In the Haze

Wrought in the haze—

a thought:

One wonders

the deceit of man,

the authenticity of man;

Usually, at noon,

the doves fly by

my apartment window

seeking refuge from the rain,

or are they?

One ought to know

what lies beneath the radar;

What, the murderer?

What, the frivolous?

What, Atlantis?

Or the giant atop the sky?

Amid the fantasy—

a hideous reality

hides in plain sight

usually at noon.

In Seizing the Day

Wrinkles all over
the back of your neck;
the mark of a soldier
of an underwater shipwreck.

Forgotten, forlorn;
your intricate eyes
morph into two stones
of great size.

To wander alone,
to wander without
the walls of the home—
the closed mouth.

An ebony gaze
submits you to where?
Amid the white haze
a very bright flare.

What is the matter
with not wanting to
wander alone
like I ought to?

When lightnings and thunders
lose their flair;
when vagabond monsters
settle somewhere.

The blossoms astounding
multiply sevenfold
and your understanding—
your mind will unfold

Into the fray
or rather without it;
in seizing the day
we wander without it.

Juan Niyebe

Oh how we dream of snow
Of rain that had just hardened scantly
Of colder winds than sunlight scorching—

Snowflakes fall on a plywood shanty
Nubs of ice melt tomorrow afternoon
On the metal sheets which are roofs
Why do we dream of winter ear muffs?

Is it that we are tired of the rain?
When snow that falls is precipitation
When hail is ten times less participative
When pounds of snow that melt will flood the streets?

Is it that we envy the Western joys of it?
Or is it that we are desperate?

Where To?

To madness you drive me
but I take the wheel.
I make a blunt U-turn,
suggest that I steer
us into separation;
finally alone—
just you and you only
and me and me alone.
You tell me to drop you
off at some stop.
I concur silently

Farewell

The Equation

What is the equation
to an inkling, a memory
of a love once burning?

Is it nostalgia and the
countenance of a
woodland sprite?

Is it typewriters
and the letters
that are now ash?

Is it the sun but
without
a single drop of rain?

Is it twice the number
of mosquitoes
to the number of deaths?

Is it sadness
without the tears
or madness
without the capability?

Is it all of this,
adding whatever
insult to injury?

Tell me, love.

What is the equation
to a life worth enduring—
or is it indefinite after all?