Leo Briones

Rookie - 36 Points (6-16-63 / El Paso, TX)

Leo Briones Poems

1. Confessions 12/3/2005
2. Rosa Parks (1913-2005) 12/3/2005
3. A Profound Sense Of Ardor 11/20/2009
4. Romancing Poverty 11/20/2009
5. Therapy 11/20/2009
6. Kismet 5/13/2011
7. Radio Free Russia 5/13/2011
8. Ode To Contradictions 5/13/2011
9. The Augury In The Twilight 5/13/2011
10. Restate 5/13/2011
11. Legally High 5/14/2011
12. The Blues In The Delta Breeze 5/14/2011
13. Barely Avoiding Zarathustra 6/2/2011
14. A Poem For The Kingdom At The End Of The World 6/2/2011
15. Unthinkable 6/6/2011
16. Birthing— 6/14/2011
17. Reasons To Know The End Of The World Is Near 6/14/2011
18. Indulgences 6/17/2011
19. Baggage Claim 6/17/2011
20. Forecast 10/24/2011
21. Proclamation 11/15/2011
22. Interpretation Of A Prophet’s Dream 11/28/2011
23. Ceremonies 2/15/2012
24. Sofia Like A Poem 3/19/2012
25. Armistice 8/14/2012
26. Divorce Court 9/19/2012
27. Yellow J 7/2/2011
28. A Lesson That Has Come To Pass 7/6/2011
29. Song For The Next Decade 7/12/2011
30. The Beloved Revolution 7/26/2011
31. A Love Song Of Earth 8/4/2011
32. Aarghs Poetica! 11/20/2009
33. Editorial Of The Absolute 11/20/2009
34. And Then There Was This... 6/16/2013
35. Summit 3/8/2014
36. Ten Years 4/13/2015
37. La Passion De L'Apocalypse 7/15/2014
38. Saved 11/20/2009
39. A Blessing For Baby Love 9/3/2011
40. Illegal 5/13/2011

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Best Poem of Leo Briones

The Church Of The Valentine

From the very distance of my soul fathomless like the sea but sad like the dry creek embedded between the desert's rolling dunes,

I have risen here to place my light upon the bright and shining hill of the fertile peace and noble solitude of my finest days. And, here I stand.

My stale wonder is the constant struggle of this life as I pull the unbearable cart of untenable memory.

This evokes a haunting and broken certainty because I also remember the load lifted from the heart of a defeated man.

It is a memory of walking on cold wet sand, my feet are ...

Read the full of The Church Of The Valentine


From the place that I now stand, I can only say,
that I have turned my soul’s muse away
from the devices of modern poetry.
For stories told that bring neither meaning
nor the slow unfold of the rose pronouncing itself to spring,
are definite and calculated, bead-by-bead, on the slow,
dreadful abacus of the angst of our contemporary being.
The continuity of the symbol and the metaphysical
is a flow born of the winter’s packed snow, down a watershed,

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