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Showing posts from April, 2011

The Breath That is Not My Own

My dear faithful friend,       Do not place your ear to this chest In hopes of a life-beat       From a calcified heart Nor pine for love       That has been safe-boxed For another, wrapped in silver lace       To whom I've couriered the key For you see...       This air I breathe is not my own But simply on loan, the exhale of       Another and that name to be my last Yours will come, my dear,       All bright and aglow You will live picket-fenced dreams       Of children's laughter and winter fires I must travel this path I've made through       And smile at the seldom few Who wave from warmly lit window panes       And whispers nary of my name Esteban Luis Soto 2010

Egotism

Egotism is merely the masking of lack of inner-depth and self-worth. There is a certain absolute power in silence and humility. Esteban Luis Soto 2010

Youth Envy*

Plump and flourescent skin And eyes with bottomless wells of life Scan this world without regret Supple hearts that swell With charcoal-filtered love Strike strong against virgin chests Ernest ears that hear only Poetry and peace, perk to The direction of their mothers whisper Soft and stretching bones Filled with sparkling marrow Hold you proud against these winds of change And now this vicious cycle... The endless slow-drain of Night into light, light to night With no spawn to live through Nor lend my name to. And Why? Because I've chosen to Oh youth that I know so well Laugh and burn with the passion of life! For your path will merge mine soon enough Esteban Luis Soto *Merit Award winner in the 2010 annual Franklin-Christoph poetry contest

The Devils Throne

Her violent sea of keratin On which bravely sailed emerald desert eyes And lips that blossomed Juniper & Jasmine When whispered to Her one-eyed companion Saw better for us both Through the devil's throne and The wind-licked river beneath A mutual love Perhaps not for each other but For energy that quaked beneath And coiled through us like spiritual heroin And now we live and fake love For familiar infertile soils And pray that our ethereal equals Still haunt the arroyos of Santa Fe Esteban Luis Soto (c) 2010

Blighted Spirit*

My dear kindred spirit, Why blight the windows to your luminous soul And smear them with sludge of doldrums' dole? Why fear the gaze of your inner mirror When you know it's only you, yet clearer? Remember bathing in waters of content, When auras glowed blue and spirits spent? Oh, dear friend, we were children of new, And you burnt into this world the fire that was you! But now the path you paved is lost, To candied demons and weeds of thought. Step now, meek soul, into the fire that is me! To a Phoenix of spiritual reverie! Live again! - Esteban Luis Soto (c) 2011 *Written for a dear friend who is going through a challenging time in life.

Where I Once Called Home (Prose)

As we drive into El Paso, the lights from Mexico shine bright in the distance, a sure sign that I'm almost home. We travel along the long stretch of road that was once paved with childhood dreams but only now houses wharehouses and destroyed desert. The dog barks as it always has and they embrace me like they always do. It's so warm where I once called home. Selena bakes cookies in the kitchen as my Mom lovingly scolds me. "You need to cut your hair, Stephen," she says and I only smile. Daniel and I get steaks, and such, to cook as we used to long ago. Long before the bills, failed relationships and the ever lingering threat of old age. He's having a baby, he says, and I don't know whether to hug him or cry. He's not my baby brother anymore. He's a man now. We tell stories and laugh amid the raging fire. I can smell the tamales now, slowing cooking in their their nostalgic husks. The cold beer feels nice against the fire and familiar faces. I miss

The Ghosts Of La Posada*

Your energy lingers here, Stirring softly, as humans move to and fro. Spirits material and ethereal mingle, Unaware of each other. We knew them both. The day bleeds, I think of you And our passions here, when Flames gently licked the barked skin of their cedar lovers. Yes, the old man sits where he always has, And her figure haunts gently about the one Of whom she thinks she loved and lost. Soon we will linger here too, my love... Stirring softly together as Blooded ones move sadly about. Until then, when wistful skies weep, I'll muse of you and our life to spend here. Esteban Luis Soto (c) 2004 *La Posada is a beautiful haunted resort in Santa Fe where previous owner Julia Stabb reputedly killed herself. She still haunts the main building and bar area.

Santa Fe

This beast lurches forward, I step back. To where romance drips from ancient Walls, through war torn-cobbled streets. Where old souls feast on succulent history. Sucking marrow from its bones, I sink my life-breath into cobalt blue Depths of lady night. I lay with her, My future wife widowed. The ancestral trumpet call of my fathers Heart won't be ignored! For the magma that stirs beneath me, Is the same that burns within! Creation and destruction in perfect harmony! This carnal shell will crack, life-force freed. Bury it here. Feed the flesh of my fellow man. Cycle me, in this haven, eternally. Esteban Luis Soto (c) 2003

I Am Nowhere and No One

I am not American, nor German Nor Mexican, nor Spanish I am a worldy soul, belonging to Nowhere and no one This flesh is a vehicle To travel my sister Earth To feel her beneath my feet To remind me of mortality I am not normal, nor care to be Save such labels for Simpled minded men Sickened by monotony! Call me nameless Boundless, penniless Bastard or traitor but DON'T call me a simple man! Esteban Luis Soto (c) 2004

Tio (uncle) "Lipe" (Prose)

We miss your limp, the product of polio. Your shallow breath, the effect of emphysema. We miss your frail and tattered frame, warped from years of labor, yet stronger than us all. We miss your brown paper bags, filled with burritos, dreams and candy. Your wrinkled and leathered skin, the roadmap of your life, is the same I follow now, and the same that wrinkles mine. Oh Felipito, how your toothless smile made even the toothed ones envious. When tequila flows freely, we spill some for you, knowing  the desert is now your tongue and palate. "Que sabroso!" you say, spoken as the wind through the weeping willows. Oh  Felipito, Felipito, the earth embraces you now, and all heaven is in envy. Esteban Luis Soto (c) 2004

The Breaking of Wax (Prose)

The value of anticipation when esteemed postmen were praised, and tipped handsomely with coins, is gone. The breaking of the wax, and unfolding of crisp, yellow parchment. "Meet me by the garden at 8," coupled with a sigh and a heave of the breast. What has happened to the sound of quill on fiber, dipped into a well of romance disguised as ink? The reply being "of course, my love," and carried off, by coach, amid the cobbled streets and horses hooves. Where are the nights when the letter never came, and urgency set in? Hours upon hours of waiting by crackling flames for response, only for it to come a week later. "On account of the snow storm, me lady," the coachman says. The breaking of wax, the heaving of the breast, and all is well again. Esteban Luis Soto (c) 2004

The Swell

Oh! If only I could drain this river Into the pit of me and flood lands of mundane! Or scream my name into its cavernous bowels of granite! If only I had the equal voice to echo its name! Look! The desperate flight of the vulture, Moon dance on soft ripples of fish. Listen! The dove mourning on gnarled fingers of oak... The powerful thump of the stags breast! Still they wander by, the Wardens and the weary, With not a second to spare nor a glance to give. So it is, as day chases night and night courts day, and In disguise I'll stay, as wind weathered sand and river spray. Yet, how do I cup this swell of beauty Into the palates of lovers and kin? How shall I pluck and fold this landscape into The palms of the poor of soul? - Esteban Luis Soto 2011 *Written about the beauty of Reimers Ranch Like Unlike · · Share · Delete

Lady Wind

I am the voice of nature, Gentle, fierce. I am the stroke of lovers, Soft, desperate. My many mistresses Serenade me through weeping Willows and window sills. I heed them all. I am creator, destroyer Of nations! Shifter of mountains And Sahara's! Courier of birth And death, coaxer of seasons! I am the scorned Lover of Zeus. Thunder my howl, rain my tears, Lightning my rage. Esteban Luis Soto (c) 2004 (?)

Lust Pulp* EXPLICIT CONTENT

I want to swim in the pulp of your lust,    scale your slippery walls of want I want to lick the nectar of your tulip,    part and wake your lucious pink sea I want to mount your venus mound,    pull hard on your silky waves of keratin The violent push and pull of curves will    give way to my stream deep in the valley of you We will lie then, rosebuds on our cheeks and    flow like rivers onto our sheets of content - Esteban Luis Soto (c) 2011

We Thespians

You must know, the demons That lurked the onset of our affair Would cause others to flee, Even the frail and strong... As you And what of the culprits, Rauth? The false lips of others, The plaguing bulk of bills, The commute and distance... Of us Yet what of the blessings? On that hill, "I'm falling for you." On our separate stages, "I sing for you," "I perform for you." Were we actors in... Our own play? Oh, and these persistent memories... Of  the wine-soaked Christmas kind And that tattered tell-tale couch. Your gaze at me in your role... I sank The commutes and distance, the same, Yet on separate roads and cities now. The silence strange and understandable. On a brick in El Paso is scribed your name... Tread lightly. Esteban Luis Soto (c) 2011