May 25, 2026
Streams For Tzintzun and Blake
Streams For Tzintzun and Blake
A cavern lies deep in the hollow of a mountainside. The home and sanctuary of lazy Sleep. Where sun beams never reach. At morn, noon or early eve. Though cloudy vapors rise in doubtful twilight.
There, Silence dwells. From beneath the rock, the lazy stream of Forgetfulness lulls to sleep. With a whisper. Over pebbly shallows.
Before the cavern's mouth, lush poppies grow with profuse herbs. Dewy Night distills from those tender essences a drowsy infusion. Then sprinkles Sleep across the darkening domain.
The stream reluctantly leaves behind the grotto shades. Shifting and spilling beneath the tenuous glow of constellations. Emulating scenarios. Precedents. Consequences.
There, Silence dwells. From beneath the rock, the lazy stream of Forgetfulness lulls to sleep. With a whisper. Over pebbly shallows.
Before the cavern's mouth, lush poppies grow with profuse herbs. Dewy Night distills from those tender essences a drowsy infusion. Then sprinkles Sleep across the darkening domain.
The stream reluctantly leaves behind the grotto shades. Shifting and spilling beneath the tenuous glow of constellations. Emulating scenarios. Precedents. Consequences.
At times, just a trickle. A remembrance of a system that connects all systems. A system that reminds the discoverer of what is essential. What was there before and will be thereafter. Perhaps just a trickle but a smaller sibling of an undeniable force.
Rivers branch. Divide. Subdivide into a keepsake of its source.
Just a hint.
Yet possessing the power to interrupt History. The stream of Forgetfulness hinders the stream of Ideas. Erases it, as Water is mightier than Thoughts.
Rivers branch. Divide. Subdivide into a keepsake of its source.
Just a hint.
Yet possessing the power to interrupt History. The stream of Forgetfulness hinders the stream of Ideas. Erases it, as Water is mightier than Thoughts.
For some, this purging prompts the loss of what is most precious. For others, it proves to be a saving grace.
Artwork: Tzintzun Aguilar Izzo
May 17, 2026
Layers For Isaura and Juan R.
Layers For Isaura and Juan R.
I
A September serpent slips through summer grass grown tall after the rains. Snake sheltered. Taking pleasure in privacy.
Dew glistening across scales. A soft slip of sound accompanies a subtle pursuit.
No one to notice but a dawn premonition. Cloaked in ambiguity.
Dew glistening across scales. A soft slip of sound accompanies a subtle pursuit.
No one to notice but a dawn premonition. Cloaked in ambiguity.
Rain on a tin roof. Random patterns remnants from the night showers. A blessing in September after a late rainy season. As if a promise. A promise as remedy for foreboding. Foreboding predictions of drought and its consequences.
Drops singing of a silent fall through silver skies. Drops singing of a silent solidarity. Drops no longer dreading sudden contact with their surroundings. No longer dreading the tin roof, spiny cactus, dusty earth that receives them.
They come as messengers to those who listen. Those who recognize redemption amidst turmoil. Softening the impact of the inevitable.
Bells disrupt stillness. Tolls rippling into village alcoves. Into shadowy homes, empty kitchens, peopled beds. Awakening deep slumber. Interrupting morning reveries.
Birds scatter across a dim skyline. Dogs howl from secluded hillsides. Offering a sustained counterpart to the incessant ringing.
A sole figure tugs the bell’s cord, silhouetted against the subtle dawn. Head filled with resonance. Then stillness.
Since the darkest hours, roosters crow. Disoriented by the moon. Their declarations gone astray, echoing against closed curtains. Against dormant minds still soaked in sleep.
A recurring message lost then found once nighttime ebbs and morning flows.
Rise and shine. Unlatch rusted doors. Light slumbering stoves. Warm café con leche. Reheat yesterday’s pan dulces on the stained comal.
Step through the portal. A plaza of possibilities.
A recurring message lost then found once nighttime ebbs and morning flows.
Rise and shine. Unlatch rusted doors. Light slumbering stoves. Warm café con leche. Reheat yesterday’s pan dulces on the stained comal.
Step through the portal. A plaza of possibilities.
Swallows cut then mend the first light. Slicing the grey sky into sections then abandoning it to wholeness. No ripples. No fragments. As if nothing had come to pass.
Returning to rest in nests of mud. Of hay. Only to dart to hanging electrical lines. To perch on phone cables. To observe the emerging horizon.
Mist marks the transition of water, rising after nocturnal showers.
The tenuous transition from night to day. When spirits silently prepare the stage without recognition.
Fragile transitions blending what once was believed to be essentially separate. But is instead a loop of continuity. A shared scheme. Unspoken mission.
Fragile transitions blending what once was believed to be essentially separate. But is instead a loop of continuity. A shared scheme. Unspoken mission.
Wrapped in a wool blanket, she walks through the mist. Over hidden garden snakes. To the pulse of falling rain.
The roosters’ crows diminish. The bells roll to a stop. The swallows cease to circle.
She stands against a stone wall, catching the sun’s first rays. Letting the blanket fall to the ground. Letting the blanket soak in the cool puddles at her feet.
The roosters’ crows diminish. The bells roll to a stop. The swallows cease to circle.
She stands against a stone wall, catching the sun’s first rays. Letting the blanket fall to the ground. Letting the blanket soak in the cool puddles at her feet.
II
Mice scatter within apartment walls. Finding a hole in sheet rock. A privileged route left by previous mouse generations. Finding safe haven in the closet. Within the soft lining of a wool coat.
Within the slow unraveling of sweaters. Scraps of cardboard boxes. Unearthed feather trimmings. Remnants reclaimed. Creating a collage of a nest.
A home within a home. Welcoming small creatures finding their way in a concrete kingdom. No stars to guide them.
Within the slow unraveling of sweaters. Scraps of cardboard boxes. Unearthed feather trimmings. Remnants reclaimed. Creating a collage of a nest.
A home within a home. Welcoming small creatures finding their way in a concrete kingdom. No stars to guide them.
Snow falls. Keeps falling.
Ephemeral footpaths lace city streets. Uncharted migrations producing indiscriminate patterns. Then vanishing under new layers of snow.
Snow will become water. Water, ice.
Each transition filling the city with misty halos. Halos crowning street lamps as the city exhales bravely into the beyond.
Ephemeral footpaths lace city streets. Uncharted migrations producing indiscriminate patterns. Then vanishing under new layers of snow.
Snow will become water. Water, ice.
Each transition filling the city with misty halos. Halos crowning street lamps as the city exhales bravely into the beyond.
Traffic lights. A tacit exchange.
No one to listen. Streets as witness. Reflecting a yellow warning changing to a red command. A stern voice diluted by a lack of attention. Provoked by an absence.
Random pedestrians dart across mid-street. Defying mandates to walk. Don’t walk.
Traffic signals losing what little authority, what little leverage left to them. As the night reigns rebellious.
No one to listen. Streets as witness. Reflecting a yellow warning changing to a red command. A stern voice diluted by a lack of attention. Provoked by an absence.
Random pedestrians dart across mid-street. Defying mandates to walk. Don’t walk.
Traffic signals losing what little authority, what little leverage left to them. As the night reigns rebellious.
Day breaks over a silhouetted skyline. Night slipping between the cracks.
Bells toll a low beckoning. Rhythmic in its recognition of the hour. Followed by an echoing shadow, slightly deadened. Dissonant.
Pigeons take flight. Startled by the sudden rupture of stillness. Scattering in all directions from tree tops. Roof tops. Seeking refuge in shattered silence.
Bells toll a low beckoning. Rhythmic in its recognition of the hour. Followed by an echoing shadow, slightly deadened. Dissonant.
Pigeons take flight. Startled by the sudden rupture of stillness. Scattering in all directions from tree tops. Roof tops. Seeking refuge in shattered silence.
Without sanction, the neighbor’s brewing coffee sets off a pervasive alarm. As if the walls were porous, coffee is experienced covertly.
Traces of others dominating the delicate morning.
Traces of others dominating the delicate morning.
Her eyes open. Disoriented. Certain constants confuse her. The subtle mist. The warmth of her bed. Bells then coffee. Premonitions then reticence.
Certain differences divide her. Echoing footsteps on the hall stairs. Punctuated by doors slamming. Car horns. Sirens.
Certain differences divide her. Echoing footsteps on the hall stairs. Punctuated by doors slamming. Car horns. Sirens.
She slips onto the fire escape. Stepping carefully over potted plants. Stands against the brick wall to catch the day’s first rays.
She closes her eyes. Lets the blanket fall.
She closes her eyes. Lets the blanket fall.
May 8, 2026
Noon For Sigfrido
Noon For Sigfrido
The cows are taken to pasture. Feed off what they find depending on the season. From fresh to dried grass. From wild brush to cactus. No matter the thorns.
The land is peaceful. Their pace is unhurried. Accompanied by the slender rustle of lizards darting out of the way of hard hooves. The patient chewing of the herd.
The brother adjusts his straw hat to the angle of the sun’s rays. Guides the cows to appropriate pastures. Depending on the month. Depending on the weather.
The days extend as if eternal. Pulse barely discernible.
The noon sun brings a stillness to the quotidian pastoral. When interactions pause. Suspended. When birds abandon their songs. When the past slips from the shadows and makes an extraordinary and sudden appearance.
An apparition dances beneath the intense white light. Whispering the saga of previous herds and their people.
Whispers of resistance. Of the fervent history of these hills. The fight to reclaim the land. To salvage independence.
Recognizing the struggles of a population. Original people of a fertile homeland in need of safeguarding.
The vision exits as it entered. Silent. Beneath the midday heat. Unnoticed.
The cows continue their meanderings.
The brother. His reveries.
The cows continue their meanderings.
The brother. His reveries.
May 2, 2026
Mélange For my home
Mélange For my home
In our closets and cupboards hide the belongings of others.
We honor their presence and leave them space. Because we have space. Because they are all part of our unwavering saga. Reminding us of what we tend to forget. Dispelling the fiction that we travel alone.
Whether we have met these inhabitants, whether they have passed or were simply passing through, we acknowledge them as archetypal steppingstones. Acknowledge each rite of reputed passage.
There are clothes decades old belonging to former students. Or former partners. Pots and pans from former homeowners. A cracked cup on a cupboard shelf. Twisted teaspoons in a kitchen drawer. Evolving relics of untold strangers. In the rippling wake of loss, visitors and various visitations.
At times we shake each out and try them on. Make use of them to see if they can be of use. They are often too tight. Often fragile. Or the veneer is peeling, a button broken. A seam split.
No matter. There is always some purpose for them. A cradle for an animal friend. A nest for a seedling. The inspiration for a creative venture. Inviting innovation.
We save the shards of pottery. Fragments of what were once practical now decorate our walls and floors. Define stairs. We save them with a sense of nostalgia. With fondness. They ring a bell, strike a chord. Recall long-ago moments that embodied our kitchen. Shared our tender meals. Their renovations welcoming future generations. Shepherding evolving seasons.
The fractured lip of a mug
the curved rim of a plate
the lone handle of a jug
telltale slivers that narrate.
the curved rim of a plate
the lone handle of a jug
telltale slivers that narrate.
The potential of the proverbial pie
the random parts of a rococo whole
the consonance of the composite.
the random parts of a rococo whole
the consonance of the composite.
April 25, 2026
Heat For my youngest
Heat For my youngest
The heat distorts vision. Weighs steps. Weighs awareness. Triggers a mind-numbing fading of desires and composures. A slow burn consuming a wick of wistfulness.
Colors fade. Sounds fuse. An invisible yet formidable obstacle tackles our senses. Knocks us to our knees.
We lie on tiled floors. Cheek pressed against the cool surface. Ear seeking a whisper of escape. Palms spread seeking a brief pardon from what is beyond our control. Seeking momentary mercy. Our breath slowing to a faint beat as we wade through the afternoon toward evening.
The sereno de la noche skirts over the desert and raps at the window. Invites us to leave our cover in the shuddered rooms of our shelter.
Swallows dive into open spaces. Cactus flowers greet the humidity of the air’s sudden stirring. Distant mountain horizon tinted an unfathomable red.
Suddenly, the lifting sinks. The reprieve evaporates. The heat resumes. Repercussions pulsing through our being. Summoning hallucinations.
All day we fight off a sleepy listlessness. Come night fall we fight to fall asleep. Eyes wide open. Surrendering to uncertainties.
April 18, 2026
The Gatekeeper For my eldest on their birthday
The Gatekeeper For my eldest on their birthday
The Sargasso Sea’s deep blue waves crest gold as the sun sinks.
A shimmer defines the tide as it slips over the horizon.
So many. Too many to identify in their singularity, just a shimmer of a mission, a promise of return.
A shimmer defines the tide as it slips over the horizon.
So many. Too many to identify in their singularity, just a shimmer of a mission, a promise of return.
The young eels are known as elvers, mesmerizing movement defining them. Movement is what they are made of.
After their eggs hatch, the leaf-like larvae simply drift, coasting in and out of months, riding the currents for nearly a year. They surf tides, are propelled toward rivers and estuaries. Sanctuaries.
These tiny eels, Anguilla Rostrata, are paradoxically known as freshwater eels. They will travel thousands of miles over the ocean to reach freshwater, then hundreds more. The only catadromous fish of these parts, of Turtle Island, they adapt to freshwater, eventually to return homeward, to saltwater, to spawn within native tides, the enigmatic waters of the Sargasso Sea.
Summer slips over the horizon with them, eels slipping into fall, acknowledging limitations of the equinox. To everything there is a season, the need for a steadfast salutation. The waves roll the eels back and forth, making little progress yet never looking back.
The equinox is careful to keep balance, gather then disperse, walk the tightrope of demarcation. Celebration. Allowing the waters to merge into an undeniable duality, nothing static or fixed, a sinking then lifting, letting go of accumulated light. Surrendering to a prophecy of early darkness invading fall and winter evenings.
To those born near the Equinox, there is little to do but recognize this duality, the incongruity of their day, the mix of mindfulness and mindlessness, the sweet in the sour. Deafening silences. Sweet sorrow. Holy war. Wise fools.
They are those dwelling along the dotted line defining change, welcoming the unknown, the fleeting and impermanent, as if family.
Such is the Gatekeeper, caught in the middle of division.
The Gatekeeper of the freshwaters
welcoming the morphing eels
as they evolve
leaving saltwater behind.
welcoming the morphing eels
as they evolve
leaving saltwater behind.
As the larvae approach fresh water, they transform into glass eels. Still transparent, they have matured to two to three inches, developed fins and a serpentine shape. They seek freshwater, at times covering brief stretches on land, pursuing lakes and ponds.
The gatekeeper counts the eels as they pass, as if a myriad of stars, as if grains of sand, an arduous task to order infinity, to keep count of the unmanageable.
Witnessing and taking note, recording changes of hue. Dimension. Observing how some brave land to escape through the forest.
Honoring the uncertain, relaxing in the unknown, there is so much the Gatekeeper doesn’t understand about these enigmatic guests. They welcome, nonetheless, honoring ambiguity.
Walking along the riverbank, over rocks and trunks, following the eels in their migration, the gatekeeper watches as they become duskier, darker elvers. They shed their transparency, are easier to define beneath the floating leaves and increasingly shallow waters as the season dries, the rains a dream of the past.
The Gatekeeper gains in height and strength, in a certain wisdom, after witnessing the perseverance of the young eels. Their quest. The strength in numbers. Imagines being part of the pack, part of the miraculous of their shared mission. Imagines their companionship as real, as kin, an achievable narrative.
Unable to keep up, to maintain the pace of the eels’ pressing migration inland, the gatekeeper waves a final recognition.
Yet after many passings of the moon, after many circular seasons, they return, swimming toward the sea. The gatekeeper reverses the gate to open outward, rejoices in their transformation. Now silver, well over a foot long.
The gatekeeper bends over the reflective surface of the water, is caught transfigured. Greyer hair. Calmer demeanor. Deeper breath. Smoother skin.
Bending even closer to the water’s resemblance, the gatekeeper inadvertently slips from the bank, from his well-acquainted home, slips into the still waters.
Caught in the meandering current of the eels, soothed by their smoothness, comforted by the cool waters, no longer able to escape the truth of impermanence, the gatekeeper relaxes, chooses to go with the flow, to surrender, to accept uncertainty as a challenge.
The eels cover chest and legs, encircle arms, polish the awkward land elements into streamline gills and fluid tail.
Movement redefines the gatekeeper.
Movement is what they are made of.
The Gatekeeper casts aside prior undertakings, a mission to archive only to then become the object of observation, a mission to shed the task and become the inspiration, the source, a kernel of mystery, free of surveillance, summoning trust in the open weave of the natural order of things, no matter the miles traveled, the metamorphosis.
The eels rush toward the Sargasso Sea to spawn in recognizable water, home as they know home to be.
They journey a great distance seaward undergoing revolutionary transformations. They stop eating, digestive organs diminishing. Their eyes double in size, become more sensitive to the blue transparency of the calm Sargasso waters, a sea untethered, with no defining shore.
Each fall equinox, land beckons, attracting the weary traveler. For a fleeting moment, the gatekeeper becomes the guardian once more, taking respite on an island shore in celebration of origins. Gills barely visible.
Artwork: Tzintzun Aguilar Izzo