I remember. Time has passed though. Wrinkles are beginning to form, and grey Hairs rooted. Doesn't take away the simplicities or Mere intricacies from the amazement of you. Although its fragmented. A laugh becomes hallow. Bounces off walls Acoustic not in tune with realities dimensions. Smiles become visible only on a photograph, the unpleasant Aftermath of the only thing which now to hold. Dreams. Dreams are divine. They curve into the cerebellum, leaking false images of you Drawing naked paths on skin and arching my spine- but awakening is the sad goodbye. Your scent. I can still smell it. Soaks Into my pores and wafts my nose Tickling the this and that of spice and musky Heartbeats Through the breeze of the wind, there It blows. and I remember. Sweet God of Lord above, I remember. Do you gather sweet musings about me? Thirst the same emotion, beg to be touched by me yet again? Reverse time and become the beautiful reality? I dare not ask for the real an...

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...

I know the feeling to be loved. to be wanted. adored. showered in sprinkles and anger droplets formed near the crevice of the eye but we dare not speak of. No. It's too hard to speak of loving to be wanted. adored. showered in fiery liquid spurts formed between linen sheets and thunderous thighs. but we do not dare speak of it. Yes. It's too wonderful to remember the wanting to be loved. adored. showered in subliminal thought clouds following me in rude awakenings and sweet reveries. I know the feeling to be loved. I do know the loving adornment the showering of gifts and small trinkets of remembrance. But we dare to recollect the time. Date. Exact moment. No. It's too painful to even remember the flowers that wrinkled in time desiring to be loved. adored. secretly being your umbrella in rain. A shelter of fortitude when pellets titter- patter on vinyl and plastic creating mildew stains. How I wish it were a parasol, shielding me from the ...

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 

I wish I were an artist. Trace your curvature of lines in vivid detail and remark on the thickness smooth lips as they intense with hues of graphite and stencil. Wish I could paint vividly. an encased reverie of just you and I to become we. oh, how I wish to be the stroke on your body and retrace its endings and firm beginnings, retold in pastels, water soluble paints and revamped historical perspectives. I only wish to capture the image of you. Recapture the soul and eyes of orbs encased in the human skull so hard to shift elements in globs of watercolor. tell tales of high cheekbones and broad shoulders free following of a pencil in raised eyebrows and sympathetic frowns. A white eraser clings nearby, swiftly chasing hopes and dreams, lines drawn dark holed black and now vanishing  in dematerialized crumpled portraits. -b.r.rivera Poem 22 of 30, April 2012 #30in30

This one particular man stands as prolific in my mind. Something about how the wild bird doesn't feel sorry for itself even in its frozen state. How secretly a broken wing challenges the raw Rocky-esque like stature the creature has. Screaming Adriiaaannnn!!!! with blackened eyes and sweat glistening from silken feathers. I don't know if I believe in such things. Here. Now. Sitting in chronic pain, barely able to move injured disks that stab burn stink in prolific meanderings. I mean, who can call their self an orange fiery flamed bird, beaten down by life and spit out in graves, turned to ash only to rise again? I am not that bird. That quiet, beaked, songstress. Attempting to flutter bloodied bashing's against a steel cage, minuscule perforations of seed scattered unto the recreated soil that can't fool earth. Self pity. Woe is me. The woe is me mentality framed in photographs where flight leaves the orbs of my eyes and ...

its broken. kinda like the sweet sparrow dropping hard from its nest its wing flapping hard against the dust of the earth eyes wild and unforgiving, trying hard not to feel sorry for itself and establishes within its mind that it has a broken wing. i wonder if I can fix it. be the invisible cast crimson in creation where miracles happen beyond the skies in pleasurable and comfortable existence. its discarded. merely a decomposed state of composition hidden with maggots and live insects swarming to infect and circumspect the small pieces of flesh exposed from hard calcified bone and marrow. it lays there, a piece blowing in the wind no longer recyclable to be sorted in large aqua blue tubs to be reinvented into plastic cups that once again, someone will throw away. and I wonder. wonder if I can fix it.  be the mending stitch that sways smooth firmness on  supple skin, avoiding infection and  regaining cellular regeneratio...

He loves me. We call this our secret place. our holy divine shining from the sky awkward and amusing feeling in the nook of your shoulder sacredness. here, I am hidden from all those that want to destroy me. you, my glorious prince and beautifully sun-kissed with no white horse but still defend me. and I want to live here. In this space. Forget about all time and dimension, hold unto a little sanctified beauty and lose my religion at the mere thought of you. He loves me not. We call it not seeing eye to eye. A fragment of losing control and too much stimuli. How raised voices become the ever present norm Cold shoulders and turned backs become the norm. here, I am the bitch you kick in the corner forgetting I snarl and bite back so who's to warn her of sleepless nights and insomnia filled moons Forget about everything and nothing and lose myself in doom at the mere thought of you. He loves me. We call this our beautiful beginning. Another day mark...

I don't remember his scent. I only remember fresh musk and dew sweat hidden in his sudden fragrance. How skin meets beyond pheromones and mutual attraction fire and desire and the chain to cause his reaction. A smile. gleaming white teeth filled with shiny pearl possibilities of tickling my spine in the nape of my neck brings the thrill to me. i begin to remember. remember his smooth walk of gliding asphalt and what I call swag. Smoke bellowing from his lips cigarettes of menthol in a wisp of his drag. and his talk. the way he would command his voice in clear octaves, bounce several degrees and be a lyrical gift go deeper, deeper still into jazzy voices and sweet hellos hidden goodbyes and empty cries. he was mine. I was his and I don't remember his scent. Don't remember his birthday which to pop out a cake suit-less anniversary marking a date full of love excess his favorite food he often devoured his special spot that gave me ...

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...