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Updated: Mon, 14 Jan 2019 12:55 am

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The ways in which my outer existence experiences life, is inexplicably purged through ink. I find this healing process for myself, a reciprocal way to collectively relate with others. Through poetry and writing the indecipherable is understood in a language that is universal within us all. A language that does not need to be decipherable with the rational mind, but understood in soul. I started speaking this language at 8 years old...I am now 37...I hope that people can relate to my writing in their “own individual” way. Thank you. My utmost respect, collective love and peace goes out to all of you.


...Ghost Of Summer... When the winter opens its arms like a cut onion bringing cold tears to my eyes. Let the inevitable weep for something grand like an empty chair lost in the avalanche. Where the memories splinter and tear through my skin the ghosts still living; still walking tomorrow beneath a sunny day, with words as green and silky as avocados upon the tongue in summer. Somewhere, in far distances away from where lost thorns are in places wayward from the hot arms of their mother... I am the ripe gaped open fruit of lemons withered in the soil. The pulp reminds the mourning flower between the legs of branches to rhyme with the wind within its deserted head; to not birth yet into spring, because moods may be hazardous. Regardless of how cold the sour stench of my hearts dismissal to grow in certain palms; I too, can be sweet. I am in love with faraway whims, that bring to me a ghost of summer, that maybe I knew centuries ago… He is ,here, within palpitations in my bosom... I will resume fruition there where the flowers have color. © Mimi Caneda Mata

All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.

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Peter Taylor

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