Somewhere, somehow, someone doesn't make it. Suffer the world. Suffer the children. Suffer the little intricate moments that form inter connection and hopeless dances with the nasal passages that breathe in air. We can't help it. We fight religion and form philosophical debates formed on chance recognition of miracles seen in the naked eye. we hope. we don't hope. we pray. we beg. Somewhere, somehow, some way someone won't make it another day. Then we ponder. Pull out biblical texts switch out to the Qur'an and shadow the beauty of Buddhism. We wonder. We think of theism and anti-theism, we entertain the thought of being without it and squeal in delight. No one knows. Each face a marbled reincarnation of their tombstone to be. We claim to gain higher ground with those stricken with cancer vow to find a vaccine that can cure heart disease campaign against drunk driving and work on an imaginary war on drugs where soldiers themsel...

We're all stories in the end. An afterthought to memories sticky residue formed by the cerebellum and ancient experiences. I remember this life as simply as the next adorned with what ifs,and sad maybe's, undesirable truths and rude awakenings. I could of had it all. That promised laugh, That joyful tear, That wrinkled smile. An afterthought to memories sticky residue formed by the cerebellum and ancient experiences. This road is not what it seems. I received advice a long time ago; choose the path less traveled and diverge often from the foothills and valleys peaking in sunset and light, shadows and darkness, earth and Heaven's above. I was supposed to be happy. Bring life to whatever was dead; the constant resurrection of soul stirring eras, being told and retold many seasons ago. For it was glory. Glory to be the present unwrapped, a child sprung forth of its mother's womb entangled in a cord and cut loose of any ties except ...

You invade me. There is no hidden offbeat path where I can dust myself off from rubble and shattered dreams. Bury myself from conflicted wounds and organized chaos that inevitably surrounds me. I wave a white flag. Simply surrender to the noise created from empty graves, beckoning scythe and Hail Mary's fingers approaching forehead, rosary laid to rest in heartless coffins. You are here. You hear no bugle horn calling its falling back, no wave of retreat into the dusk falling over the horizon. I have no place to go, no place to hide, no place to run Only a dream of what simple freedom felt like before the day disrupted cadence entered my life. -b.r.rivera

A empty cup on a tv tray. Scent of coffee, lipstick of a woman. A unfilled journal. Scribbled passages, A forgotten lyric pen of a poet. A forgotten ashtray, Smoke of tobacco pull of a worrier. A letter in the mirror Sentence of the forgotten Remnants of what could have been. -b.r.rivera #23 of 30 #30in30

Sleep came easy when the cold lover kissed me goodnight wrapped my limbs in invisible blankets a tourniquet for the purgatory moments where flesh and blood meet no more. I dance quickly in my dream. My feet, a stolen quickening of rhythmic beats reserved for historic events and flirtatious movements in a solitary full length reflection. I am his, and he is mine and forever we shall be linked to a scythe, a hooded figure and a kiss where sleep came easily. -b.r.rivera-taylor 11 of 30 #30in30

Glaring through windows clear rain in the dew of face cologne sniffed a reminder Pleasant memories death present in her lover her soldier was once a man. -b.r.rivera-taylor 3 of 30 #30in30 (A sedoka. This poetry form is an un-rhymed form of two katauta. Each katauta has 3 lines, with the respective 5/7/7 syllable count. The style is Japanese, with originality beginning as a musical poem, but broadened to other subject matter.)

Life is not trivial waiting upon someone to take it we are expendable to those whose life is not yet blessed within the soul giver and the life presenter who weeps at the mere thought that someone would take it away. -b.r.rivera-taylor An  etheree  poem. The first concrete form I played with and loved upon sight. In order to become a better poet, we must read, study and write both free forms and concrete forms of poetry. Enjoy.

For every grain within the sand that has turned with the flick of the wrist there is a story to be told. of the beautiful goodness that en-captures the minds of the grieving ones left behind unfold that will miss all of you. as God narrated simplistic sayings passed from generation to generation touching you to thee; surely I have gained knowledge from reading your life as you have impacted me. And you were loved. We could borrow time on the clock and arrange the hands to go back and do it all again to receive a smile and hear your voice is to understand and comprehend the meaning of rejoice- because you showed it. You boasted love proud in your chest, filled with understanding and forgiveness, grace and the epitome of being blessed. God knows you were superhuman surpassing the lines of ordinary and you were extraordinary for compassion and open arms encircling salty tears and keen advice on not wasting God given years with fragrant smells fill...

“Rescue Me” I don’t think death is a hard man to look at. Not a scary scythe carrying grim reaper wearing a dark robe reeking of fallen ashes and freshly dug dirt right now, he will look like an angel (to me) bright and with a long gown ever flowing whispering in my ear sweet Beverly, it’s time to come home and I will dive into his arms like a child who has missed her father. Because he is sweet welcoming to me like potato salad and fried chicken that my mom made especially for me to welcome me home after a long trip on the road. Right now, he is sweet and kind kissing me on my forehead And relieving me of my last breath Because I was too tired to do so. Too worn to even fill my lungs. Too weary to even think about the inhaling and exhaling the in and out of peaks and valleys He is my sweet dreams of what others called nightmares of monstrous boogeyman’s and unhopeful futures. Sweet song that I hear my last breath that I breathe He says sweet Beverly, it’s time to go home and in one sw...

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...