scream before one last breath!

How dare you believe that we will let you survive!

How dare you not have known our history we shall revive!

How dare you not have feared our knives, our guns, our bombs, our minds!

How dare you evade the justice no holy war defines!

And so we dare you not to dread our wrath…

[AMERICONORMAN]

Copyright © 2005 Jose Rodriguez-Gainza

LO THE HAND OF FORCE—By Jose Gainza.

Lo! the intrepid hand of force,

……..... Lurking—waiting its time to pounce!

Lo, as it seeks victims on whom to pounce;

Froth for your gold’s accumulating ounce;

A hand, non covert, ripping back with force …

Lo! Service you do not use:

The doctor you never call,

The success of school’s fall—it’s drawl—

Those keep one running off the ball—

Lo the purchasing of things one cannot choose …

Doctor, teacher, waste picker,

Bus line driver, hydro man—

Jobs that should be done by honest man—

And not by the permission of some thieving clan—

But by the reason’s virtues kept a-flicker …

Lo, if you will, proprietors all free

………Marching markets with their moral code,

Hopefully driving with an honest load,

Vowing, “I deal not by the gangster’s code,”

For he works thus to stay free …

Lo the need for markets, man qua man,

The act of trade that is an always-law—

If man is to avoid the vulture claw,

Clutching carrion rotten flesh, stinking raw—

That man repeats if he is to stay man—qua man …

The market place is how man lives long range,

Where he doesn’t risk his life in chasing prey,

Where for what he wants he must just say,

And trade his golden coins that glitter in the sun of day;

Thus receiving bushels and his silver change.

There really is no need to war for sake of land,

When men produce on land, and profit still—

Save, invest, expand, create—not kill—

When he gives his taxes for his grievance bill—

When jurists wise exist and judge for the right hand.

Lo! ..... Lo! Oh look how low!

They do not let us grow!

They want to steal our show!

Lo! Look how low they go—Low, lo!

Don’t be blind, go, lo—lo!

Do not let your pocket bounce!

………Don’t go too low.

Come on, keep the client call!

………Watch clients grow.

Talk, and find your proper clan!

………Dance to and fro.

Come on, match the moral code!

………Lo, watch them glow.

Exchange in nature’s laws!

………Let oars go row.

Men, watch the dawn of day!

………Don’t let it go—

When voters do not kill!

………Trade; make it so.

Copyright © 2005 Jose Rodriguez-Gainza.

Edited September 12, 2005 by AMERICONORMAN

[AMERICONORMAN]

The following poem was inspired by looking at the eastern sky one night. Since the object as I saw it was momentary and transient, I was only able to write a melancholy poem, since my theme was going to be love.

Red Moon Lips—By Jose Gainza

Past the ridge at the line of the horizon,

The red moon rises, full, above the eastern land.

Passing moments change the sphere, still risin`—

The sphere soon cuts in half at clouds’ command.

The bottom part remains and thus is lighted;

The top thus hides behind the unseen clouds,

Turned as such to purple of a day now blighted.

Though half a moon is cloaked in shrouds,

There does remain a pair of smiling lips—

O, how delightful is my power to abstract!

For by this force the moon’s glory flips

Into a facial silhouette, of clouds, intact.

Around your blood filled lips, your face I see,

Though light relinquished for your glory lips.

And then it’s clear; your face is still with me.

And thus I feel; I need to kiss your lips.

Soon I’m crawling on the table towards the edge.

There are cars below that seem that they are toys.

But you so real await my kiss—my pledge!

And so I will my mouth to perk for all your joys.

When that is done, ensues a force

That bows my head and closes eyes.

So this praised prostration I endorse,

Thus I revere; not in shame I close my eyes.

A moment lasts, and then my eyes partake in light.

A lamp insists in the dark ocean of my room,

Reveals a smudge on glass amidst the dark of night.

There is my kiss that on the glass does loom.

So it lingers, and will remain as your lips depart …

And as they float on high I touch my matter-lips,

To hold them still, and save them from vain art,

That dares to stamp on glass the image of pale lips,

That can capture, for a moment, luck’s sweet kiss.

The red lips gone, transformed now into black.

Glass lips outlast; the remnant of a kiss—

The image—spirit—left from a love attack.

The red blaze gone, it left me all alone,

To search my room for something I could want.

And there a green dot flash marks a telephone.

It blinks and blinks; the green light is a taunt—

That screamed for me to go and seek your voice.

The gesture vain coz your number is amiss.

I sit and look, waiting without choice,

For the eastern sky to soon return my bliss.

A yellow sphere replaces reddened smile.

And there are craters—there are eyes;

Another crater—there your lips without that smile;

And there a nose to complete a face so wise.

By my power to create I see your face,

Condensed onto a canvass of pure light,

Framed by that giant circle’s outer trace,

Floating, rising there with so much might.

My hand reaches forth and it is pierced

By a comet of this earth speeding strong,

Invented as the wings for man the sheerest.

I feel envy for that plane but it is wrong,

For it seems to brush your face—but in vain—

For you have only eyes for me … that’s right!

And your mounting night visage eclipses pain.

And life is so throughout this blessed night.

For one whole night I dare to watch you beam...

All this night you have only eyes for me …

And thus to realize my utter dream …

A chance for me to be the only one you see …

To just sit back and drink your bright beauty …

To cup my hand around your precious face …

To watch and know as if my sole duty …

To feel your power sending me to rise and pace

Because a constant gaze could overwhelm …

And stop my heart because of too much grace …

Your love for me at my vessel’s helm …

From the depths of me, duelling time to race.

Tonight I love my only moon.

[AMERICONORMAN]

This is one from eight years ago, when I first realized that I wanted to be a writer. I was digging up an old document and stumbled across this one.

Causing Emotion

I

Subsuming reality

Are ideas with words

As symbols,

Useful --

potentially --

To make you believe.

Mine are on paper

After perfection,

But slower.

Yours are a dialogue

In space --

Processed by reason,

Stored in memory,

And deduced into action,

Yet scattered

By the objects of your will --

Howling Paraphrases

With improper syllogism,

But subconscious revelation

Without introspection --

Imperatively subtle,

Masterfully skilled,

Hidden

Where most fear to peer into.

II

And they rarely ask “why?”

And find no answers

To questions they dare not ask.

I accepted the dare,

Asked the questions,

Peered into my heart of darkness,

And inevitably saw the light:

Found catch phrases

With no starting points,

With cloudy implications.

I saw ends with no means,

And means with out ends.

I saw my dreams replaced

By your style

And your theme,

Unanalyzed,

No judgment,

“All good!”

Though I wasn’t mistaken,

I couldn’t find answers.

And in search of reason

I stumbled on fear.

And then what would happen:

A state of confusion.

Hiding behind visions

And thinking with dreams.

III

Fortune in constant persistence,

though,

After a new theme,

Gradual courage,

And momentous serenity.

When I realized your theme

And developed my own.

You were constantly testing,

Searching for truth,

A sense of security;

Jumping from whim to whim --

stone to stone --

Hardly getting wet,

A masterful skill.

I had started my quest

And couldn’t engage

In the worship of whims;

And then came my theme.

To understand what I see,

And accept what I must,

And work for the answers.

IV

I found what had moved them:

An immovable mover,

With a multi-faceted integrity

In guise;

Who moved me to introspect,

And display what I found,

And portray what could be,

To assure what should be.

Introversion,

as the essence

Of this immovable mover,

Who indulged in the actions

Of pseudo-introverts

And many extroverts.

In Retrospect I found,

That to be made,

The “we” must be earned,

And the “I” must be found.

Free will is the key,

Strong will is the force;

The guide in pursuit

Of the immovable mover;

To acknowledge the metaphysical “I”

And to love the man-made “we.”

An Ironic effect

When the immovable mover

Peers into his soul

To discover he was moved --

As he moves others --

By the honest will of another

And all the truth it entails.

And so I lusted to move

You

Immovable mover.

[AMERICONORMAN]

IMAGINE YOUR CONTROL—By Jose Gainza (2005)

Imagine

---------Feeling hardened with the image of your

---------Reddened face.

Imagine

---------That I’m driven, keenly sniffing for your

---------Scented trace.

Imagine

---------That with pride I am wearing what you’ve worn;

---------What I’ve torn!

Imagine

---------My hope, imagination that has sworn

---------To keep it born;

Imagine

---------It’s the act, dream, and fight to hold you close …

---------To bite your flesh!

Imagine

---------Almost dying from a lyric overdose—

---------How to refresh?

Imagine

---------That I’ve the right to pull your puckered lips …

---------With those of mine!

Imagine

---------I’ve the right to press my lips to your hips

---------So to dine...

Imagine

---------I am the best of all your longed for things,

---------Desperately.

Imagine

---------Living in a realm where we are both kings

---------Honestly.

Imagine

---------Your hungry dance and run to me, some day,

---------With confidence.

Imagine

---------All those fun days when we can, frenzied, play

---------With love intense.

Imagine

---------O, how certain we can feel of our sweet love;

---------Our wholesome home.

Imagine

---------Our hands held, fused, without protective glove—

---------Amidst sea foam.

Imagine

---------Honey tastes, creamy creams, and blessed fruit …

---------And our sweat!

Imagine

---------Your impatience as I pull off your boot—

---------Do not fret.

Imagine

---------You dream of me without your potent will

---------Ecstatically.

Imagine

---------Desperately you want from me our thrill

---------So proudly.

Imagine

---------You need me as your eternal angel

---------Of this earth.

Imagine

---------I can annihilate your vacant hell

---------With my worth.

Imagine

---------That I’ll wait for all my productive life

---------For sex with you.

Imagine

---------That I’ll bear the waiting, relentless strife;

---------My soul blue.

Imagine

---------That I’ll maintain my happiness despite

---------The lack of you.

Imagine

---------That I pledge to you my desperate might:

---------My love for you!

Imagine

---------That one day you come to change your firm mind

---------And pursue bliss.

Imagine

---------You accept our souls as the same pure kind,

---------That I’m amiss;

Imagine

---------You do crave, cry and stress for lack of me:

---------Your only priest.

Imagine

--------- That you, with welcome, pledge it all for me

---------And grant your feast.

Imagine

---------On our alter heaven smiles, melted hearts,

---------And hungry eyes.

Imagine

---------Our forever, our now’s, and burning hearts,

---------And without lies.

Imagine

---------You are I, I am you, and how I cry

---------Without your thing!

Imagine

---------You miss me, you need me, with your whole I—

----------Let’s forge our ring.

[AMERICONORMAN]

Just curious...are you gay?

If you read all my poetry, several make the answer obvious. So, yes. I am curious as to the origin of the question. Is it because you are "curious"? Or is it because on some poem you read, you started reading it thinking that it was dedicated to a woman, and then suddenly I include a line that dedicates the love poem to a male, causing some confusion?

Anyways, screw my sexuality! Do you like poetry, which one?

Jose Gainza.

[AMERICONORMAN]

I was a little confused because some of the poems (I did not read them all) have a woman involved, where others involve a man, and I was not sure whose perspective was being given. But I thought it likely you were gay.

Yes, I like poetry: Gerard Manley Hopkins, Siegfried Sassoon, Matthew Arnold---and Robert Service for fun.

I wanted to ask if you liked my poetry, and made a mistake. But it is nice to know specifically who you like. I met a guy who seemed very interesting but he had to leave before I got to know for sure; he recommended Hopkins. I haven't had the chance to go through his poems. I'll check out the other guys at some point too.

Anyways, thanks for reading my poetry.

Jose Gainza.

[AMERICONORMAN]

This poem is extracted from a short story on this forum (by me) called, NAZANEL'S PERFECTION.

In this context I call it:

REGARDING BEATRICE ENKIDIOS--By Jose Gainza

Her intelligent eyes made the viewer blush due to her study;

The tenderness of her hands’ caress (empowered from the canvass),

Was felt on one’s cheek as one returned a careful study.

The scorn in her mouth, the joy of her teeth, the vitality of her nose of brass,

The tolerance of her ears, the musculature around her breast,

Her commanding arms, her angelic legs, her knees of worship,

And her feet of flight, was the image of a woman best;

And the goodness of her entire aura went past the essence of friendship.

She was then born solely to live her days with him,

Because he knew her like most men could only dream,

Because the secret of her was to be found in him,

That place and power where they share a dream.

[AMERICONORMAN]

About my poems being too "self-referntial". Whether my poems refer to my personal life, you have no way of knowing, based on the poetry alone. But since I do write about such a broad theme such as love, I like that the poems I write can subsume some situation of mine, past or present. Given that I speak in the first person, often, can lead one to think that they are just autobiographical. But I believe anyone can relate to the situation of the speaker. When the poem is "wooing" a man, I like to hope that people can still relate, because the themes are universal.

I won't be writing any epics anytime soon. I would like to learn how to master short poems, because this is the area of poetry that best compliments my long-term literary goals, and my nearer business goals.

I appreciate your criticism though. And I will have to check out Chesterton too on my journeys.

[AMERICONORMAN]

It is Ayn Rand's birthday. She would have been 101 today. With better health care she could have realistically still have been living. I wrote this poem today especially for the occassion. It is a tribute to her life and ideas. I have never explicitly written a poem in tribute to her before. It's good. But next year's should be better.

Copyright © 2006. Jose Gainza. All Rights Reserved.

AYN RAND 101

By Jose Gainza

I felt one day the gift that you could bring.

I fell one day from the cloud that I was in,

As you struck me like a lightning bolted sting,

Plucked me from the fog that blocked my sin.

I was raindrops, tear drops, tears of joy …

I grew wings, floated, fluttered back to earth,

To find the promise of your love and not a ploy,

For the force bubbling in me where is mirth.

There was the promise of a healthy happiness,

There, the esteem, though hiding, of my mind,

And liberty was the beacon to my bliss,

And gold became a product of my reasoned selfishness.

I do know why I love you like I do—

I do know why and it’s true.

I do know why you thrill me like you do—

I do know why and you too.

Yes, you love me to the range that I’m a man,

Though, you left our world in nineteen eighty-two.

Yes, you graced us with a gift of worldly span

For every able minded will to learn it too.

In Howard Roark bestowed was your “religion”,

Despite a world that would surely call you Sin:

The independence of a man to his good vision,

And integrity to create the world that you can win.

With Dominique you alienated heaven,

A realm on earth where mirth is felt alone;

A work of self-esteem branding earthly heaven;

A joy persists despite her melancholy drone.

I do know why I love you like I do—

I do know why and it’s true.

I do know why you thrill me like you do—

I do know why and you too.

It was the promise of Francisco very soon,

Those early pages of a boy, a prodigy,

The money-maker and the boy with silver spoon,

Who caught me to your rebirth poetry.

“Atlas Shrugged changed my life,” so often said.

The promise-wish of sages past with Galt became fulfilled:

A perfect moral man made real—though not dead.

Thus the John Galt line is mine; this be my guild.

I saw a world where happiness is real.

I knew for sure how needed is the mind;

I felt the innocence to feel a self-love real;

I learned money was the best way to be greedy but so kind.

I do know why I love you like I do—

I do know why and it’s true.

I do know why you thrill me like you do—

I do know why and you too.

Though now you lay still in your plotted ground,

One aspect of your spirit I will always keep

In my mind, as a function, guiding me around:

The gem of “plot” to plunge into the thrilling deep.

I know of causes of some ocean voyages.

I know the fountainhead of dwellings tall.

To lose Roxanne I know the vital series.

I know the reason why New York was lost to all.

I know conflict at the core of man’s excitement.

I know how cool it is to watch the stakes grow high.

To clash opposing values is a magnet-merriment,

And to bang inside of men is an explosion in the sky.

I do know why I love you like I do—

I do know why and it’s true.

I do know why you thrill me like you do—

I do know why and you too.

Even more than the fact that we exist,

Of value is to me is how you think.

To think and know men freely must persist,

Straight ahead and not falling from the brink.

I need not pray for a model far away,

Too far, even further than Plato’s silly dream

To know the things before me that can’t stay

Coz they stay but only by a common seam.

And by contrast to near like things

Our concepts glow with a solid essence,

As they are chained to earth by single things,

And open the universe to common sense.

I do know why I love you like I do—

I do know why and it’s true.

I do know why you thrill me like you do—

I do know why and you too.

[AMERICONORMAN]

This next poem cost me $3.00 Canadian to complete because I had to do it at a cafe.

REIGN HERE AND NOW

By Jose Gainza

Let existence reign over mind no matter

what is said and done, what they think and wish…

“…That sacred pearl past where there is no more.”

Let nature reign through its recalcitrant rules,

by the way it has to move, the way it has to stop…

“…That place, that force, that law of ours.”

Let Earth reign majestic as the planet better

than all we know, than all we even wish…

“…That wondrous paradise if we make it so.”

Let man reign triumphant past all duels

within himself, versus his foes, smiling from the top…

“…That blessed child born to be a Man.”

Let reason reign as the loftiest animal spirit,

Architect for senses, craning past the puzzles…

“…That grand dynamo when logic is well-learned.”

Let Freedom reign as the arena of thought,

the divan of mirth, and the bastion of our truth…

“…That condition as oxygen for our soul.”

Let justice reign bought by the will we writ,

when the killer’s killed, and the Maker giggles…

“…That blade to peel the fruit or axe the head.”

Let joy reign strong coz of the acts we ought,

by reason confirmed, and felt since our youth…

“…That feeling we win that turns ever-present.”

Let truth reign real in the contest of fame,

Deception banished and scorned … Hail to truth…

“…That sphere that we toil into.”

Let gold reign bright as the standard of New,

as the backer of cash, as the ring of my love…

“…That peaceful blow turned into a caress.”

Let taxes reign strong as the quintessence of blame,

As the fuel of sloth, the stab at Rights, the damner of youth…

“That concept that must reach the majority-minds.”

Let Roark reign strong upon high with his view,

with his peaceful reward, the kiss of the dove.

“That hero who first returned us to our code.”

[AMERICONORMAN]

TO TODAY’S MARILYN (Ecstasy Sounds From The Future)

Inescapable so, is man’s benchmark of beauty.

Undeniable so, is this better—this best:

Man’s physical form which pleases

Most pleasingly so, and eternal.

Such is man’s godly-like flesh;

Remember—remind me:

Have you felt his broad shoulders, with height, bring you smiles?

Have you felt stomach ripples by six bear your teeth?

Or did his armor—his chest—bite your lips?

Did definition in his legs close your eyes?

Did the silk of his skin leave your breathless?

And did your memories chase you restless?

Did you when balance did blend pigment to features

Shudder—

Hotly inside you, like me, and in them?

And when his chin matched his nose,

And his lips matched rightly the ears,

And when his eyes matched his hair,

And when his cheeks matched his crown—

Did you tremble?

Such is perfection.

With all of this we feel and know

Beauty, perfection, and man at his best,

Even now when you have yet to reach your ideal.

You’re too slender; you are too child-like.

It is time for nature’s rebuke

Coz this is when nature beats on her chest

And proclaims:

“Though your beauty meets my test,

I know there’s more of you to grow—

And there’s more to man than that.

But though you’re still slender,

You wear my great gown of beauty still.

And I know that one day you will will

What I will.

And though your best is before you still,

You’re still so real and great.”

You excite me coz from where you extend!

How you shoot from a splendor of spirit!

This smile, this fair harmony, which I brush,

Could not compare to her benchmark,

If not to seal the deeper beauty of your soul.

It’s the dancer in you who struts and flies—

For sure.

It’s the singer in you, your harp—

You know?

You’re a businessman who knows his field—

You market your talent.

It is you—

You who values, you who plans—

You, creator of your creations—

Creations of passion, creations from thought—

Creations ecstatic, spectacles, dreams—

Dancing conceptions, inductions, perfections—

So that I must love this new infection:

My sickness itching me deep in my skin;

This pain in my chest futile but tempting;

Your echoing song while I work—

You rooster who wakes up my dawn!

It’s the dream of your kiss from afar;

Now, the scent of your scent too Pacific;

Now, the dream of the home where you dance …

Far too far,

Too terrific, and much more.

[AMERICONORMAN]

It is Ayn Rand's birthday. She would have been 101 today. With better health care she could have realistically still have been living. I wrote this poem today especially for the occassion. It is a tribute to her life and ideas. I have never explicitly written a poem in tribute to her before. It's good. But next year's should be better.

Copyright © 2006. Jose Gainza. All Rights Reserved.

AYN RAND 101

By Jose Gainza

I felt one day the gift that you could bring.

I fell one day from the cloud that I was in,

As you struck me like a lightning bolted sting,

Plucked me from the fog that blocked my sin.

I was raindrops, tear drops, tears of joy …

I grew wings, floated, fluttered back to earth,

To find the promise of your love and not a ploy,

For the force bubbling in me where is mirth.

There was the promise of a healthy happiness,

There, the esteem, though hiding, of my mind,

And liberty was the beacon to my bliss,

And gold became a product of my reasoned selfishness.

I do know why I love you like I do—

I do know why and it’s true.

I do know why you thrill me like you do—

I do know why and you too.

Yes, you love me to the range that I’m a man,

Though, you left our world in nineteen eighty-two.

Yes, you graced us with a gift of worldly span

For every able minded will to learn it too.

In Howard Roark bestowed was your “religion”,

Despite a world that would surely call you Sin:

The independence of a man to his good vision,

And integrity to create the world that you can win.

With Dominique you alienated heaven,

A realm on earth where mirth is felt alone;

A work of self-esteem branding earthly heaven;

A joy persists despite her melancholy drone.

I do know why I love you like I do—

I do know why and it’s true.

I do know why you thrill me like you do—

I do know why and you too.

It was the promise of Francisco very soon,

Those early pages of a boy, a prodigy,

The money-maker and the boy with silver spoon,

Who caught me to your rebirth poetry.

“Atlas Shrugged changed my life,” so often said.

The promise-wish of sages past with Galt became fulfilled:

A perfect moral man made real—though not dead.

Thus the John Galt line is mine; this be my guild.

I saw a world where happiness is real.

I knew for sure how needed is the mind;

I felt the innocence to feel a self-love real;

I learned money was the best way to be greedy but so kind.

I do know why I love you like I do—

I do know why and it’s true.

I do know why you thrill me like you do—

I do know why and you too.

Though now you lay still in your plotted ground,

One aspect of your spirit I will always keep

In my mind, as a function, guiding me around:

The gem of “plot” to plunge into the thrilling deep.

I know of causes of some ocean voyages.

I know the fountainhead of dwellings tall.

To lose Roxanne I know the vital series.

I know the reason why New York was lost to all.

I know conflict at the core of man’s excitement.

I know how cool it is to watch the stakes grow high.

To clash opposing values is a magnet-merriment,

And to bang inside of men is an explosion in the sky.

I do know why I love you like I do—

I do know why and it’s true.

I do know why you thrill me like you do—

I do know why and you too.

Even more than the fact that we exist,

Of value is to me is how you think.

To think and know men freely must persist,

Straight ahead and not falling from the brink.

I need not pray for a model far away,

Too far, even further than Plato’s silly dream

To know the things before me that can’t stay

Coz they stay but only by a common seam.

And by contrast to near like things

Our concepts glow with a solid essence,

As they are chained to earth by single things,

And open the universe to common sense.

I do know why I love you like I do—

I do know why and it’s true.

I do know why you thrill me like you do—

I do know why and you too.

I would like to draw your attention to this poem on this special day, and to wish Ayn Rand a happy birthday. This poem I wrote for her 101st birthday, and was stylistically inspired by a song sung by Frank Sinatra called "I Don't Know Why (But I Do".

[AMERICONORMAN]

YOU AND CRUELTY

Suddenly

A weight is gone; it floats away into the sky,

As I ascend this lift that you have given me.

All these years how you have built this creed of yours, this craft,

All these years how you have come so far

With this abode that your present.

And all the furnishings therein are there to taunt,

As until today they used to haunt:

There, the kingdom of your beauty bed.

There, the only sovereign is your image glass.

There, your body stands alone in welcome,

Before this sad invading soul that’s fighting shock.

The cruelty stops, it seems to stop because of you,

Like from that laugh of yours that waves inside of me—

That seems to drench into my core.

To that smile of yours that speaks so loud,

And knows so much,

That bore it all alone,

While juggling balls of pleasure and solace,

I say good day before the dancing sun that is your soul.

And to that voice and sight that dare to will those things that shake my earth,

And make a man like me reproach himself for thinking wrong,

I say straight and proud, I say Amen.

I take I don’t want to be cruel anymore.

I take it now I want to raise men to your height,

Now that I have met you for the first time—

Once again.

I spent my days and years lashing at them,

Striking at them, spitting sometimes at their feet,

And now perhaps I’ll share a little embrace with some,

Though some will still annoy me, and annoy you still perhaps.

You have distracted me from being cruel; you know it well—

Freed me from doling on men at least in that only way,

For their only use it seemed.

I have spied that you treat them differently than I:

You show that bit more concern for them than I,

Though they can’t see of how much you are aware.

You give them a chance, it seems to me.

You let them hurt you.

And you take their blows,

You take their threats, and secret lies—

You give them strength,

On you.

And this is where you have come to distract me—

It’s as if they never reach the core of you:

Into your wise, wise sphere.

They with their cruelty,

And you with that ready stare,

Do not contradict this realm that we endure.

How do you dare stand there ready for me?

Have you even been waiting all this time!

How cocky and cruel!

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

HER HURRICANE IN ME

For Fifteen years I’ve yearned to enter Puerto Rico

To brush my cheeks along her earth and sands,

To taste her water and her potent nectar,

To have her salt taste linger in my throat,

And to lick my lips as a gesture of my need.

I’ve hungered for her food and for her spirit.

I’ve wondered for her art and for her song.

I’ve dreamed of her adulation and her touch.

I’ve raised the giant in me to step onto her shore.

And yet she bars my way.

Her guards are standing on her shore.

Her guns are ready to unleash on me.

Her ears ignore my sacred song.

Her eyes forbid my blessed beauty.

Her tongue is ready to rebuke me or to kill me with her silence.

Her finger’s set to point me back to sea.

Her jails will neither house me for my crime of love for her.

And so I strategize to be the best that I can be,

To grow this giant that I am into a god,

To gather up my strength and make it more,

To realize an artwork that will quench her breath,

To turn into a hurricane of poesy and love,

And to ravage like no isle has ever known.

Edited March 20, 2008 by AMERICONORMAN

[AMERICONORMAN]

THE ETERNAL RECURRENCE OF YOUR ROARING THUNDER

By Jose Gainza

You thunder in me, you thunder in me, you thunder in me …

My heart pounds and pounds, it pounds and pounds!

You thunder in words, you thunder in words—you thunder my breast, thunder my breast.

You slow down my voice, you raise the volume, you expand my lungs,

As you pound in me, O pound in me.

I see it’s like glass in me, smashing in me, shattering free.

I hear the hard brass in me, trembling free,

My metal in me electrically shuddering, ringing in me, like bells in me.

I hear you as horns in me blowing free, boisterously blowing your song through me.

My heart pounds and pounds, it pounds and pounds!

I hear you as drums in me, pounding free.

I see you as leather in me bearing the hammer

Hammering me, hammering in me …

My heart pounds and pounds, it pounds and pounds!

I feel you as water in me, flowing through me; you are the falls on me,

Crashing through me, pounding the boulders inside of me.

You are the showers in me machine gunning me,

Drenching my clothes and my flesh.

I feel you as wind in me shooting through me,

The launch when my earth wants to sing,

Wants to bare its simple pain to it all in me.

I hear you howling in me, screeching in me.

I hear your sirens and beckoning reach,

Pounding in me, O pounding in me.

My heart pounds and pounds, it pounds and pounds!

I hear you as words in me, as seeds in me, growing, growling, and echoing free—

Calling my soul to envision, and my eyes to enlighten

The truth I resist when you pound in me, O pound in me.

I hide from the storm that you are, you as pounding in me,

The thunder of you and the trembling in me,

The wisdom of you that still lingers in me,

But it thunders in me.

The vision you spoke of, the freedom of we, the freedom of you and the freedom of I,

The freedom of men who know of the storm that persists midst our light;

And who know of the system that will recall the sun,

And who know of the promise like I promised to you.

I persist while producing the vision but bearing the storm

Of your dying shadow and fainting echo, yet persisting memory.

Yet I’m producing a vision to end your storm …

My heart pounds in me, it pounds and pounds!

Still you thunder in me, you pound and pound and pound …

[AMERICONORMAN]

R.EST AND R.ELAXATION -By Jose Gainza.

It may seem to you my twenties were smothered away without you;

That I approaching thirty did fail to keep that happy promise.

I promised work, and gold, and love, and bliss.

I promised wealth, my art, and mindful playtimes with you.

Did I offend you with that happy promise of mine—

The inner potential that was screaming to break free?

But you tore my peace away and renounced me for your liberty,

Once you bestowed me with a fleeting joy that seemed to forever shine.

My eight year theme became that nagging sorrow and regret.

And now I approach this era of my first white serenity,

And all the blackness of my past dissolves into this purity,

And this child evolves into a man who courts his merit.

The fear is now a soaring eagle dominating heights.

And now my earth sees its innocence in the eyes of the moon.

I accept the promise of this fourth decade that came too soon.

Yet I know I must have sinned coz of all my inner fights.

For how could a boy with so much inside waste all those years!

What disease made him weep in silence all those hours without end!

Why could he not fulfill the vacancy without his dearest, rarest friend!

Why did he tolerate the sickness amidst the errors of his kin and peers?

He shut his eyes to the horror of the story that has been Man,

And the terror of the doom that haunts our doorstep,

And the frustration that comes with each of our futile step,

And the sadness from that thing that did lose you, my best man.

It is bad and I accept my pain, my rage, and my tears.

It is bad but I have purged away my fears and need.

Today I stand alone and bear their laughter and their creed.

Yet it was good to live beside you those too short years.

Walking by your side I glimpsed at all that was THE golden city.

And included in that realm was that walking by your side.

And included in that realm was the vision of our pride.

And that is what I lost … and your pretty face too pretty.

[AMERICONORMAN]

The following poem I wrote most recently:

Two Heroes At Thirty—By Jose Gainza

In the prime of his life he travelled in spirits

Not knowing which to take hold of,

To grant to the fortune of merit

The safe in the depths of his love.

He trekked in his youth with blossoming flowers

Basking in each of their scents for awhile,

Until the time of exchange, increasing his powers,

And to welcome the next with that smile.

What did he win by trading in spirits?

Why did those bullions allow it?

Was he acting just like brute pirates?

Did he expect some fatal bullet?

He gave much of his glory to them,

Those who exchanged their worship,

For the chance to share in his diadem,

Their reward: eternal friendship.

But never once in his life—for so long—

Could he give his whole self completely.

Never could his motive be a “thou,”

He showed them in action sincerely.

The prime of his life, those something twenties,

Is when he discovered his power for art.

It was the time to create all his fancies,

To speed forward straight as a dart.

These were the years when he doubted

The adulation of social engagements.

For in an hour his trap could be mounted,

Feeling shy of fain for eternal commitments.

Thus he always returned to his muse,

That beacon that inspired his work.

Never, for so long, did he meet this fuse;

Of it merely his perception did lurk.

He imagined a being so lovely and lustrous

But never one picture could hold.

Though ere his garden was prosperous,

None were bestowed as his timeless mold.

What he loved of his crew were their eyes.

What he saw inside them was longing.

He saw himself fair in their sighs,

Then he left just to see them pouting.

One day in his work he was playing with light,

He was studying the modes of reflection.

Here he stumbled upon his lost plight:

In the mirror was his utter perfection.

How many times had he looked in that glass

To wipe the paint clean from his face?

How many times had he let the time pass

Creating mere mirrors on canvass?

Many mountains upturned in the lakes

At heights where fists did not bar him.

His palette of pale dawns and fierce dusks

Painted the following dictum:

To see myself real as a rock,

To show my soul with all its splendour,

To shatter my consciousness’ lock,

Vain would be the will of a philosopher.

A statue can reveal my beauteous virtue,

Oil can paint my eyes and their sorrow,

Verse can make my thoughts shine through.

But from sense a theory can merely borrow.

Only through art can an essence be found,

The medium by which to give birth to oneself.

And even then are mere fragments that bound

No matter how much is tossed up in delve.

It’s good so that the struggle never wanes, though.

Evermore are inner parts transported

Past the frontier firmly where my eyes can see me new,

Where the fact of my existence is re-recorded.

I once thought that as an actor I could make the most

Of the time I need to spend creating.

Often times with inspiration I would make a toast

To extract the drama from another being.

Soon I found that it is only while alone

I could engage in my self-genesis

Of such dimensions to never reach the bone:

The contemplation of the purest bliss.

Then one day when he was finally thirty

He saw a stranger on the bus.

Very handsome his face was dirty.

Shaven cheeks were too much of a fuss.

From behind what he could only study

Were sporadic turns of a profile,

A snapping jaw always ready,

A direct nose to lips it can’t defile.

Something in his face said he was forty.

And in the way he stood to leave,

With a grey cloak thin and sporty,

Cut so that you would not believe

That he looked half the age he was!

He was the epitome of Statuesque,

Gave the effect of marble lines,

And wore a subdued humoresque.

Then the artist knew for once

These were not so wasted years.

It was not his time for penance,

He had lost the age of tears.

The muse that he had sought for

Was before his very eyes.

Still he had to wait some more,

The man was just a sign for the skies.

What he knew was he could be

For another in this world,

On this his very decade three,

A moral idol now unfurled.

The bus now left to him alone

He was thinking of his past:

A crackling voice on the phone

Volunteering to be last.

Now the new role he would play

For the boy who claimed no chains,

And further more without delay,

Is of a love that never feigns.

The boy grown up walking in the park

On the day that he turned thirty,

Was the end of days still dark,

With his soul no longer dirty.

There was standing his old friend

Like a statue in his dreams,

A statue shattered by some fiend,

Of old Barbarians in teams.

This is where we used to come, I know.

I knew that you would be here on this day.

I thought then we could take it slow

Until this day when I choose to always stay.

Your face is now untouched by tragedy.

My love has ceased to be your crutch.

Now our discord is a blessed harmony.

I am no longer wounded by your touch.

More than three years after writing it, I have edited this poem. Certain parts always bothered me. Now I am satisfied. It says exactly what I want to see. It is effective for me so that I can say something like, "It gives me the courage to live a life time."

Two Long Lost Friends At Thirty Years

In the prime of his life he travelled in spirits

Not knowing which to take hold of,

To grant to the fortune of merit

The safe in the depths of his love.

He trekked in his youth with blossoming flowers

Basking in each of their scents for awhile,

Until the time of exchange, increasing his powers,

And to welcome the next with that smile.

What did he win by trading in spirits?

Why did those gold ones allow it?

Was he acting the role of brute pirates?

Did he taunt some fatal bullet?

He gave much of his glory to them,

Those who exchanged him their worship,

For the chance to share in his diadem,

And their reward: eternal friendship.

But never once in his life—for so long—

Could he give his whole self completely.

Never could his motive be a “thou,”

He showed them in action sincerely.

The prime of his life, those something twenties,

Is when he discovered his power for art.

It was the time to create all his fancies,

To bullet forward just like a dart.

These were the years when he doubted

The adulation of social engagements.

Yet in an hour his trap could be mounted,

But never of eternal commitments.

Thus he always returned to his muse,

That beacon that inspired his work.

But never, for so long, could he meet this fuse;

Of it mere recollection did lurk.

He imagined a being so lovely and lustrous

But never one picture could hold.

Though ere his garden was prosperous,

None were bestowed as his timeless mold.

What he loved of his crew were their eyes.

What he saw inside them was longing.

He saw himself fair in their sighs,

Then he left just to see them pouting.

One day in his work he was playing with light,

He was studying the modes of reflection.

Here he stumbled upon his lost plight:

In the mirror was his utter perfection.

How many times had he looked in that glass

To wipe the paint clean from his face?

How many times had he let the time pass

Creating mere mirrors on canvass?

Many mountains upturned in the lakes

At heights where fists did not bar him.

His palette of pale dawns and fierce dusks

Painted the following dictum:

To see myself real as a rock,

To show my soul with all its splendour,

To shatter my consciousness’ lock,

Vain would be the will of a philosopher.

A statue can reveal my beauteous virtue,

Oil can paint my eyes and their sorrow,

Verse can make my thoughts shine through.

But from sense a theory can merely borrow.

Only through art can an essence be found,

The medium by which to give birth to oneself.

And even then are mere fragments that bound

No matter how much one recalls from self.

It’s good so that the struggle never wanes, though.

Evermore are inner parts transported

Past the frontier firmly where my eyes can see me new,

Where the fact of my existence is re-recorded.

I once thought that as an actor I could make the most

Of the time I need to spend creating.

Often times with inspiration I would make a toast

To extract the drama from another being.

Soon I found that it is only while alone

I could engage in my self-genesis

Of such dimensions to never reach the bone:

The contemplation of the purest bliss.

Then one day when he was finally thirty

He saw a stranger on the bus.

Very handsome his face was dirty.

Shaven cheeks were too much of a fuss.

From behind what he could only study

Were sporadic turns of a profile,

A snapping jaw always ready,

A direct nose to lips it can’t defile.

Something in his face said he was forty.

And in the way he stood to leave,

With a grey cloak thin and sporty,

Cut so that you would not believe

That he looked half the age he was!

He was the epitome of Statuesque,

Gave the effect of marble lines,

And wore a subdued humoresque.

Then the artist knew for once

These were not so wasted years.

It was not his time for penance,

He had lost the age of tears.

The muse that he had sought for

Was before his very eyes.

But another he was rather waiting for,

A man who wore too his teary eyes.

Then he knew what he could be:

For another in this world,

On this his very decade three,

A moral idol now unfurled.

The bus now left to him alone

He was thinking of his past:

A crackling voice on the phone

Volunteering to be last.

Now the new role he would play

For the boy who claimed no chains,

And further more without delay,

Is of a love that never feigns.

The boy grown up is walking in this park

On the day that he turns thirty,

The end of days still dark,

With his soul no longer dirty.

There is standing his old artist friend:

Like a statue in his dreams,

With his will that will not bend

Now to fulfill his own wet dreams.

This is where we used to come, I know.

I knew that you would be here on this day.

I thought then we could take it slow

Until this day when I choose to always stay.

Your face is now untouched by tragedy.

My love has ceased to be your crutch.

Now our discord is a blessed harmony.

I am no longer wounded by your touch.