"....I only hope she remembers me."
(Material Issue "Valery Loves Me")
Posted: 01/08/2014 (Heartbreak Hotel group on Psychobilly Fever)
"Not Feathers"
Written by L.G. Flores
Why is it that I don't?
I read between the lines and also the scribbles in my own mind's eye.
Irony from the Agony, it is a story already told and known.
A thousand years to a yard of miles and smiles wide. What was then a joy, now is only a sorrow.
How is it that I can so blindly ask one to fall in love with me and my children if I would like to do the same with his world and his children?
How is it that between a moment's glow of expectancy and imagination, a poem can be sage ages long?
Best I forget the dream for I don't know how to wake up from it.
Best let go of the screams, of feeling never quite good enough to pull aside and one, speak my name as an adult would to another.
Best leave the worry aside and by the wayside of weigh and neigh to be denied.
My name is not written and spoken for what reason?
I wonder if its from being ashamed to be associated with me as well. I want to love the ideal of being in love again, but I ask of myself this,
What little lone bird ever truly does, belong to a flock if her coat is not of feathers?
(I was being philosophical and remembering how some men that I've gotten involved with, they got me saying their names to them countless times, but it came no where near with them saying or typing my name back. It hurts because I made it a point for them to know I was talking to them, and I felt after a while, they just didn't see it as important to repeat my name so I know they were talking to me.)
Combat Jones
By L.G. Flores
Dedicated to Sgt. C.J. Walden
U.S.M.C (retired)
I should have known it when I seen you from the pictures in the sand. You were a ghost trapped back in that forsaken land. A prisoner of war locked in the battlefield; the man with whom I fell in love with and wanted to heal
You were so beautiful as your eyes spoke back to me, as if scared to admit what you actually seen. A thousand yard stare of a broken Marine; God baby what the Hell was it you seen?
Hush my sweetness and rest your weary head,
know I believed you weren't truly dead.
Though lost in limbo, one day it won't hurt
and the heat of the desert won't always burn.
No baby, it won't always burn...
Why are you so angry? Does it make sense then?
Is it how you cope with what you couldn't defend?
I wish I could help you wake up from that dream,
that often you wonder hearing echos of screams...
I wasn't there you're right so I couldn't know,
but I didn't want to stop loving what you did show.
I wanted to take a chance and learn to understand,
what it was you killed back in those sands.
Hush my sweetness and rest your weary head,
know I believed you weren't truly dead.
Though lost in limbo, one day it won't hurt
and the heat of the desert won't always burn.
No baby, it won't always burn...
If I imagine hard enough I could still see the Marine
dressed in his blues at the ball next to me.
So thrilled that he found me and I him,
foolishly like kids once again not afraid to dream...
A very nice dream that could have silenced those screams.
Perhaps making the blood in the sand not be all you see.
But for now be an old photograph that won't reveal more.
One picture of a broken Marine casualty of war.
Soon it will be over. Soon it won't hurt.
Soon the sun will set and the moon cool your burn.
Please let it go, don't doom yourself to be alone.
If not with me, then with others 'til you make it back home...
Dressed in your blues dancing the night away;
taking you far from that awful place.
I'll always love you baby though to me your back turned,
I just wasn't clever enough to fix what I don't know.
("I missed you too." ~Cassi November 11, 2004)
"I feel like a pinball learning how...."
By L.G. Flores
Dedicated to "Doc Professional Pinball Dustoff Flight Attendant" Army National Guard (retired)
(From Book#1 PRC Prelude To Letting Go--"I feel like a pinball...." poem composed September 2012)
I stared in to oblivion from a thousand miles away. I seen the face of a man and wondered if he suffered the same fate and sadly to that, I wondered if he would always relate. Who fixes us toys of intention, then sends us on our way? The man from above that fell down below and rolled in to what was meant to be forgotten, and nothing more. Yet for me that also came from the desert, compassion I also knew how to show; but he thought it best I not know, though it meant I would not let go. That perhaps is my irony, for I have yet to learn how.
(Pt 2 Composed March 2014)
And yet I did learn and how has so many ways. And what he said, did remain, to this very day. One clock stopped, so another can take over, and somehow, somewhere, he was there to shield and cover. But he doesn't smile, not from what I seen. What is it? How is it? Where has it been? Not gone, just hidden where it is safe from view. If no one can see it, how can they attack it and take it away like a clue?
Why does he dangle neither here, nor there? Because in to Oblivion he also has stared. "Spare him?" I ask, "From what?" was the response. "From me." I reply. "Long ago, that was done." I thought there was reason why can't see him when the lights go dark. He's somewhere else, where he needs to be, where he listens to the song of the Lark. What does it sing to him? I'm just curious, that's all. "It tells to remember why he stopped feeling like a pinball." , "Did he?" I ask. There is no response. "Did he?" I asked again, nothing was the reply. Why can't I at least get word back on that? Is it too much to dare still ask? Say yes. Accept yes. Know it's yes, even if you remember how one fastens on their masks.
"You're not supposed to know, even if it means you hold on. He knows what's he's doing and your thoughts just get dragged along." So should I hate him? "Will it make it easier for you?" No, I don't want to hate him, I'd really like to just move on. "So what prevents you from deciding its you who walks away?" Because it feels like I abandoned an intention of a toy that bares his God given name. "What is this name?" I can't say. "Why not?" Because. "Because what?" It's better that way. If I don't say his name, the bad guy won't know who to blame. If I keep that name a secret, then its convenience is safe.
To Land On His Chest....
By L.G. Flores
Dedicated to a chest plate tattoo w/ swallows and influenced by Norman Rockwell painting “Home on Leave” That appeared in the September 15, 1945 issue of the Saturday Evening Post
(From Book #3 Swallows & Sparrows -- Composed November 2010)
Taking a nap in a hammock, eyes closed.
Taking a nap and no storm clouds.
I seen how lovely the angel slept.
No anguish held inside for all that was felt....
Seeing him sleep and not toss and turn;
just the face of beauty sent down to Earth.
How I'd dare steal a kiss
gently pressed against his lips.
Just enough not to wake him up,
and him flee back in to a wind gust.
Yet for such beauty I see in my mind:
I would not from him force to be mine.
Though as I gaze down like a little bird that stopped to ponder;
What does beauty dream of in his slumber?
He looks so comfortable like he finally knows rest....
I'd love to know what it's like to touch him;
but the closest I can reach....
is to land without him knowing,
down on his chest.
Under A Blue Sun
By L.G. Flores
Dedicated to "Spooner"
(Started 2010 Finished Jan 22. 2013)
Under a Blue Sun sitting there; face half covered in a hidden stare.
After walking a thousand miles, you were looking back at me.
Actually no, it wasn’t me you came to see.
Defeated, I tried to forget so it wouldn’t hurt
and yet for all the innocence, it became to me what its worth.
As the years passed I thought about you at least once every day
but still I prayed to learn how to make your memory fade.
And though I said I’d like to not think of you anymore;
I realized if I stop, I’ll forget and it would go back to a lonesome before.
Moving on meant there would be no more you.
I used to feel forgetting you was amongst the worse I could do.
"Don’t go away?" was what in my conflicted heart I used to ask,
it was from an old longing that seemed would always last.
Under a Blue Sun sitting there,
my hope was once, perhaps still,
that you would want to care....
I won’t deny I did start a thousand mile journey of my own,
to foolishly walk then after fall down at your door;
but I didn’t know where that was, so I walked on in search of the ocean’s shore.
I wrote a letter that I stuffed in a bottle with flowers that I threw out to the sea,
to see if the tide would take from me what I couldn’t help but bleed.
A wisdom that was not my own, said this emotion felt must run its course;
and to make use of its muse and open for me a different door;
to where, I have yet to know.
My life didn’t start or end at the point that cost nothing more
than an old pair of worn down shoes.
I learned I just wanted to meet someone special that one day
perhaps would want to say to me… what I’d like to be true.
Under a Sun with light shades of blue,
"I do at times still wonder what has become of you too.”
Stolen Kisses From Flowers
By L.G. Flores
Photo Credit L.G. Flores 2010
(Finished September 15, 2013 -- Appears in "Pauley's..." Facebook page storybook album "Until we meet again...." Sing it Vera Lynn! )
(Play Video For Soundtrack)
In my hand I offer what I sadly could only afford, which were stolen kisses from flowers because I was that poor. I walked alone on the streets I am from and if they were called home, it was because there was nowhere else I could go.
I wanted so much to run away but that wasn't the answer for all of which I prayed. Glowing under a blurred street light, I thought of you again. I thought about how much I wished we were friends even after all that I had said. I wanted to say instead "Don't go away!"
"Please?" I have begged as what came over me, dropped me to my knees. If not that I was rocking back and forth with feelings rushing through me I couldn't control. It wasn't you that was the problem with what I couldn't comprehend. I was lost, running scared and knew certain things I had to pretend.
I didn't mean it or if I did I'm sorry it came out that way... but better then than later though try to understand that when you can't take back what you said. Why do I think of you and pick flowers as if they would mean anything? It was because of one dream of you was Heaven compared to the Hell in the rest where no one hears me scream.
So much will need to happen and my journey I will have to walk alone; unless I make friends with others that wouldn't throw at me stones. My companions for a little while and then it comes time to tell them goodbye but with you I didn't want to even as I had to tell a lie.
Looking back at what I placed in my hand, those stolen kisses from flowers became part of what I learned to understand. I wanted to care about somebody that I thought could be you and even if I was so sincere, I had to accept a truth.
What a vision of liberty that could withstand bitter attacks, the romantic in me saved me from what I lacked. And as the problems stacked, I didn't topple down. I had to face harsh facts and listen to the wisdom I had found.
Or it found me as the darken streets at night I would roam, always wondering if I can ever return home. I couldn't because at the time there wasn't really one; where I could lay down and rest and sleep calm.
Thinking about it, those flowers and stolen kisses were not meant for you. That would be futile and would make me a bigger fool. Then who were they for if foolish I shouldn't be? The easiest answer is to say it anyway and believe they were always just meant for me.
"Sweet Angel of Mercy"
By L.G. Flores
Dedicated to our "Distractions"
Sweet Angel of Mercy, how you make the daily struggle bearable. With your smile and eyes that glimmer; you make it feel better like a mother's kiss to a scrape on her child's skin.
You offer sanctuary if only in my mind.
I imagine your touch and your voice and the relief they offer. I am in a happier place when you are near, even if I have to pretend.
I don't know what your face looks like or the scent of your musk that if I did know would intoxicate me like drinking sweet wine. You are perfect for the unknown. You are perfect for never saying no to me and yet you are perfect when correcting me and guiding towards towards the light.
Could you exist? Could you be just for me? Could you hold my hand and kiss it? Could you not go away?
What it seems I want is to cling on to what is not there. That is not good. That is not right and yet I ask that you be part of my life.
Whomever you are, I see you are but a wish of not knowing better. Sweet Angel of Mercy, you are the daydream that distracts me from reality that I should return back to. And yet knowing I will; please allow me to hold on just a little while longer?
Whispers In The Dark
By L.G. Flores
Dedicated to my memories of "Beloved" and all "The Unnamed"
(Taken from Book #1 PRC "Like Whispers In The Dark" April 8, 2013)
“Close your eyes again and feel me. Close your eyes and listen. Close your eyes and taste my lips that have been kissing you the entire time I’ve been in love with you.
Feel my pulse, trace it back to my heart and touch my breast as it beats through. It speaks your name and only yours.
What fear there was has left me. I want you to know I braved it; me, my worst of all enemies. I am not afraid anymore.
Touch my breast and feel it beat and say your name over and over as it keeps my body warm. Close your eyes again and listen to me whisper to you in the dark as your body is pressed against mine. Know that I think of no one else when you are with me.
For you I would conquer my destiny and change it if it leads me away from you.
I love you in the sweetest of tender moments. In your arms I find my haven and the sanctuary I offer you, it would be eternal.
Close your eyes and listen to me whisper in your ear that I chose you from all the men that walk the Earth to be the one there can never be a comparison to.
Make love to me and interlock your fingers with mine as we hold each others' hand. Open your eyes and see that it truly is me.”
Looking through the hour glass
By L.G. Flores (From "The Babble Diaries" Boyle Heights, CA 2011)
Looking through the hour glass, with kaleidoscope eyes that shine; I see the sand falling up in to the sky and its mind. I wonder if I really am going to live a long life. It's not a secret that at times I rather not, but… I say this because I wonder what family I will get to be by my side in my bed, where I want to die and be planted outside. I wonder what sort of funeral I would get. My parents will die before me, and siblings by then would forget I am related to them. Friends? I don't want to outlive any of them, but I'm sure it's the same all around. I may not be found in time and with this I look out of the sky. Time is running up and the hour glass, it's just a thought. What if I will have a lot, and it be the cause of my demise?
Time and two cups
By L.G. Flores (From "The Babble Diaries" Boyle Heights, CA 2011)
Time and two cups; a heart on a sleeve and expression. What will fill the cups and help with my depression? Or too much elation without hesitation? It's all expectations and infections. Contradiction, it's my message, or so it seems. I'll leave, then return and control will fall on my soul, to do more than pout and scream in silence out loud. Time and two cups and a heart worn on a sleeve, is it for a memory of what has been? Perhaps, but what it's meant for is to remember what a card game did teach... All that I desire can and will for the most part be within reach. What will I teach by others seeing me? I'm a recluse that put away her noose and looks both ways to cross the street. I have places to go, places to be, people to pass and people to meet. It may be good and bad, well... It will learn to be bitter sweet. It's what I get for inking a heart and two cups on my sleeve. Time don't be so much when it hurts to believe, things will get better and my life one I want to live? Thoughts do begin...
It’s Quiet
By L.G. Flores (From "The Babble Diaries" Boyle Heights, CA 2011)
It's quiet if I wasn't listening to the fan or the cars driving outside. I'm kinda hiding right now. I know outside there is a breeze and a blue sky... And yet again why do I rather hide? I suppose I needed a day to really lay-down to think. What did I come up with? I'm on the outside looking in, yet not within. I think it’s all just visits with friends, not living together and holding hands. I'm thinking I should stay grateful I got more than what some got in their lots. I should go outside even if I take peeks at what isn't mine. Maybe it looks back at me and wonders if I'll stick around to invite inside. I can only handle so much before I need again, my quiet time. I got the fan on to listen to and the voices of cars passing below and by.
The fucking writer of stories and poetry...
By L.G. Flores (From "The Babble Diaries" Boyle Heights, CA 2011)
The fucking writer of stories and poetry... It's what I became. I remember I wanted to join the Marines instead of also being protected by them. I know I wasn't ready or meant to take a life, if that was the only option. I don't fight, don't really know how, but somehow the writer and poet in me, became friends with those Marines that included me in their Sea Stories, and I wrote of them in my Shore Tales. I am too idealistic to not get heart broken when things are not fair, but that's based on my own judgment, and I am not objective enough to have a 1,000 yard stare. I think if I did step on the yellow footsteps of those that have gone before me, I think the poet and writer in me would have painted a picture of words; to speak of honor and valor that tends to be not always the truth. I feel like a coward because I'm not holding my own in battle. Instead what I fight is to not lose again my mind. Too fucking crazy even for the Marine Corps... I don't feel any pride in that. Oo-fucking-rah...
“Happy 4th of July”
By L.G. Flores
How eerie it is to listen. How eerie it is to watch. The color bursts so lovely; colors of benign bombs. American children are smiling while the wounded veterans are not. These reminders of times not left behind; reminders of a war not yet won.
The whistles and the crackling, oh how exciting it is to hear; and yet for that wounded American, they are the sounds of what they feared. All these explosions so unnerving, the seconds are counted down. Out my window I get the impression of what it sounds like when a man is down.
“Oh rockets’ red glare and bombs bursting in air; gave proof through the night that our flag..." will make them all stare. Far off in to the distance of oblivion that at times is too near. It’s funny what we cheer as I remember the soldier holding on to me as I sensed his fear.
Taking for granted perhaps I do at what is our celebration; of a day commemorating our “freedom” from an old crown’s annihilation. Americans are singing of a sweet land of liberty and the pursuit of our happiness that even with blood is not guaranteed.
Louder and brighter with smoke trails following behind; what a symphony and vision for the deaf and the blind. These fireworks we can play with and smile with delight; as they explode in the air as us civilians are not haunted by a deployment’s fight.
“Happy 4th of July” my fellow country men and “Happy Birthday” to our homeland. So proudly we hail and salute our flag and all for which she stands. The fireworks are our tradition but there is one thing sadly most will never understand. The sights, sounds and dread of where bombs aimed at us will land.
(Composed July 4, 2013 finished @ 10:58pm)
With Silence He Responds
By L.G. Flores
"Silence" he responds with as my eyes don't hear a thing.
He says "nothing", and my eyes see this is.
"Forget" I said but I kept remembering.
"No one knows". Read quietly to yourself what she does not "speak".
Think quietly self and know one of you breathes.
“The Hermit thinks”
By L.G. Flores
In a second story lighthouse in the city; this hermit I shall be. Up late at night, unable to sleep; with a beer or a cup of coffee, my restless mind that wants to be appeased.
I am awake and I listen to the sound of a freeway close by, what is this draw of night? Perhaps it is unconsciousness that peacefully I want to fight.
No more, no less, I think and I attest; what perhaps is evidence of me still being a mess.
Yet I am and I am not but still if I stop; it’s in this peaceful moment I debate what I truly want.
I think of what lies ahead, rather than behind me instead; what perhaps I’ve mislead and what I left for dead.
I am not sleepy though I tried with my pills, it is a case of will, as in whose is stronger and will get their fill. Tonight as I sit by my window, with a humble lamp by my side, I do not hide that tonight I am still alive, especially after I cried.
"From wherein which I came" (The Babble Diaries)
By L.G. Flores
Dedicated to Lola C. aka "Minnie" for her 35th Birthday
From wherein which I came, I am the result of a challenge to breathe and exist...
From what I have been, I learned I had the potential to change and improve when I create from my wishes and dreams…
From what I believe and have faith in, I understand I am a process of realization. I am many emotions, thoughts and reactions…
I am the reason my name was bestowed on to me with its meaning and proposition…
From what I feel, I made no mistake in embracing what possibilities there are when I explore my heart; for this is the pathway towards my spirit, core and soul…
From the beauty I see, around me and within me, I am the audience that is affected and moved. There is praise in my contribution…
From its beginning to intermission, my life, my goals, my hopes, and even my fears and pain; not once were they experienced in vain…
From it all I knew when my reflection looked back at me and smiled, I didn’t only scream when I was born; I made it a point to be heard.
No te puedo decir… (I can't tell you....)
By L.G. Flores
Duncan Dhu “En Un Lugar”
If I can say it in Spanish, I would do so you wouldn’t understand. Some things translated don’t seem the same and for good reason. I see you and wonder from a distance why I am fascinated by you. What about you is so special? I may be asking myself that question for years to come. Wait, I’ve been asking myself that question for a few years now already; maybe the question should be ‘How much longer before it stops?’
I have to remind myself to go easy on me for having the habits of the unrequited. It seems so romantic to want to feel what lovers do; what is it that they do? They are in the same place where they can touch the other. That’s not going to happen no matter how much I have wished. Why? No te puedo decir.
Miguel Bose “Amante Bandido”
I thought it before, you and I alone. We were not undressed but our fingertips were bare and yours touched mine; that alone felt like a kiss. I pressed my lips with my fingertips to feel… feel what? No te puedo decir.
Enanitos Verdes “Luz De Dia”
I listen to these ballads and wonder how much of their lyrics apply to me… you… what… that… something… nothing. I don’t want to be sad anymore when I think of what I imagined I could give you; and yet I choose to be saddened by it. Why? No te puedo decir, quiero pero no puedo.
Caifanes “La Celula Que Explota”
This particular song I listened over and over when I mourned my first heartbreak. Looking back again I have to go easy on me and not feel disappointed that there is still so much sand in the hourglass left to pour through. I do know that with each grain that passes, I am closer to what I want from you. What is it? No te puedo decir porque tampoco yo se que es.
Enrique Bunbury “El Porque De Tus Silencios”
I’m imagining the beach. I should go back soon to see if the message in a bottle I asked the ocean to take, if it made it back. I doubt it would, perhaps someone else found it and wondered who are you and who is me. You and Me shall not be and no initials carved in to a tree porque no te puedo decir.
Monday December 30, 2013
Down The Pathway/My Little House
East Los Angeles, CA
2:45am
"El Nombre De Mi Amado/My Beloved's Name"
By L.G. Flores
"Te queria, pero tambien eso tenia que terminar. Porque tu nombre tampoco fue de el, nacio mi hijo. Porque tu nombre, otro hombre me beso, y tambien me dejo llorando. Despues de el, otra vez, otro hombre que en mi alma, ay un secreto que no comprendo completamente porque, pero el.... con el, el mundo es un cuento de la luz de la luna, y calor del sol, juntos por ser aparte. La pesadillas y despues la causa.... un beso tuyo por ser mi amado antes, no duele. El beso del hombre que no he conocido, el secreto de su nombre, los angeles protegen, si yo no oculto. Siempre fiel en sangre y lagrimas, es mi nombre que te cambio tambien."
"I loved you, but that too had to end. Because your name is also not his, my son was born. Because of your name, another man kissed me and also left me crying. After him, again, another man that in my soul, there is a secret that I do not completely understand why, but he.... with him, the world is a tale of moonlight and the sun's warmth, together for being apart. The nightmares and after the cause.... one of your kisses for being my beloved once, does not hurt. The kiss of the man I have not met, the secret of his name, the angels protect, if I do not keep it hidden. Always faithful in blood and tears, it is my name that changed you as well." ~Lizett