Love of My Lives
I am still your man, here still.
And after centuries measured
by small epiphanies,
my arms remain open,
my eyes your eyes seek.
Walking apart or abreast
my soul is complete
only when yours is near,
the spirit healed by your kiss.
Lovers, praying partners,
and friends we’ve been,
even secret members
of the same crime family.
Dancers in a cosmic ball
whose ancient rhythms
only the broken-hearted perceive.
Enemies and allies we’ve been—
fellow travelers in the far east.
Here I am, your man still,
still holding on to your hand.
Here to make reality
a holy promise made
the Spring I was shaken awake
—to meet once and for all
with clean hands, clear eyes,
open hearts and a blessing
for each other upon our lips.
A Poem, some pictures and a musical background. Mixed with love. Loved mixing it. Lots of love in the mix.
There’s a child that lives just under my skin
Who refuses to come out until I’ve settled some things
Let go over others, learn to breathe.
He only comes out when threatened or pleased
And is quick to decide who he won’t play with.
His temper is short–the length of a smile exchanged
Between two strangers who briefly met.
Everything’s a reminder of the playtime he’ll one day enjoy
When he learns to be good.
There’s a child living between my desires and my need,
Thirsting for acceptance and comfort
–my embrace he awaits .
Grateful for all the support.
Please check out my IndieGoGo campaign HERE. The manuscript is going back to beautiful California for a short visit with the editor, A. Victoria Mixon.
Even if you can’t contribute at this time, help me spread the word.
and other creative types. From the stupendous Maria Popova at Brain Pickings:
Famous authors are notorious for their daily routines — sometimes outrageous, usually obsessive, invariably peculiar. In Odd Type Writers: From Joyce and Dickens to Wharton and Welty, the Obsessive Habits and Quirky Techniques of Great Authors (public library) — the more dimensional and thoroughly researched counterpart to Mason Currey’s Daily Rituals — Brooklyn-based writer Celia Blue Johnson takes us on a guided tour of great writers’ unusual techniques, prompts, and customs of committing thought to paper, from their ambitious daily word quotas to their superstitions to their inventive procrastination and multitasking methods.
Author’s Note: I published this entry on my father’s birthday for the first time in 2009. I still miss him and not only on his birthday, so I post it again today. This is the one post that gets picked up most by search engines. Other folks who missed their departed dads come here to read about mine. If you’re reading this, I wish that you were as lucky as I was in having known someone like my dad Gilberto. Blessings to yours and mine.
If my Dad was alive, today would have been his 81st birthday. He died in a car accident in Cuba in 1979. He was 47 years old. I almost died with him.
On a day like today, I am remembering his courage and his grace.
I would love to tell you a little bit about both.
We were in Cuba visiting the family we had left behind a decade earlier. We were one of the first groups to travel back to Cuba under the Family Reunification Act. This was an agreement entered into by both the Cuban and American governments to allow family members living in the US the opportunity to visit relatives on the island.
Like a lot of Cuban families, ours had been split along political lines. After supporting the Revolution from its infancy, my Dad broke with it in the early Sixties. He felt the original promises of the Revolution — a return to democracy after Batista, with the Constitution of 1940 as guide — had been betrayed. He called the Castro gang the real counter-revolutionaries. After the nationalization of private property — including my Dad’s humble-single pump Sinclair station — and the declaration by Castro that communism, not democracy was the future for Cuba, Dad filed the necessary paperwork to emigrate to this country. I can only imagine the pain Dad must have felt leaving his family and friends behind and move to a country that spoke a different language and lived a different culture. He was only allowed to take with him the clothes on his back.
About a quarter of my family did the same thing. The other three quarters stayed behind with different degrees of involvement in the Castro government. Some close relatives, believers in and defenders of the Revolution, were high up in governmental circles. I loved these people as much as I loved the ones that made it across the Florida Straits. My Dad taught me that. I never heard him say one negative, unloving thing about any family member that had chosen differently than him. He had a big, accepting heart.