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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.

You can listen to me reading this poem here

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My Bed-Ego—By Jose Gainza

As the exigency of breath to my blood stream,

And the urgency of beats to my heart;

The balance of sun and the void scream,

Keeping me cool with warm heart—

And the demand of my feet on the ground,

Not water, not air, but a floor;

How critically our clothes must abound

On our limbs, as our pelt, as we roar—

As the exigency of light for our sight;

And the acuteness of eyes for good sleep;

And the demand that our words denote right,

So that knowledge we can fulfill deep—

As the crisis commands that we judge

The bully of self-immolation, and desecration;

As the promise requires no goodness shall budge:

The happiness—enactment of self-recreation—

As the exigency of mine is the course

When impatient dream calls on my pen,

And the code of my soul ruptures with force

To a realm of the good happy men—

Then when Facts announce where I am,

And the beacon exposes my soul’s loneliness,

Even amongst folks that are good as I am—

There, injustice gives glow to my still loneliness.

My exigent Attainment demands

I forge by my will a symbol of need:

My lighthouse in these stormy lands,

My creature who grew of the same spirit seed.

By the air of this earth, and the breath of my breast!

By my titanic thoughts, and the health of my head!

By the joy from it all, and the towers we best,

I demand it exigent you be my bed-fountainhead …

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

[You can listen to me read this poem here]

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

Your Love: A Bullet in My Heart—By Jose Gainza

Within my blood flow’s quintessence,

My bloody core, my living heart,

I dreamed a slug as my death sentence …

But my life did not depart.

A bullet of a gangster’s gun,

A kid who struts to tribal beats,

Did try to make my life undone,

Did try to end my quill penned beats.

Thus, some portend of my coming doom;

And others, of a long won life.

Some speak of rivalry in bloom,

But I predict a loving strife.

You see, I felt the bullet in my heart;

A pain still lingered even when awake.

But I did welcome this sweet hurt,

And thus its joy I can’t forsake.

Joy! Yes, joy the bullet drew.

I shall not fear this dream.

This missile is a sign of you;

A wound, a whisper of my dream.

The pain was sharp but tickled.

My body weak in bed it lay,

Even as blood outside me trickled.

So I wanted, needed you to stay:

You are this silver slug inside of me:

My heart’s a wolf hungry for you:

A marksman’s goal turned into me:

My single heart thus welcomes you …

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

[You can listen to me read this poem here]

Edited by AMERICONORMAN
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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.

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

[You can listen to me read this poem here.]

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  • 1 month later...

To Generalissimo J.E. Franco and Liberty

By Jose Gainza

The happy cry of longing that erupts within my chest.

The battle cry of protest damning burdens without Right.

The vision of my country that is free to do its best.

The vision of a garden where our sacred men unite.

The splendor of our orchard we will grow with blessed fruit.

Our thought to change our earth and strengthen body.

Our choices and convictions to endure our joy pursuit.

The expression of our interest and our duty.

The embracing of our freedom and our promise.

And the kissing-pinching of a wealth we will procure.

And the dancing ‘round the malice we dismiss.

Here’s our treasure chest of Justice we have promised to ensure.

With a treasury of goodwill we are arming our proud men.

By the training of conviction we are marching to our glory.

Shedding sweat, toil, and blood, we are cheering on our men …

We are standing there among them enduring the same story.

We are fighting for our freedom.

We are risking all our lots.

We are leaving our beloveds.

We are changing family.

We are wounding and re-wounding.

We may lose our very lives.

But we march on with Conviction,

Yes, we march on amidst the smoke,

We march on past the stench of war,

We march on past the graves.

We march on past our brothers,

And we march amongst them too.

We’d save our would-be brothers if they didn’t hunt us too.

But we kill the tyrant’s longing.

We kill our freedom-takers.

We defend our ancient rights.

We ensure man’s paradise.

On this quest you bravely joined me,

You have heard my distant call.

You have come to set me free to set you free.

You dare join me in this coming steady brawl.

You have understood my aim devotedly.

You have grasped the sacred method of my way.

You have known that this is what it means to Be.

You know now; thinking thus you can’t delay.

As an artist you have been you own creator.

You’ve grown white-envy for this earth and how she wills.

You have sworn to move her too, be her creator.

To have her serve you; serve by your own will.

And so you satisfy your joy and make her new.

You beautify the earth and ways of people.

You inspire men to see the freakish godly few.

Your spirit gleams golden forth, beyond the people.

We fight for this, us two.

We’ve lived alone for it so long.

We wait and wait to do our thing.

We leave the folks and make our earth alone.

We leave the folks to remake our sacred forms.

You’ve done it there; I’ve done it here.

Now you join me on this enterprise with love.

And for that we fight our war—

To remake our world anew our way!

I do welcome you my mate.

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  • 4 months later...

FOR THE MAN WHO LAUGHS

By Jose Gainza

I didn’t know that there existed this attention,

So much attention on this earth,

From you to me, breaking free.

How could I know, how should I know,

When all I wanted were your eyes

Before my eyes:

Four precious eyes …

For so long …

For so long …

For so long I want your love in words

From your lips, speaking plenty.

For so long I need to touch your face,

And rub your beard and naked skin.

For so long I need to smell your scent,

Down below and everywhere.

For so long I want the taste that I procure,

The taste of style, and taste of flesh.

For so long I’ll bear the pranks,

The pleasing pranks from you.

Now’s the time you want to share me with your friends;

Your precious, precious friends—

So close to precious, precious, precious me.

You want to hear me give them joy,

Like I to you, and you to me.

You want to hear how they can laugh

When I do jest, when I do smile:

I, the man who laughs …

Ha-ha-ha-ha!

Edited by AMERICONORMAN
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This poem should not be taken to suggest that I endorse the PLO or any organization or nation that threatens Israel. For many reasons, Israel deserves to be supported and defended by the West, by America and Canada especially, and America's politicians need to awaken and understand the importance of defending and encouraging the prosperity of Israel, the only Democracy in the middle-east, but more accurately, the only state that defends individual rights to a satisfactory extent, so that we can call Israel: Brother.

What this poem is, is not humor too much. It can be taken humorously, but it is more in the vain of 'talking dirty to a lover', when your beloved is Jewish, and perhaps you are not, and so in the realm of romance, your beloved should be charmed, for that special moment, by this poem.

Benjamin Netanyahu, in his book A Durable Peace, entitles a chapter, The Trojan Horse. He describe in it how the Palestian effort and war-action for a state WITHIN Israel, is a Trojan Horse of the Arab countries, to take that state, so to serve as a Trojan Horse as a military tactict to finally make Israel vulnerable enough, to take more of her, first diplomatically and then militarily, with the final end to wipe her out!

So with that said, enjoy the sweetness of this poem:

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

MY TROJAN HORSE IN ZION

By Jose Gainza

I wanna be your Trojan horse, to give myself inside of you.

I wanna be your PLO and invade you, sacred Zion.

I wanna liberate the me in you, and govern just this few.

I wanna rule this part of you, and the rest to keep an eye on.

And once I pilfer thus my state, I will terrorize the rest.

Katyushas of love will launch inside your land.

And thus my plot will unfold to conquer your best.

Thus with my charm, with mirth, I will own your hand.

The nations united will sanction my right to your state.

And all the people of you will turn into mine.

The riches of you will entice and abound on my plate.

Your stubborn resistance will now toe my line.

We’ll fuse into one and dance by the sapphire sea.

We’ll build a new home of peace and compact a new way.

How foolish I’ll seem in those times when I used to plea.

For now by our right we violently, feverishly play.

Edited by AMERICONORMAN
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MY TROJAN HORSE IN ZION

By Jose Gainza

I wanna be your Trojan horse, to give myself inside of you.

I wanna be your PLO and invade you, sacred Zion.

I wanna liberate the me in you, and govern just this few.

I wanna rule this part of you, and the rest to keep an eye on.

While some people refer to a love succumbing to a sexual act as conquering that loved one, your emphasis on the PLO, even with the explanation, is talking about love making as an inherent act of violence, instead of a kind of hard, but pleasurable play. So, be careful, as no intelligent, rational lover, ought to want to be conquered as the PLO is trying to conquer Israel. Besides, the PLO is a terrorist organization and is not trying to make love to Israel. You might want to listen to Dr. Peikoff's most recent podcast which goes more into how terrorist organizations ought to be reported on objectively.

http://peikoff.com/podcasts/2009-03-09.052.mp3

One ought not to romanticize terrorist activities in any way shape or form -- especially in the sense of the PLO against Israel. Comparing making love to a PLO plot is to remove yourself from and rational lover's consideration.

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While some people refer to a love succumbing to a sexual act as conquering that loved one, your emphasis on the PLO, even with the explanation, is talking about love making as an inherent act of violence, instead of a kind of hard, but pleasurable play. So, be careful, as no intelligent, rational lover, ought to want to be conquered as the PLO is trying to conquer Israel. Besides, the PLO is a terrorist organization and is not trying to make love to Israel. You might want to listen to Dr. Peikoff's most recent podcast which goes more into how terrorist organizations ought to be reported on objectively.

http://peikoff.com/podcasts/2009-03-09.052.mp3

One ought not to romanticize terrorist activities in any way shape or form -- especially in the sense of the PLO against Israel. Comparing making love to a PLO plot is to remove yourself from and rational lover's consideration.

Well, that's pretty harsh. But Israel is such a serious and important subject that I can understand why it could be sensitive. The whole poem rests on the idea that the PLO is in love with Israel, what if. And what if all the brutal intentions and violent actions could be transformed into acts of love. The poem makes clear that this transformation is the case.

That is how I wrote it. What Netanyahu describes in that particular chapter is terrible. So I considered whether I could make a love poem out of it. That was the challenge. Please note the line about becoming one, or Katyushas of love, etc. Israel and the PLO are symbols, and I have changed the nature of the PLO to one of peace and love. Israel is one consciousness, to be conquered; and PLO is another consciousness, the conquered. In reality the PLO or an organization of the kind can never win against Israel, whereas in my poem they do.

I envision to lovers in bed, they've been considering this issue for some time, and then suddenly one beloved comes up with this poem on the spot. What would be the other's reaction? I expect giant spontaenously laughter, and then a passionate kiss, along with the words, "you're so adorable".

The ironic thing is that I wrote this poem for someone. Do you think that's why he's mad at me? :lol:

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Well, that's pretty harsh. But Israel is such a serious and important subject that I can understand why it could be sensitive. The whole poem rests on the idea that the PLO is in love with Israel, what if. And what if all the brutal intentions and violent actions could be transformed into acts of love. The poem makes clear that this transformation is the case.

I don't think the poem is clear along those lines. While I think your poetry is improving, and while it is not as metrical or versive as I would like, I'm glad someone else out there is writing at least somewhat reasonable poetry, since I like to write poetry myself. I was your allusions to the PLO that struck me as monstrous. What if that much hate could be turned into that much love? I don't think one can compare it that way, as their hatred is completely irrational. Besides, do you have any idea what the Islamic Fundamentalists would do to you if you wrote homosexual love poetry in a country they ruled? I thought about giving an example, but I have decided not to be too graphic, since love is the standard here in this thread. Let's just say they would make sure you wouldn't be able to sexually conquer anyone ever again :D

So, be careful of not supporting your own destroyers :lol:

If you want a guide to poetry, at least by my understanding of poetry, I wrote an essay about it here:

http://www.appliedphilosophyonline.com/tow...s_of_poetry.htm

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  • 1 month later...

Recollecting a Facet of Utter Wanting

By Jose Gainza

… Your slender feet up creaking steps—your stretching calves cause ankles blushing.

Your shoeless feet have socks too short—your legs have pants too high …

You sit outstretched on cushioned chair and plot your legs too nigh …

Your cherry joints of hand extend towards salty delight:

Giant olives sucked by lips divine do sound of tender kissing!

So my heart pursues a frenzy … my teeth sink into lip … my stomach growling …

I breathe and freeze in place and close my eyes to overcome my plight ...

I look across to hold your face in sight and see you cocky smiling.

Edited by AMERICONORMAN
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  • 3 months later...
  • 3 months later...

A SUDDEN SENTIMENT

This is existence!

This is what my strongest feeling says:

That to be with you is life—

That what this mirth and fear embodied in aching, are saying,

Is that you and I together now are the meaning of life!

Together we are the triumph of what is possible to human ability—

The testament to how magnanimous the earth is to men’s dreams—

The end to which all our choices and actions have thus embarked—

The confirmation of our beneficent power of choice, seizer of this Utopia—

This choice the constant condition of eternal happiness:

This greatest payment, this union of our worthy selves!

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A SUDDEN SENTIMENT

This is existence!

This is what my strongest feeling says:

That to be with you is life—

That what this mirth and fear embodied in aching, are saying,

Is that you and I together now are the meaning of life!

Together we are the triumph of what is possible to human ability—

The testament to how magnanimous the earth is to men’s dreams—

The end to which all our choices and actions have thus embarked—

The confirmation of our beneficent power of choice, seizer of this Utopia—

This choice the constant condition of eternal happiness:

This greatest payment, this union of our worthy selves!

"This is existence!

.......

This greatest payment, this union of our worthy selves!"

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  • 2 months later...
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.

IN LOVE WITH HER UNDERGROUND—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 …

For the last 2 years this poem has been properly called IN LOVE WITH HER UNDERGROUND officially by me and in other venues. It used to be called: "Mrs. Dominique Roark!" It was certainly inspired by Roark and Dominique. However, it is also a statement of something personal at the time and probably right now too. And that is what it really is. Any similarities between Roark and Dominique are merely coincidental parallels inspired by Ayn Rand's great and timeless abstractions. The underground is a metaphor for the subconscious, or sense of life, and the conflicts that are possible therefore.

(Any references to architecture or building are metaphorical as a symbol of creative intellectual activity, so that the landscape or skyline before the speaker is the achievements of any rational, independent, and creative mind.)

Thanks for reading my stuff all these years all of you who have.

Jose Gainza.

Edited by AMERICONORMAN
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  • 2 months later...

Before Your Labor Day

By Jose Gainza

As the rays of dawn race to brush your face,

While your eyes are shut softly on my pillow,

The scent of rind will awaken your embrace,

Shine a smile on me that has no touch of sorrow.

This orange skin caresses cheeks this new born morn,

Ere I peel the fruit in our fragrant, windowed room.

Of tears of joy and gasps of mirth you warn,

As I feed you slices sweet; your feast assume.

The trickling dew upon your chin I kiss away,

And soon the circle of my lips will circle yours,

And the duvet cloud embracing you I'll throw away,

And lift you in my arms through bathroom doors,

Lay you in my tub to bathe away our night,

And resist your call to join you with all might.

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  • 1 year later...

Before Your Labor Day

By Jose Gainza

As the rays of dawn race to brush your face,

While your eyes are shut softly on my pillow,

The scent of rind will awaken your embrace,

Shine a smile on me that has no touch of sorrow.

This orange skin caresses cheeks this new born morn,

Ere I peel the fruit in our fragrant, windowed room.

Of tears of joy and gasps of mirth you warn,

As I feed you slices sweet; your feast assume.

The trickling dew upon your chin I kiss away,

And soon the circle of my lips will circle yours,

And the duvet cloud embracing you I'll throw away,

And lift you in my arms through bathroom doors,

Lay you in my tub to bathe away our night,

And resist your call to join you with all might.

This poem has been re-christened (new name) because I have featured it in a screenplay I have just written. It's new title is A Morning Legende.

And you can listen to me recite it here: http://josegainza.podomatic.com/player/web/2011-08-12T13_24_12-07_00

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