Jorge era un feliz mexicano

Jorge was a happy Mexican
With the smile as bright
As Van Gogh's sunflowers
And Gauguin's exotic landscapes
Of Tahiti--
Immune to the anxiety disorders
And the psychotic episodes
Of his fellow bipolar gringos--

Jorge was a happy Mexican,
Wearing a poncho and a wide-brimmed
Sombrero with just a little bit dinero
And el corazon de oro,
That says defiantly ¡No hay problema!
While the stars seem to sing
In his head:
Para todo mal, mezcal,
Y para todo bien también.

Jorge was a happy Mexican
With the spirit of
Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe--
Drunk with life, drunk with the stars,
Drunk with the history of the Mayan ruins--


Jorge was a happy Mexican
With the rays of the sun in his hands
And the song of the wind in his heart--
Sí, era un feliz mexicano
Porque no tenía mucho,
Sino el espíritu lleno de amor.

February 13, 2012

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For Ryan

Simplicity takes different forms,
And in my life, it’s you.
The smallest details well adorn
The most basic of truths.
Like how a tree sways in the wind,
Your smile sweeps to one side.
Similar to the eloquence
That your laugh can bring to life.
The words you speak float in the air
Along with flecks of dust.
They win me over, alongside
Your intentions of love, not lust.
I’m truly blessed to call you mine,
As well as be friend.
Regardless of these complexions,
This simplicity will never end.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

I wrote this poem based on a picture; this one: It's for my little king, who you'll be learning a lot about.

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Cozy Way

Do you feel a certain way when looking at the waves
along a cozy coastline that’s lined with fleets of shells?
You sort of settle vacantly, transfixed and more relaxed
than you’d been a moment past, before you saw the sea.
Or maybe in the curving arm and bending claw of smoke
that rises from your lips or from your very fingertips,
and pollutes the air with essence of a mass production.
We long to build a cherished lift that keeps us held above,
away from all uncertainty, accompany the clouds;
pretend that all the muddled words that reach us from below
are cheers of our exaltation and our place earned in the sky.
And there we’d see nothing but the sea and clouds
that look like stray and wayward-billowed
stacks of smoke, lost to what they’d only known
and their only sense of right and home.
Our smiling and fattened faces would open
and grin with bright and glaring teeth,
lost in the exhaust of lift to elevated gold,
eventually sleeping most of the day away.

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