In the desolate plains the dead walk barren
Forsaken by the world of men.
Forgotten and lost they wander still
Upon the dry caked earth.

In the desolate plains the dead walk barren
Haunting the dreams of men.
Banished forever, and never again
To walk among mortal men.

In the desolate plains the dead walk barren
Forgotten from the tales of old.
They wander there, never again
To remember from whence they came.

In the desolate plains where the dead walk barren
None know what they see.
They wander, blind, unhappy,
And fight amongst their kind.

In the desolate plains the dead walk barren
Knowing not how to escape.
But if they knew, they would, no doubt, Try to forget their bying hell.

In the desolate plains the dead walk barren
And you should be thankful you’re still alive.
For when one dies, they never know
Where they’ll go until they’re gone.

If you could sing about a song, what song would you sing about?

If you could wish upon a star about a wish you made before, would you wish that your first wish came true?

It’s funny, don’t you think, what we human could do, and why we might do what we did.

A toad to breath yet ambitions before wink,
verses of success and glory already written
with no consult to thoughts yet to wake;
all the sins of our fathers and how they dream.

Burying the truth of all being a vassal,
not one molded for love and happiness
but one made with essence to struggle
with little gayety; there’ll be more cries than smiles.

Yet all kiss the sun in the eye
contending with her sorrows so to live
in hopes of one day in glory die
and chase legend so their names may live

Though regardless of legend in fall
at end, all will be nothing but a ghost on a wall.

=======================================
Life upon a dream

Many times
I sit in my mind
and reminisce
through time
upon my failed loves
and aspirations
and wonder why.

Why after heartbreaks
upon heartbreaks
we attempt to love again
knowing in due time
love turns to pain;

each night I close eyes
and dream of peace
only to wake
in a world heap of sins.

a dream deferred;
the story of humanity.

============================================

Muse of Nymphs

Reflections strike thought of Newfangled ill
Within the sight of all mirror,
Torching fire for thy tongue to spill
All blindness thy bosom do harbor,
For so oft in barren of wits
I’ve invoked thy fair face for my Muse
Never failing to win heaven’s graces;
Belting nymph melodies from the blankest of verse.
Yet, thy stares at mirror lie sore
But to my pen, a strike at gold
Thus never wishing back the days of yore
In fear of muse, if thine eye, beauty found
For thy lust at mirror lie my treasure
yet grief at blasphemies from such creature
============================================
Agnostic: a god without a paradise

The sky fall’s
I tear
step backwards
look at phoenix;
she lies in cinders.
No Christ,
the only hope lies
in my palms.

I emerge
a god without a paradise,
shading my wisdom
on this path of darkness.

Lacing my heart with courage,
for no past
exist
and the future in the unseen
heaven
now a phantom, never again promised.

I quote my thoughts
as bible
planting philosophies
in my unborn seed, the disciple:

they shall hate you for what ever you do,
live not by scripture but by good.
Embrace all men, even those who lovely stare,
in face of evil, be aware;
every deed is returned thus be wise;
do these and you shall find yourself a paradise.

==========================================
Heartbreak Report

In this lesson on love,
this is my heartbreak report,
in this lesson on love,
this is my heartbreak report.
she’s the rule,
the yearns of my heart
adhere by her
touch,
her glares,
even at the thought of her face
and voice.
But she knows
so she refuses
to look
or call,
knowing it be a dagger
to my soul.
Yet she swings,
landing in my arms,
blushing to kiss
tantalizing my lips
before moving away in bliss
knowing my death she risk.
Yet I rejoice
in hope
to cope
with the heart ache,
lying that her tease
is her true want
so I wait.
Hoping she stretch her arms
for me to love,
she does;
but begging for coins.
And I give,
dropping jewels
I don’t have
and she takes.
I scorn, yet her greed
give me hope that me she need.
So I wait
and wait,
only for her to tease
on a kiss,
beg for coins to feed
and leave.
And I can take no more.
So in this lesson on love,
this is my Heartbreak Report,
learn from it
and take no more.
==================================
Hour of Faith

If I should perish
this hour
by my yearns,
lord, if true
my soul I pray to collect.
Grab my feeble hands
and lay me by your feet
and with thy holy garments,
wipe away my tears.
Thrust me onto thy breast
and whisper your forgiveness
into my sinful ears
and I shall too retreat
all blasphemies
that my doubts birth.

Then I ask
that you lay my soul
back to your earth
with words to preach.
But till that faithful hour,
I shall scream all distaste I do harbor.
=========================================
Glares to faint

I faint when I of you do write
For nirvana lives your glare
Marching angels at each sight
Enough to victor any visions of ‘mare

But thou art away
Along with all glares
And I to yearn day by day
For those glares, rosy cheeks and lips,

That he taint by touch
Leaving mehearts full of ill
And desires for his face to punch
Knowing his deceitful will

But I thou’ll abate if fight,
Thus I yearn, but not fit t’ bear, I ink and faint

December 14, 1904

It is over half an hour after midnight. Johanna is finally asleep and James went outside of the room for a smoke. I couldn’t force myself to eat anything at the dinner, because of terrible nausea that had been bothering me since the day we left the port. The crew says that an average rip across the Atlantic from Ireland usually takes up to two weeks, and sometimes even longer. Perhaps if we were fortunate enough to save up some more money, I wouldn’t be afraid as much. Sometimes, late at night, I lay there and listen to the waves crashing against our “ship” and it almost seems that it’s made out of rotten bark, not out of steel. My fear lies deeper than that, however…
The old caretaker’s stories rake my mind. Sometimes, he says, people go to America to search for happiness sand later come back, rejected. For many, he says, life ends once they set their foot on the homeland’s shore, because all possessions they took with them were either taken away or lost. They had no home to come back to. I often think of the worst – what if we also get sent back to where we started? Old wooden house on the shore, the labor… Seeing Johanna slowly wither with linen and a needle in her hands. No future for James either. I wouldn’t have enough courage to agree to this trip, if not them…

December 18, 1904

It has been a while since I wrote, but the days on this ship are quite plain and indifferent. I often find myself thinking of what awaits us beyond the horizon, as we slowly get closer to our destination. Some people say that the United States government has special stations along the Eastern coast for all who are willing to immigrate. Some say that it’s going to be a prison-like place, a sort of human factory that picks the best individuals out and discards the “garbage”…Almost immediately there are some people who disagree with the speaker’s opinion. Those see a place that brings them closer to their dreams and hopes…
James and Johanna had been occupied with a domino game for a while now. She said that they borrowed it from one of our neighbors a few rooms down. Can’t say that I enjoy this particular type of game – to be frank, I’m not a man who likes to gamble. But, oh, what an irony? I suddenly find myself gambling with my family’s lives and my own on this journey…

December 22, 1904

I find myself sitting in a big room, my family beside me. The place is crowded. A lot of people lean against the walls, which sometimes leaves white powder on their shoulders – the old paint that falls from the ceiling. Others sit or lay on the floor, in tight family circles. Mothers hold their children close to them; men talk with each other quietly or watch everything happening in the room. Most of the people don’t carry conversations outside of their family, because almost always their closest neighbor doesn’t speak the same language. The entire room seems to be a precise replica of the story of tower of Babel.
There’s a long line that all of us take part in. Currently the doctor inspects a young Italian woman, still a child, really. She’s afraid; in fact she’s up to the stage of hysteria. And who wouldn’t be? The way they inspect a person, undressing them completely, pushing their bare fingers into people’s eyes and claiming that they check for the disease that way. I try not to watch, but only hearing children cry and an occasional scream of those who are being inspected, that alone can drive any person mad…

June 12, 1905

It’s been a few months now, but sometimes I still wake up in a cold sweat. The memories of the past, especially Ellis Island haunt my mind even when I sleep. I try to calm myself down and slowly start to realize that I’m in my room, somewhere in New York City. Old beds that we’ve bought are somewhat better than what they given us at the Island, but maybe someday we will be able to leave this industrial hole and buy a house suitable for the life that we’ve dreamt of.
James has finally found a job for himself in Cambridge area, while Johanna works at home, a seamstress. I couldn’t let her travel far with her fragile health, especially after the voyage across the Atlantic. Sometimes when it gets especially hard for her to make the trip, I try to deliver everything she had made and let her rest awhile. Then I have to go to my own place, work at the railroad…

June 16, 1905

One of the many lessons that I’ve learned is that the native-born Americans don’t tolerate any foreign blood. Many times I barely avoided fights, but never the cold looks of those who like to call me “The Irish”. To be frank, any redhead on the street regardless of gender would be given the same nickname. The anger that I feel towards those people is impossible to describe, but the only thing that somehow holds me back is my family.

There’s often a point where you decide if you want some certain face to meet your fist or to be moral and avoid doing the things that you could pay dearly for. For me, it’s better always be the second choice even with my temper. James is barely out of his teen years, Johanna is sick and fragile…

Someday we will make it.

Control. Something we all desire, suppress, possesses, and fear.

Fear. A sense of discomfort caused by something you do not relate to or understand.

Fear. [i]The unknown.[/i]

She feared many things. Herself, or rather, the curse within herself.

The demon.

Her [i]sanntum[/i].

She feared it’s control over her. It made her do things. [i]Terrible[/i] things.

She killed her brother.

Emotions, though weak, controlled it. When she was mad, it lashed out.

And when it lashed out, people died.

When she was upset, it tormented.

Even then, people died.

She couldn’t stop it.

She couldn’t control it.

She needed his help, so she asked for it.

However, she never asked for his [i]love[/i].

The same way she never asked to [i]fall in love.[/i]

[align=right][b]Dameon[/b]

Unclean. They were all unclean.

The world, vile, dirty, and horrid as it was, deserved mercy.

His mercy.

The device to dominate the new world: her heart.

Fragile, ungaurded, and so [i]utterly[/i] devoted. It was perfect.

[i]She[/i] was perfect.

His tool.

His l[i]over[/i].

So innocent, pure…

and so very, very [i]powerful[/i].

She would never know.

Correction. He would never [i]let[/i] her know.

She would be guarded. The perfect, guarded [i]puppet[/i].

Her powers, immense and as sickeningly wonderful as they were, could be used for his bidding.

All he had to do was get her trust.

Her love wouldn’t hurt either.

Obtaining it would be easy….

…[i]keeping it [/i]was going to be the challenge.[/align]

I stare up at the angel
That looks down at me.
Holding a harp, with wings spread wide,
Mouth gaping open, singing a song
And still the tree seems so empty.

Looking up upon the tree
I see the ornaments hanging.
They sit there, so still
And I watching them until
I wonder why the tree seems so empty.

I stare at the presents
All wrapped up nice
And putunder the branches
For tomarrow night
Yet still the tree seems so empty.

I walk down to dinner
My whole family’s there.
Grandma and Grandpa, sitting in chairs.
Aunty and Uncle, talking in pairs,
Cousin and siblings, nieces and nephews,
All of them crowded around.

I watch them all, in the best dress I have
Listening to the gossip
Watching everyone here.
Then I look down at the tree
And suddenly I see
That the tree isn’t quite so empty.

Poetry is cast in shades of moonlight, memories of the movie, “The Dead Poets Society”, and the words of Billy Collins. Of course poetry has sometimes been the impossible essays I’ve had to write in Spanish, the number times I’ve had to count meter, and “Anna Akhmatova’s Poetry as a Critique of Stalinism.” But on the whole, I love poetry. So far my loves are Billy Collins, William Wordsworth, Anna Akhmatova, Sylvia Plath, Becquer, Lorca, Julia de Burgos, John Donne, Shakespeare, Victor Hugo and Pablo Neruda. Sometimes however, I’m afraid that I only love the idea of loving poetry. There are poets I wish I loved, for example Emily Dickinson and Walt Whitman, but… I really don’t!
I like the “Introduction to Poetry” that author Michael Meyer gives: Don’t let yourself be intimidated. It’s good advice because poetry can often be intimidating. I get this image sometimes of a woman wearing all black and a beret, sitting on a stool in a smoky café. A bongo player by her thumps out beats as she throatily talks about… weird things. Poetry can be pretentious and high-brow, not necessarily bad things. But it can also be accessible. I firmly believe what Meyer says is true, you must allow yourself to respond emotionally to the poem. Then, you may begin to dissect the machinery.
Can poetry be rushed? I think it’s unfortunate that (some of) my literature teacher have tried to motivate us to read poetry or literature because “it’s on the AP exam.” Then the work becomes required drudgery. I wish teachers would remind us more often to enjoy, enjoy, enjoy. I wish they’d remind us that reading a poem and writing an essay on it in 30 minutes isn’t exactly a true test of your literary capabilities. I wish they’d teach us to savor poems and remind us that we can savor a poem for our entire life and still not understand it.
While this anthology/textbook I have to read over break (in Bermuda!) is ridiculously large, I’m looking forward to it (sorta). After all, how bad can this anthology be if it includes Bruce Springstein and Kanye West?