Wrists are scraped slightly on warm metal bars kissed by the sunshine. Somewhere, clickity clackety plastic things numbs the street air  in electric buzz from spokes creating musical noise in its own rhythm. I turn back to look at her, she smiles. Shirt ballooned by wind ushering me to continue before I slow her down. Our mission of  10 cent Popsicles and quarter bag of chips are relentless in the haze of summer and sweltering sun. memories now a blur. Mommom calls us, her voice a beacon in the city of  asphalt and pavement which we spill upon and she immediately nurses.  street lights fade to Black replace lightning bugs abuzz in  Neon twirling into our smiles  of small conversation and popped bubble gum defying gravity on fire escapes  dangling toes a reminder of our landmark. Finally, a small breeze pollen upon dewy knees to greet us  good night summers of nostalgia  birthed from bike spokes. ~b.r.rivera ...

There is nothing really beautiful about the fall. The glorification is all about the triumph. The victor. The applause that one gets from the thunderous crowd, at last. Perhaps it's all a matter of perspectives, but the tanglement of hair, the bloodied scrapes from asphalt, the collected dirt from fingernails, has its own beauty. We are expected to be beautiful in times from the fall from grace. Keep it together. Lipstick on. Shirts pressed. Muster on from tar pits unscathed, painted face on like nothing happened. There is no need to rely simply on the truths of reality for we even believe the lie ourself: I'm okay. We tell others. Text them. Email. Tweet. Post. Go, share to the world with our painted on glorified face that we are okay. We are not. And it's okay. Where have I convinced myself that the fall cannot be just as beautiful as the eventual walking tall?  Somewhere in my muddied face, I am still me. My soul, my strength, my inner peace. Somewhere in the blood, the ...

You bridged over troubled waters Allowing the broken wood under my naked feet to move and sway  but never break. I wonder what holds us up. Even in splintered feet and clanking of pressure, it holds the sweet smell of bloated wood after a fresh rain.  I was told to open my eyes  exposed to Heavenly skie s in the eye of the storm within the bare soul that is mine and I walked. With trepidation Hesitation  and pure Elation all wrapped in the pouring rainsthe lightning overhead the hailing winds. I wonder what's in this shield. Past a pure arc of  umbrella'd love, repelling drip drops of  moving rain, skidding off of man made fibers.  Comfort rest assured. Comfort.  the pure blanket of which I shiver for to crave that heartbeat against my skin encased within the strong linen that is your arms. I wonder how your fibers made fabric. Strong enough to hold me. Encase me. Enrapture me into limbs that spread east and west, a...

How do I get up there, Mommy? I want to fly. I want these things flapping on my side to swiftly embrace the sky. I can't figure it out. I looked at those fuzzy balls of fur slowly making their way up in those cotton balls and trees blowing up probably by an invisible man. How do I get up there, Mommy? I want to fly. I want these things flapping on my side to swiftly embrace the sky. It must be a magic trick Some sort of balloon in helium magic wisp of puffing up like a cartoon and have the sun hit your face like an orange fire ball in the afternoon. So she bends down softly and says, Do you wish to know how to fly? Well, surely my toddler brain knows I want to go up that high. Then she arches her back and swoops me up a bundle of chocolate with flapping arms lifts me to the ceiling and says there is no limit when you got a little push and falling will never be your harm. See how I get up there, Mommy? Look at me, fly. I finally got these thing...

I am more than what meets the eye. Soul deep and waters instilled form a ripple of a wave,  thrashing into the abyss like brain stems enter cerebellum exit clever calculable characteristics and into Chuck Taylor's jeans and a tee more than denim and sneakers more than poetic meanderings. I am more than what meets the eye Spiritual newness and cultural edifice pounding life after death and life into death like not holier than though loveliness I am more than meets the eye. Dare to see? Dare to capture and captive me? Dare to look beyond skin color and ethnicity? Dare to become less stereotypes and more of my type where lines shift into invisibility? I am more than meets the eye. -b.r.rivera #30in30 Poem 24 of 30

Reach out and tell me  how many stars are in the sky. Count 1-2-3-4 and realize you cannot count that high. Reach out and tell me do solar flares gravitate brilliance Squint to see its hues of variation and realize its beyond your resilience. Reach out and tell me can a thousand moons tug a war at beauty Follow its map through orbits and realize it's only God's duty. Reach out and tell me can a blanket of darkness sparkle in such shine? Silently whisper a breathless affirmation and realize you too, can be divine. -b.r.rivera Poem 23 of 30, April 2012 #30in30 

All hail the Easter Bunny. There are promises of eggs. Little small gifts enclosed in plastic oval shapes, smelling of new chemicals freshly pressed from large manufacturing companies. My gift to the weather. A small token of spring. Perhaps the swiftness and cool eyed crispness deserves better awakenings than Folgers in your cup and effervescence scalding hot in aging fingers. It's all daisies, ribbons, and freshly starched outfits pressed for the deadline on velvety pews, gotta make it on time in the rush of traffic where runways are composed of yellow dashed lines and patent leather shoes pressed to the metal of gas ignitions. Who needs a Bible? We all have our outfits and hopefully unstained chocolate pressed against our lips honoring the risen from a sealed tomb after three days after the cry of vinegar quenched lips and warm blood dusty from a crown of thorns. Let me celebrate once. Once in my life, go to an edifice filled with familiar tunes and paper ...

My plants are dying. Some wither by the wayside. Others, destined in their own chlorophyll psychedelic mindfuck reach out to the Heavens and are Hell bent on finding the sustenance of the sun. I wonder if its the soil. Mixed parts with fertilizer and the such but we all know the grass is greener on the other side. Probably sunnier there too. Warm. The kind of weather where women flaunt their parasols and gloved white hands, pearls dancing off the sunglasses of the husbands that mow just near the picket fence. Maybe its too much water. leaves are perkier with just enough bounce, sturdy to the prickly fuzzy knees of bees. At least the lady bugs enjoy them. They seem to surround themselves near waxy goodness polka dots and dance trots to and fro the emptiness of withered hope. Couldn't be the roots. Oh, God...not the roots. Mind as well rip up the entire earth that surrounds them, throw them in the air and let the silken strands fall where they may. invisi...

It's nighttime. The crisp, cool air beckons me and all of a sudden I want to go for a little drive. Bambino's up and its past his bedtime. No worries, its not a commonality to take our child past a certain hour where we can be judged by Dr. Spock comparison driven mothers. So we open the door, and the slight breeze hits us. Its absolutely beautiful. I see a pregnant moon Its off eggshell crater face smiling at me. No clouds in sight to hinder a luminescent tidal wave in another part of the world. He points up He jumps He laughs. Pushing his arm forward, he grabs an invisible force His tiny fingers extracting a woosh of excitement and says, "It's too far! I can't reach it!" as his eyes hold the reflection of stars. -b.r.rivera 5of30 #30in30

people look in the mirror all the time. pluck this little hair, smooth that little wrinkle with a finger curse the mole on their shoulder bless the plumpness of lips. imperfections. Tiny little lines formed from laughing or crying larger than life pores bursting from sweat embedded from the brow after a long days work. little nuances that prove that we are alive yet die with the cells that provide us. and we're human. human like a life grown in the womb, wet and wrinkly encased in globs of fat around bone to protect life amniotic fluid and stem cells fluidity as the river of unions gave birth to what a child should be. and somehow, some way between that beautiful birth and our end of cellular growth we are inept. ugly. imperfect. we look in a mirror. we gaze at little things that become lots of things which focus on larger issues of why beauty is not a cliche skin deep but a humongous and perpetual diminished fight against the youthfulness...

I stepped on a butterfly broke its wings shattered its luminescent arms transcended solely made for air distance to ride in the wind. Veins, exposed blood freely now broken pixelated dots of red crimson delight shattered on a blade of glass next to my heel. I was not thoughtful. purely clumsy and self absorbed as I made my way into my path and buried a creature into another. innocent lost. could not have picked its wings voluntarily knowing that each was put there lovingly by time caressed in a cocoons nest. danced with time, laden with metamorphosis and fruitful bliss bearing an entangled chrysalis engulfed out of the need to grow. birth. reborn. in a next lifetime. i stepped on a butterfly. killed its lighthearted dance from a low hanging branch suckling the nectar off a fallen flower. how... appropriate. nearly serendipitous if a love was to blow a kiss and i was to miss it based on a fallen flower and P...

Si yo fuera una mujer feliz, Yo exigiría que el mundo sea lleno de margaritas de Gerber. Luminoso y brillante re partiendo alegría en los rostros de encontrado a nadie que los pétalos. Para tener esta felicidad, Voy a disfrutar de la sencillez de los medios de los pétalos Arranca una Él me ama. Y otro,  Él no me ama. Cuando lleguen al final del tallo de la flor Yo pediría más pétalos. Aterricé en la pequeña frase que no me quiero repetir. él no me ama. Y tristemente, esta mujer feliz en el exterior llena la flor de lágrimas mojados, Visible pétalos de rosa y morado. Este pequeño rocío un recuerdo Que más del Cojo lo peor más se pone. Pero  yo adoro a poner esa flor en el pelo Pero esto es una flor media y la ira en mis pechos. Tener este espectáculo pétalo el marrón glaseado sobre mi piel. Los colores suaves y tonos pastan en las líneas secreto de mi cuerpo humano. Él me ama. Él no me ama. Lamentablemente, esta flor se ha quedado sin pétalos Y me ha...

my worth measured in honey thick thighs and swinging hips movement and magnetization within the males lick of the lips my worth calculated by Hershey kiss nipples and cleavage exposed (bounce) make ripples of human flesh re-defined and slow to climb corporate ladders and executive suits when brain matter and intelligence is comparable to the next man hidden sex whom calls my thinking "cute." my worth balanced in the tangible ankles adorned with jewelry nape of neck perfumed with the secret of Victoria, my waist accentuated surely with g-strings and thongs legs, high heels and ached feet beneath the the sculpted legs long my worth counted and scrutinized ass plentiful and mocha chocolate skin hypnotized rhythms of bass movement in music videos hair dancing off of beats as I am called a hoe. bitch please there has to be more than this to me i am more than the calculation definition measurable and comparison driven societal degree in which they see me i am woman. no cliche of he...

had i lived if i had not died an impressionable thumbprint to lay and co-exist soul stamped and virtually entranced upon memories reserved for future smiles unexpected and inappropriate laughs in silent spaces within this small space of the body cavity i have left my eyes to see the envisioned world which i created to seek and inspire. love and devour the drops and essential goodness of life which i take a huge bite satisfied in the juicy aftertaste of experienced moments and inexplicable beauty where do the skies end and Heaven begin climbing Jacob's ladder and surrounded by angelic celestial matter dense with beauty God's concentrated hues which i see and realize that i have lived for more than me. i lived. i was here. i am the re-incarnation potential not wasted highest of the most High Jesus walks as i touch the sky being upon this planet a Rubik's cube enigma where you cannot fit the spot or imitate the God given reality of my blessed individuality baptized in the worr...