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Posts Tagged ‘love poem’

we are all Sisyphus

   with our own boulders

.

         you my love

      are Sisyphus as mother

   as teacher

as humbled crumbled

      daughter …

.

      rolling your bones

   like a lover

longing for a cliff

.

         when we are lost

      or tired, you know …

.

         there are times we

      must stop to rest

   when we let the rock go

hurling along and we

      bend low to wash

.

      to bow our heads

for a moment

.

         to take measure

      of our course and recall

   that we have been

here before

.

but everything is different

      it is not the same river now

            the land has changed

         we are tired

      in different places

         having seen things

            from the valleys

         having stood at times

      near the top

..

our rest is

sometimes broken

when the rock

comes

rolling

back.

.

Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2011. All rights reserved.

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for KBT (and you know who you be) 

.

You’re not too sure at all  / / anymore

      if there are angels  /   /  or an afterlife  worth dying for

        you’ve crucified   /     /  the yesterdays of your life

by chasing fantasies/      /   and choosing to trade for a lie.

It wasn’t destiny    /       /     the ways you chose

                               \        \   to break and be

the road you found /       / to walk away

                              /       /  from your memories.

         And though  \       \   no one knows  

                          /        /    how many holes

                          \          \    your heart may hold

       it isn’t fair  /            /  to take those you promised to protect

                       /                /  in some misdirected step

       with you.  \                   \

.

Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2010. All rights reserved.

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just as the water

dances up to the land

to form a coast

and the way

the sky and earth

pretend to meet

at the horizon –

every love

has its own geography.

.

a landscape mapped across months

outlining open fields

that stay in full bloom

where laughter calls out

from the crown canopy

shading the brambled edges

that are meant to be wild

and forgotten …

.

these borders,

the imaginary lines

that mark the province,

are boundaries

that shrink and expand

with the love.

.

a territory always in flux –

a country threatened by coup

and surrounded by dragons.

.

* Latin for “here are monsters” … a phrase supposedly found on old maps marking unknown or dangerous places

.

Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2010. All rights reserved.

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When I ask you for your number

you joke and say it’s infinity.

 

I ask how I’m supposed

to dial that and you tell me

that you can’t be reached.

 

I laugh to check your

legs out and read what

everything else is saying.

 

You smile at me and I forget

the rules of what we’re playing.

 

Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2009. All rights reserved.

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para mi abuelita Olga, que en paz descanze

 

She’s standing in the room alone

surrounded by possessions that own

          her name,

and she’s wondering aloud

          what the rain felt like

          a hundred years ago

          and a thousand loves away.

 

When it takes her by surprise;

          a memory of being young

          and drowning in the laughter

          of a game.

 

And it’s impeccable, this moment

how her imperfections carry her away.

          She’s lost her troubles,

                    become unburdened,

          forgets the days her tears

                    used to salt her grace.

 

Looking straight ahead

          she laments

                    “I don’t know what’s

                    worth remembering anymore.

          I don’t know why I stored

any of these thoughts.

 

          What are they good for?

                    What could I have done –

                              to make things different?

                    to be the hero?

          to take possession of my dreams?

 

What should I have known

          to have an answer

          for loneliness and sorrow

          to cast away tomorrow knowing

          yesterday should be enough –

 

                    it should fill me up and let me be complete.”

 

Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2009. All rights reserved.

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I found a note

reminding myself

to pick up jalapeños,

cilantro and lemons

to make picante sauce

for one of your

family’s parties.

 

It was written

on the back

of a torn out page

from a book of poetry

that you gave me for

Valentine’s Day our

first year of dating.

 

I already had the book.

I kept the page

           You wrote.

I recycled the page

and the picante was delicious.

 

This proves that poetry

          is a renewable energy.

 

Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2009. All rights reserved.

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And the LORD God said, Behold, the man 
is become as one of us, to know good and evil: 
and now, lest he put forth his hand, and take 
also of the tree of life, and eat, and live for ever:

 Genesis 3:22

  

 All religions, arts and sciences are branches of the same tree.

Albert Einstein

 

   Once stupidity

         has been rounded to

             a trillionth digit,

                  as we get closer

               to knowing

            god’s thoughts,

             peering deeper into

              this very persistent illusion

             with our frail and feeble minds;

        when the slight details that seemed

     like rolling dice to Einstein

   don’t have a place left to hide,

there will be born

   from science and curiosity,

      out of true love

          for waking to the world,

              baptized as the gift of fantasy

                  a mathematical

                      equation that means

                        in every language,

                         “A table, a chair,

                           a bowl of fruit

                         and a violin“.

 

Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2009. All rights reserved.

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