Light, Ascendant

midnight crafts the major measures,atonal music molding space and timeto silent rhythms, ballet of starsbeyond the reach of hung highmoon, reaching soundless, boomingdirge of climax heard but by a God

whose mind foresaw, programmedexquisite extinguishment of lightthat momentarily conquered darkuntil crushing embrace, evolved realitycrafted newly barren star, imploding withnor light or life, now blackest gravity

not subject to man's laws, but time.once placed in motion, evolution

cannot be stilled, calling into questionwisdom of First Cause which let all creationseek its own end. it's only God can claimto hold eternity that neither had nor hasbeginning nor an end, while black spacethat was a star will, but for a speck of time,

inevitably pull time intoits void of unplumbed night.

at a farthest remove from the not seenor known to us we liven our roleson a hardscrabble stage with here a tear,a laugh, a sigh, in time defining livesthat move or not were they but luminousriot of mindless fireflies swirling

on a summer night and reaching, withoutthe faintest ken of its approaching, towardan unforeseen and unimagined dawning.

- Light, Ascendant.

Were I to touch you, what would I feel?

Were I to taste you, would that taste be sweet, or

would it be bitter as old rind? What lies beyond,what hides behind that careful public face?

What spell of roses ever did move your heartto song, to reach out, to strive, oh, to seekand hold beyond your grasp? Ever did you wonder why,

all cossetted and wrapped up in your lavender pastels,who's to know? Who's to see, who's to care? Who -

Who will take the moment - why, Who will dare to love?

copyright jess b. otxoa 2011

Bar Poems II: Lupita at The Tap

Early winter evening,entering he leads the wayescorted by gust of wind, she closely following,small child riding on her hip, all sweatered up against the chill

a rising chorus of groansthe door can't hold the wind,

they settle in the farthest booth and finally. the door slams shut.

Almost lost in a corner behindthe bar stands a holy cardof San Martn Caballero, leaningfrom his horse to share his capewith Christ disguised as beggar,

the universal patron of Mexican barmaidseverywhere and wherever they may be,

Martn is alternately cajoled or threatened depending on the need.

In a new twist, a small statue of Lupita standsbeside San Martn, her eyes fixed on the cape.

The repairman's head rises slowfrom the belly of the jukebox,silent now, he stuffs a fiver in the slotwhile the young mother stands at the bar,coaxing a quarter's worth of peanuts fromthe machine, the kid still riding on her hip.

Soft chords grow in volume, a flickering ceiling light turns incandescent, the jukebox glows in perfect timing illuminating her exposed backcompletely covered by a tattoo in living coloras it should be, unlike the tattoos of Guadalupeon the backs of aging grandfahers of the fearful

Tiny Dukes of the Hazard Projects of East L.A.,India ink defining tear drops chained below theireyes, no, not here, here she is wreathed by golden raysthat almost reach beyond the young mother's back,here is Lupita as she should be, a mother honoredas the one who erased all fear from Juan Diego's heart.

In counterpoint, the jukebox is now playing, at full volume, Led Zeppelin's "Stairway to Heaven.

copyright jess b. otxoa 2014

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