delilah contrapunctal.... yes, that's how I intended to spell it......... Poems

in that culture...
something to hide
from the cordoneers
read in the woods
...

to see St. Lawrence's fiery tears
from the hills where the Escorial sits, a monumental and historic presence, somewhat frightening to a child, mysteriously looming, reaching for heaven...stones, alive, seeming to breathe, to sing....
...not this year, we will watch them
instead from the old pony pasture,
...

lived, in surly (albeit confident) repose...
given a less-than-penetrating glance, it could have appeared to be smothering under scraps and spittle....
all the while sharpening its claws
on the slime-smeared inners of the bin...a fact that had gone unnoticed....
...

I'd have to
stay up
all night
to sing
...

it
violate
tear
gnaw
...

gestures,
articulate as ruffled doves...
as lizards on a twig,
swaying with each
...

but....listening to the news...
wondering just how it feels
to be 'shot in the incident...'
(the person is going to survive,
...

an attempt
to slip through,
slide
away
...

mortalized in the colors of the artist's palette...
our testimonies, our re-interpreted deeds...
contrasting hues
sing our green melodies,
...

if we were to meet
in a place of unconstrained, infernal happiness...
no....these words of definition do not suffice..
.....I'll start again:
...