Carlos Lanazca


Humanity & my pride of being one inspires me to write.


A Firm Quintain

This is bard with poems that inspire

& too motivated to feel tired.

You’re not a liar

So God hear my prayers. I’m rich

In ideas so writing will be my last ditch.


Better Than Me

I’ll ask him if he thinks

He’s better than me then I’ll

Tell him “Be better than me”.

I’ll ask her if can find

A boyfriend like me

Then I’ll tell her that “There

Is only one me”. I’ll ask them

If they can imitate me then

I’ll tell them that “I’m unique”.


Dream & Reality

I want to fall into peace

Because life feels obscure.

Endurance plays a part in

My character. Enemies are

Safer being my friends.

My pen is my tool to

Write.


Wisdom

I escape into myself & hit

Every corner of my mind to

Discover my ability.Time

Gives me the chance to perform

Such a journey. I’m getting

Older & wiser so I fear

Not being like my grandpa.


Mr. Expression

My poem will touch your awareness

While people either love me or fear me.

I know that the world is not perfect

& that peace usually comes to those who deserve it.

I say a prayer for good luck

To the one I trust.

My persistence is a must

Because I know where I’m from

So don’t be numb.


My Dove

I’ll show her how to be strong

So her love can last long.

Her nature is to be sweet as

I behave like a student in the streets.

I’ll tell her that there’s only one me

So she can make me feel free

& we will become a team.

I SING YOU TO SLEEP

I sing you to sleep every night
Although you know it not –
Your mind is full of muses,
Too full to hear what mine have brought.
In those grey hours when you rest
And all your pains take flight,
If you’d listen you would know
That I sing you to sleep every night.

What do you hear when your day is done
And starlight sonatas play in your head?
Whispers of lines we once revered
Are ones I will not leave for dead.
When the violet visions impress
Their hell upon your heaven-heart,
Know that unless mine ceases to beat,
My songs the path to yours will chart.

Yes, my love, when you recline
And the lucky moonbeams stroke your hair,
My voice can cross the distances
And strain to fill your haunted air.
Those virgin roads and missing hours
Are my sole causes to weep –
But instead of tears, I offer this:
Every night, I sing you to sleep

ODE TO PORTAGE PARK

Time-honored home of nigh a century,
here do I locate peace not simply found;
the raiment of the trees is all I see,
Nature's green tegument the only ground.
Soft grass, my friend in sunlit somnolence
is the verdant pillow to soothe my aches.
I am born again, a summer-kissed girl
and on days of unrivalled indolence
my inner child, laughing, springs awake
and together we feed the scamp'ring squirrels.

On Summer's final evanescent nights
I wander through the ethereal fog,
rejoicing in the charm of misty lights,
smitten with each passing songbird and dog.
For whom does your staid, slender Willow weep?
Not I, even upon the darkest days
for I come to her with my plaintive sigh.
She listens and in night-tones ever sweet
tells of bright, new pleasures at which to gaze:
rows of roses that bring to mind Versailles.

And when Autumn's chilled hand caresses all,
I will sit and sketch the untainted grace
of the September-hued leaves as they fall.
Day by day with bright eyes and upturned face
I will welcome Winter's bleak vehemence
and place myself beneath the breath of snow
without too much mourning for Summer's end.
Portage Park, you are in your timelessness
Nature's prime servitor, with whom I slow
and wait, assured, for Spring to come again.

TO -- AND --

To the perfect couple that never was,
I say this: squander no more time in thought
alone, not when misery holds a love
for company. Sure, it may be for nought
but self-deceiving hearts too quickly fall
to a jaded, hollow-chested decay.
If you cannot share everything and all,
find comfort in the coming of the day
upon which yearning eyes shall meet again
and comity is made of common grief.
If your lips cannot to sweet kisses bend,
at least in confession find some relief.
Sit not idle in self-restrained desire
but fain allow your heart its wistful fire.

DOUBT NOT MY HEART

Doubt not my heart, though it may run from thee
when mine eyes have tired of all the tears
that stream o'er the life that can never be.
Though it will live on in my song for years
and remain the only true thing to me,
it is wiser to hold it less than dear;
it is better that from these thoughts I part
and at least attempt now to doubt my heart.

I flit careless from man to memory;
I have let time and wisdom interfere
with our dream's lovelorn, half-cocked guarantee
that mine hand to thine would e'er be adhered.
That mine heart from thine would ne'er long to flee
is a promise that's seemed to disappear
though it should have not. But as we're apart,
I must brush aside Cupid's fatal dart.

Someday these bare walls will fall to debris,
thy lips bent to mine vulnerable ear,
beating at the door of Melancholy
and drawing me back from the mouth of Fear.
But until that day, let the the crowds not see
further than that which a smile makes clear;
thy hands alone hold the key to my art
that tells thee e'en now: "Love, doubt not my heart."

a poem i wrote last night...

there was a lark.. perched on the edge of a branch
obsequious to promise.
precarious to a certain revelation.
exhalation on the whims of cold wind and remembrances of a robin it had once loved.
a nest made of branches and shredded shopping bags
left by people who would never know the adulation such a material thing could hold for a bird of inspiring wings
the lark kept his promise of reconnaissance .. a constant surveillance of surroundings... a soaking in of human and avion sadness, emotion and loneliness as each circles around in hopes of finding that which fills a certain emptiness.
drifts of snow and winter exhaustion enter his tiny heart.
a burst of promise nonetheless of something other than an empty nest.
he circles...
looks down
sees a homeless man smelling juniper and fir with a faint smile, remembering youths folly, old ornaments, and carols through snowy air
and realizes...
though tragic, life held specific and personal meaning to everything.
the fir tree sensing the man's remembrances, the shopping bag with a sense of warmth against bird down, branches creating tesselations against an ashen sky, cold wind caressing blushing children holding their parent's unassuming hands.
the lark kept this secret...
and knew that even in the darkest of times,
a certain poetry would pervade his heart
this unequivocal moment.
cold winter.
lovely smile.
warm nest.
soft wings.
an undulating affection of life's desire.

by: julia haw

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