Poor Party
There is an urgency in thinking that,
to first and foremost see an absence missed
if only for the sake of certitude,
a loneliness can surely cease when met
in mutual presence. The eyes, peculiar,
pretend to hide the spark, initially
dismissed because the mouth could not protect
the heart that has already leapt in bounds;
sufficient unto courteous pleasantries
without the graces social standing asks.
The poor do not profess amenities
nor make excuses for a humble feast;
they simply are. And so the marvel moves
in clumsy second chances finding out
that first encounters are not accidents
and that the present laughter highs a five.
If there was need to fib somewhat it was
not contrary to sound precepts of good
one wills another when the truth, at bay,
can save the night and stall the day’s demise.
Goodbyes were long as if to pat the back
until at home it rests with fond recall
of bonding with the likelihood of blood
that, although not umbilical, was hot.
The topics were diverse, flooded the mind,
the punctuation only once as though,
on cue, it snaps as, every now and then,
it rises, pauses, soars again to shine.
Found
The weary nomad was in search of self
piled, buried underneath an earth; a cage
surrounded by the sloth of different
enticements carefully arranged to make
the will attuned to opposites of grace.
And so it was his voyages were rife
with ribald gore and appetites that fed
on gluttony and greed insatiate
up till his ear was pricked by guilt; his son,
as still as smile, the kind that missed his mind
that wasn’t there, proclaimed: You never were!
The letter, loud as gavel, banged on him.
And still, protected by a flimsy shield
of erst-neglected rediscovered kin,
his arrogance and scant remorse back-talked
defenselessly through games his son deflected.
Equally deep were his solitude
and quiet grief when, afterwards, without
the influence of transient glee and vice,
the movie of his past flashed sorrily
like starless night and silent thunder clap
only the inside of the heart, the ear,
could hear with all accessories of hurt.
A boomerang of karmic sort sans doubt.
And, searching deeper, there were thankful senses;
music of some token song was plumbed
to spawn a genre, probably an age
and dawn of spirited applauding sound.
BY ABRAHAM DE LA TORRE
