I, Romeo


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“I defy thee stars”

twinkling in the world so bright,

A showering of power and might,

Shimmering glow of sweet innocence,

Dismembered ember, distant progenitor of my destiny.

You protected my ancestors upon the sea,

Against fearful shadows and hateful memories.

Yet here I am, a product of your mystery

Alone, and seemingly without a guide,

Embarking on a journey without any at my side.

 

“I defy thee”

That eats away the known universe

Carrying ancient legends of heroic deeds

Of fearless, selfless men who dared to bleed,

That sends angel gods whispering to my ears

To escape the paradox of wanting to be free

Of wanting,

Of time in memorial,

like scattered flowers in rotting sun,

Still exuding a day of soft petaled love

Nested passion, fated kiss

On a cheek, on the lips,

in a garden,

Under a tree.

 

 

“I defy thee”

though your beauty reels me in

A siren’s sweet melody licking heart’s wound

Of sorrow simmering in torn silence

Waiting for your ancient fire, burning,

Wanting in beauty, drowning

Under a cold starlit heaven, weeping

In mass self-destruction, bleeding

Unheroic dreams, written at my own birth,

My house is crumbling,

A spinning light in a darkened universe

A failed perception of reality though I try

A burned path of old destruction though I cry

In the shadows of city lights

Old fears of broken social order

Are still fighting in the streets

like bodies falling to the ground

with rusted daggers to the heart

love is a paradox that is only tasted,

and sorrow a potion that “shall be endured”,

drunk with an eternal silence,

A lonely drop under the universe

Just a drop left

Just a drop left

For me.

 

A Poem at Mid Night


What would Wordsworth say

About today’s poetry,

About the over-saturation of words,

“Spontaneously over-flowing”

or a cry for help? In

A world burgeoning in self-deprecation

And violent human provocation

Some words sink to the bottom

And some float to the top

In dead zone books

Of undercurrents

Often called education

Where thousands of miles away

Intelligence is dictated by the few

And for the many

Where the loss of the value

for nature and

A forgotten art of pondering daffodils

In the stillness of a wild field

Is the real deficit

We are looking for.

 

The thoughts of half a century sway

Unsteadily in my mind

And I want to get away

From what is surely my own death throes

Of expectations

Dissipating slowly in

This mid-night hour

Starless and moonless,

Blocking out the noise that is my life

And merging into the soul of the earth

Where money no longer chains me

In that vicious cycle of measurements

In words that analyze

Haves and

Have not.

 

April 18, 2015

Ode to a Gardener


How she digs deep into rich loam

absorbing the currents of earth’s hearth

in the palms of  her  hands,

strong and sure,  wet with rain

she must guide tiny tendril sprouts

into the threshold of spring.

 

Mud and sweat, digging, diving into earth,

A firm grip pounding solid pole,

Driving a staff into readied amber ground

made rich with her finger-tips,

pressing softly into the warm walls of life,

her healing hands gently guiding home.

Life Stage


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I hope I’m not a “pantaloon” in my middle-age

Clowning around in my own self-importance.

with paunchy sides and drooping eyes

Silver–lined hair wanting repair,

Laughing at my own self-imposed despair.

 

I want to be elegant in my carriage

With eyes bright like morning’s light,

And poetic tongue—quick and lithe

to praise the soft petals of delight

And sing my urgent heart’s desire.

 

Who wants to be a doddering fool

With slack mind flowing with repetition

Of unsung dreams, and hopeless monologues

Of how things aren’t what they used to be.

 

Instead, take me to your snow-clad mountains

To drink, to taste, to breathe such majesty

And let my blood run wild like maple syrup

Such sweet infusion of sun and scent and

Spring me, pour me, take my every starlight fervor

For if “All the world is a stage”, I’ll be alive

til’ my last bow, when petals fall, my day is done

without so much of a second childhood.

 

April 1, 2015

*Note: Shakespeare writes of the seven stages of mankind, the 6th being the Pantaloon.

Years Later


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My fingers reach deep,

deep into earth’s womb,

curling round hot soil

where her pungent roots seek ground

and shelter for her rich bones

asking to be buried

In latent memories,

and warm tears,

like soft rain

to carry her home.

 

Karen K L Espaniola         July 13, 2014

 

 

Ode To Maya Angelou


Maya,

I will always miss you.

A great tree is who You were,

Roots surging past jagged stones,

Steady, sure, sifting

Through the gravel in my bones,

Waking each cell,

Feeling each bruise,

Absorbing life’s

Battered branches sprouting with light,

And giving me strength,

And breath to breathe,

A beacon in a dark land,

Hope, when all seemed broken,

A free bird soaring,

Picking up the pieces of my heart

Where your cage fell apart,

Following the drinking gourd.

In your trail of living water

I live

In your promised land,

And though you didn’t know me

Your voice was familiar to me,

Comforting, warm like honey,

A resilient old negro spiritual,

Surging, throbbing beyond southern soil,

A thriving river soft like tear drops,

Yet strong,

Running deep where cuts lashed with sorrow

Tangled in veins, and skin, and memory.

Your words healed me with your passion,

Woke me with self-compassion.

You are the rising spirit on the backs of history,

You are the dark ocean moving,

Threading a journey into tomorrow.

Bright diamond,

In the star studded sky,

Lead the way to water,

And I will follow.

 

Karen K. L. Espaniola,

June 1, 2014

 

Rain Haiku


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Misty rain on skin

Fallen colors breathing in

Becoming the earth

 

The earth is in me

Patterns of light are woven

Intricate beauty

Maunaloa Morning


#11

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It’s all about the journey,

Believing in miracles,

Dormant creative forces,

Internalizing vision,

Cell regeneration,

Pulsation,

Pushing to achieve,

Reaching to let go.

Death/life.

Life/death.

 

 

#12

 

This morning

I took a detour,

Wound through dew-laden

Plants and budding shrubs,

To watch the sun rise on the mountain,

And catch one of the many faces of Maunaloa,

Her meditation, her chant, her adoration to life,

Waking in her wake,

Feathers and flower buds

Waiting to open.

 

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To A Great Tree


 

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You were like a tree,

Limbs silhouetted with love,

And all who knew you

Clung tightly to your branches

Reveling in your strong roots.

Kealakekua Bay


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There is an oasis from the heat

Where rubbled pathway leads to shade

And withering grass turns

to damp undergrowth for comfort.

That upward winding climb of transformation,

one step at a time,

From the bottom lands of ancient death

And pinnacles of sordid history,

To the cool air of respite, hope,

And joyful laughter,

head-tipped and rippling,

shouting out into the Universe

in deep gulps,

where every moment here,

is the perfect place to be,

A mimic of eternal grace

roots, bark, leaves

on breath, on skin,

In eyes light space of solace

calling me home,

over and over again.

Where once a navigator died,

still yet, another lives.

 

 

 

Poetry

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© Karen K.L.Espaniola and hinarising.com. 2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Karen K.L. Espaniola and hinarising.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.