Monday, February 1, 2016


Antonio Garcia


If time forgets the past and heals the heart
and it becomes water under a bridge, then why
do I pass this way again in a paper boat?
Laying in bed under a soft light
night after night the poet became the Moon
casting its glowing shadows
reinserting the dream back into its setting.
Paper boats are fragile
but trustworthy emissaries to loves worthiness
which you have administered within
the caprice of your desirous heart.
If time wallows in the instant moments
carriaging the memories to a lawn of beauty
then it is in your trailing blue dress
calling him into the space where you are caged.
A gentleman to love
has bridled your hearts capacity
to become fulfilled by the generous rewards
and fit for a Queen
you became an immigrant sighing and crying
for another refrain to ensue.
Shall we take pity for those that oversee?
As the paper boat leaves your maiden hand
and starts its way onto the horizon
the sweet pain and anx of foreboding love waits
as you lay on the tarnished shale.
Has my dream passed through you daily
reading the words and indexes of my Sonnets?
Have you at times wished for courage
to avenge the disciplinary style of your life?
Letting go brings the Light of God
for to trespass against these rewards we try
but only the angelic horns sound
when the temperance of love is melded.

You watch the paper boats float away ...
knowing ...
it will return again someday ...


Lamplights dimmer against an indigo evening.
Your pink dress flowing
Degas paints your charms in his chalking stutter
and the Perfume air is your necking lace
saturated with a gift from a whaling Hollander.
Beauteous night of sparklet stars
my Shakespearean heart undresses for your love
cadenced awkwardly and smiling amidst.
Leaning against the rails
wooden boats and their party signals on
and I become stained by your immortal face
flaxening your eyes into my own.
I hear the horns of the fog master blow
and the dining air jubilant, shouting above
to listen to a whisper.
Lamplights shimmer in the museum hall.
Tho’ my death has been compounded by the years
I still walk this pier and watch nightly
the women that appear lost without loves embrace
with a haunting upon their face.
Allured by thee art, I am an over handed man
logging the crab nets and their contents
for a dockworker I’d be and always will remain.
Is beauty beyond my poverty
tho’ recognizably pure and adulteress free?
Old England would not have me
be a second rate husband to the benefiting
so I loom like a crane.
I'vet seen Degas with my own eyes
his Spirit in my own discontented heart of tears
wanting to express all that I know of love.
The cantering of this night diffuses the mind …
for such latencies are preserved by the heart that sees …
To a heart that feels… I will deny.


Ricardo Antonio Garcia
To you lady
whose eyes will open soon
breathe me in
and exhale me into the room
for I will fog
the clock face, and
be the effervescence of your smile.
What would the day be
without waking from within
washing me out
into the flora of your Spring?
To you lady
whose coniferous song
mutates into the Soul
growing higher than the clouds
every morning you rise.
I am the haze
obscuring tragic hours
with hope and joy
tearlessly impregnating
your beauteous heart.
To you lady
in the waking hour awaiting
floating in your lungs
the air I breathe
and the life you live
disfiguring my fog aside
from things you see, I am
an abstract illusion
in this variant dream.
Whilst lipstick cures a smile
my kiss you will need.
To you lady .. my Spirit soars.

Antonio Garcia

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