wordsmith's alley

M. G. AQUINO's Works in Progress from my new collection
"Journey Into Thine Self: In The Dine of Memory"

POEMA


In haste I call out your name
until the wind breaks in and ruffles the sound
journeying to the shores of your thighs
departing them to discover a diamond whose brilliance
shines when lips are upon them
moans of pleasure from the abyss
how brief or long depending on my stamina
tea drunken afterwards in haste to persevere
how you tossed and turned inside as I licked and kissed your nape
where is it inscribed that you are mine and I yours?
on a slab of stone in the left hemisphere of your heart


Anonymous


He began thinking of ways to leave her. In a corner,
M. looked for a sign, not knowing what,
he forced himself to down the last glass of rum
with a minute left before he had to . . .
go out the door, fully dressed for work
and walk down to the subway station.
And M. passed by the Dominican grocery
where he would play dominoes on Sundays
afterwards he’d go home. But this Sunday
he had to work it didn’t matter if he liked it,
his boss told him he had to, they were short
of help, so he had to or else look for another job.
As he boarded the A train on 125th street he looked
like an angry person, everyone could see it
he didn’t hide his feelings, his philosophy was
never pretend no one wants to know any how.
By the time M. realized it, it was his stop.
The crowd got off at grand central and so
did he, and how upset he was, he knew
tomorrow he’d have to repeat it all again.
He knew he had to find another job
So that he could play dominoes.



In Music We Play

A bird flies to the tree
it is dry because of no rain
it was caged for a year
the master died and his son let it go
see how it flaps its wings
moving with the wind
and the people sing again
music is heard from outside
instruments so old and musicians, too
young men want disco, ragas
at 50, one is ancient
When will they pass on the tradition?
“We were like animals,
keeping silent for fear,”
says the masses
in Afghanistan, music is life
no force can lock it up
westerners hear strange sounds
which sound so familiar
a nation that has finally bloomed
like a flower in all its beauty
the right to play and sin
has finally been restored
alive with the sounds
of tambur and rubab
tat-tat, teck-teck, ta-te