Author: nataliebotero

I am walking sure-footed,

Thinking of sorrow.

 

Light, holy feeling of infinity

Weighty with memory and past

Pains’ grace and comfort.

Tired determination

To trudge home like an expert,

The expert I am, in sorrow.

 

Travels, down this only now road,

Take sorrow through the brush

Of survival,

Terrain unexpected;

Though remotely resembled

To be a part of life,

As someone said, but did not know mine.

 

I did not break an ankle,

God spared me that time.

I mark the tally on the wall.

Strong foot; maybe I am

On the terrain of the wise

The dragging in my torso,

The weighing on my head,

Yet feels on fire,

I tally another step.

 

Sorrow.

The credit of Love.

It’s courage to had let it

Take over,

Lingering for as long as I’d like it to,

Reminding me of what I wanted,

Incompletions only stamped

By the terrain of the next step.

 

If sorrow be sizable

As the hole in my chest,

As the weep at my breast

As the infinite best,

Letting love take over

Is the much needed mistake

The saints became saints for

And the stains remain sent for.

The light passes

down through

Generations, loved ones

Living in the right places

They may have been giants

Yet the light passes

 

Through Grand Central station,

Across the fire in the sky

In the nation

The dappled dust light halos

Around their faces

A printed form

Of some radiation

A quiet wave of exultation,

When the light passes

Through the station

Through your breast

And its breath

Not gone, no more

Cessation,

Here in the mirrored light

In Grand Central Station

 

They may have been giants

And we are still sitting

At attention , passing the

Still breath of street lamps

We are afraid of their intention

 

Tired gents became monuments

 and left Apocalyptic arrogance

Generations are their places

Inside their pockets they assumed

The light won’t catch what passes

Like ash and lint, the glint

Over and over it the light passes

We will go through and get past it.

 

If giant treads made marks

The light will make us see it

Through burning light so blinding 

Yet they live in sad museums

Grandmothers, fathers, friends and mothers

Took the train pass

To the next celebration

And one day

They will meet us at the station.

                                                      Inspired by C. Milosv

“What has no shadow has no strength to live.”

Strength is forgiving and saying

There was nothing to forgive.

 

The shadow is the most needed

Impermissible thing.

I see trees and flowers bask in sunlight,

In a one frame beautiful world

But as day retreats I begin to fear

That all shadows will crouch, then appear.

 

Without the shadow,

We only grow thin skin.

Shadow is where the dark disappears

It harbors the light within

 

Does a wrestler with their conscience,

Or a worrier become a good person?

The shadow is the most needed

Of impermissible things,

I say to wrestle is a good thing.

 

For strength to thrive

Something has to die.

We’ll place goodness

And best intentions

As its casualties

That lie. Once deceased

The darkness may encroach.

Our lack of understanding

Makes experience crass and gross.

Yet know, Dark away from good

Is holy, it is essential to

Our growth.

 

I’ve screamed and isolated

Shadow held the door

It tried to intimidate me

I hated myself only more.

The shadow permitted me in.

The shadow is the most needed

Impermissible thing

 

For strength to die

Is the impossible thing.

If you ignore the fact that

You have everything,

No shadow can hold you up.

A witness to your life

It’s sanctity, sacrifice

Is the shadow’s thing of things.

It is the witness to the very thing

The light won’t shine upon.

 

This story is perfectly clear,

although it exists in distraction…

 

a woman tells a man

whatever he could imagine.

 

patient wait through winter

the window with its advances

an invitation, unsure she’s taken

The lie of springtime always

Comes back

 

“the roses are ready,” she’ll tell him,

though she’ll be slow to greet.

every full year since childhood,

her hair, as if from a loom

weaving romance to

the length of her saddened feet

 

her white body everywhere

no flowers wilting anywhere

to capture someone keen

as she is soft,

the task of forming a crown

of roses put off.

 

the daydream, the prayer

this year again  

breath rises, it’s exhale goes anywhere

depth in a shallow puddle

like a mirror staring with only a glance

this hopeful year for romance

the year for hopeful happenstance

 

What she doesn’t know is that

She is ripened without a mirror

To miss that and still see clearer

She is ripened without a mirror

The fixation, a story of clear distraction

Of no crown of roses where they belong

In a springtime of no action.

 

 

 

 

Sleep.

They’re treated with aggression,

When all they want is love.

Study.

To better your profession

So they fall in love.

Eat.

It’s better than even the Resurrection.

Dream.

To point your pen downward, held up by the

Iris of the eye.

Clasp your hands.

You’re ready, even if there is not an event outside.

Lower.

There is no such thing than a demeanor.

Trust.

But what? A thousand things.

You can say you did this all in isolation,

As we all are.

Hungry.