When The Cosmos Awakens

More than just an exercise in form, your Constanza forces several readings searching hidden crusts of delight and sight-and-sound-and-smell sensory just-right load. That you amaze merely confirms I am sure what so many of us already have found in your words and works…and in some ways it is a shame to call it by toil’s second name for too few call such craft joy. Mil gracias, dona Yasmin.


Fragrant blossoms perfume the trees
Air roseate with redolence
Birds warbling endless resonance.

Dew luminesces flowers and leaves
Where butterflies on morning jaunt
Fluttering prismatic feathers flaunt.

Morning serenade by bees
Nuzzling blooms for their sweet nectar
The quèen bee's honey collector.

Leaves rustled by a gentle breeze
Cloudless sky vaulting green meadows
Lambs grazing in peaceful shadows.

Dropping slowly into the eaves
Dry leaves and twigs, the sparrows find
A nest, a home they weave and bind.

Fragrant blossoms perfume the trees
Dew luminesces flowers and leaves
Morning serenade by bees
Leaves rustled by a gentle breeze
Dropping slowly into the eaves.

# The Constanza form of poetry  

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When Death Sings A Lullaby

Yassy: the duality and incongruity – in order to save the (village, town, city, country, world) we had to destroy it. When I walked ahead of point, taking pictures and later joking with my subjects “yeah, I wanted to get your last second on earth just right for your momma to see the surprise on her son’s face” we’d later almost all agree this fine day-trip would end in a whisker of time should we force both sides’ leaders to walk with me ahead of point and see the pain and fear and feel the unimaginable rush of adrenalin which makes all colors vibrate and all smells alive and both joy and terror meld in a moment which lasts eternities. What we – both sides – could have accomplished with books and games and hammers and shovels instead of mortars and maylay swings and human waste-dipped bamboo stakes and matty mattel m-sixteens. But that is like asking for a real Saint Nick…who, after all was patron of thieves. This all – in your wonderful poem – has gone on as if the great wheel cannot get unstuck until we all someones decide not to travel that path alone or alonetogether.


Death  comes upon them
Finite, infinite, definite
Pain and loss huddle into 
A grieving mass of broken hope.

Wondering what they did wrong..
When bombs drown their cries
The blood wipes away their tears
To be alive is to be broken
To be alive is to be wounded
That when they come from the sky
They come from the ground
They hit where it hurts the most
Taking away what you love the most

While the bigwigs sit and talk away at big tables
Drinking from the cup of blood

The universe is frightened
And the stars wonder
Why has man turned from human to beast?

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