She brushed her veil aside and tilted her head upward,
Not seeking comfort or benediction,
Only to confirm what she **** well knew was happening,
That the skies, full of gray and grim portent if not outright malice,
Had picked this very time to begin steadily dripping,
Signaling what was sure to be a sodden downpour
(The weekend already chock-a-block with disasters:
The chocolate fountain a testament to dysfunction,
The rehearsal dinner poached salmon overdone and dry
The limousine company downsizing them at the last minute,
Having realized their top-line models
Could never handle the grade or narrow figure-eight drive
Up to the mansion’s precarious hilltop locale.)
The photographer, who’d lived around here all his days
And had developed a sixth sense
Concerning the vagaries of the weather
As well as those of combustible brides,
Had done his best to border-collie the proceedings along,
But as the droplets increased in size and intensity
Recriminations were hurled and doors slammed
As the bridal party sulked off
Toward what promised to be a most interesting reception.

We’d witnessed the goings on,
(Bride fulminating, groom supplicating
The location for the pictures apparently his idea,
Thus proving there are places
Where angels and husbands should fear to tread)
From a safe distance, under the overhang of the great porch
Overlooking the broad, ostensibly placid Hudson below,
Having come here in spite of the clouds,
As the odd rumble of thunder,
And occasional spate of rain being part and parcel of things,
As we’d mucked through these parts long enough to know
That they were fleeting,
And not without compensations of their own
If one was of a mind to seek them out
(We knew full well of the bewitchment
Of seeing the clouds descend slowly,
Covering the sleeping silhouette of old Rip Van Winkle
Slumbering in the knobby Catskill foothills just to the southeast)
And no more than fifteen minutes
After the newly minted man and wife left,
The sun broke through, glorious and unfiltered,
And we ducked into the great room of the house,
Reveling in the magic of unaugmented light.

I told myself:

" I need to make this man a poem. "

So here I am, reminiscing an ordinary day. . .

I was one of those,
Who do not care:
University political parties, campaigns
And all the blabbers they make.
Scripted promises turned
Public speaking competitions,
And yeah, i t   i s   h e l l !
But that day I heard a voice so deep,
E  c  h  o  i  n g   in space,
pounding through my brain. .
One of the clearest voices
I've ever heard, there he is
Standing for campaign.
And my wrong, he's full of vision
and selfless cause, giving my belief
a  s p e c  i al   e x cl u si o n.

A year has passed, with ordinary days
Lurking by. .

He transferred in our block,
From there I thought:

" I would want to know
              this person more. ."

There was no love, I'm sure.
But there is a jolt of mystery
On his face I'd die to solve.
I exerted  n o   e f f o r t,
but my curiosity is pulling strings,
I got to know him better.

One of the most well-rounded person
I've ever known,
Oozing with confidence
In everything he do.
His  ph il o so p h i e s
deserves a trophy too!
He is someone that
I would want to be
If I were a man, that I am sure!

We competed in a class debate, I won.
And there I thought,
That my achievement is worth
a  no b e l   p r i c e
worth the sought.

There is no love, but there is
f or e v e r    ad m i ra t i on.
To the voice which is not
just a perfect tone,
But has the best echo that deserves
a   w o r l d   c a l l .

There is consistency,
There is substance. .
The only thing I hope for is
May his beliefs not eat him
Coz too much meaning,
Brings sadness on his face.
A face which looks like
He discovered a problem
O u t   o f    w a y s,
Like cancer on its very last stage.
His wits are too powerful,
I see it killing his happiness.

So I wish him the same things I wish for myself:

To think less of what others deem
as   n o n s e n s e .

Don't go far off, not even for a day
Don't go far off, not even for a day,
Because I don't know how to say it - a day is long
And I will be waiting for you, as in
An empty station when the trains are
Parked off somewhere else, asleep.

Don't leave me, even for an hour, because then
The little drops of anguish will all run together,
The smoke that roams looking for a home will drift
Into me, choking my lost heart.

Oh, may your silhouette never dissolve
On the beach, may your eyelids never flutter
Into the empty distance. Don't LEAVE me for
A second, my dearest, because in that moment you'll
Have gone so far I'll wander mazily
Over all the earth, asking, will you
Come back? Will you leave me here, dying?

Tonight poets will find the words
to color their life and dip their pens
in wounds that aren’t even their own
and some will stare at the moon
seeing an empty plate, hungering
for something without a name
or a clock with no numbers knowing
time carries a dagger and a sword
for the hours that wound and nights
that cut throats, arrows that pierce
hearts fiercely until they lie still,
cold and bled out on a bed all alone.

there are words
hidden in trees
and growing in flowers.
there are words
between people's lips
and in songs being carried
by the summer breeze.
there are words
on our fingertips
and lingering in our ears.
there are words
left unspoken
and there are some
that were spoken
all too quickly.
there are words
in our body  
and in everything
that is alive.
because life is
a combination of words
and we're just trying
to make them rhyme.

i straightened my hair today
for the first time in three weeks.
my mother was happy
but i was not.
--
last night
she said,
i know you're an artist,
pero no andes como una loca.
don't go around looking like a crazy person.
--
i kept touching my hair today.
missing the stray curl that stayed behind my left ear.
missing the space my hair used to take up,
wild and free.
feeling smaller.
in a body that was not my own.
--
this hair, mami,
does not belong to an artist,
y no es de locas.
es mío; con él nací.
in it i carry the waves
that carry me
that carried the bones
of my ancestors all the way here.
--
these curls, mami,
they are big enough to hold me,
to hold all that i am.
they are a garden in which beauty grows.
they are rivers that lead to the ocean.