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            ~~~~~
            Over the aeons of time
            there once stood a line,
            oh freedom, sweet freedom
            I'll share it all with you.
            
            Over the aeons of time,
            past stone, water and slime,
            your voice, your only hope, 
            was heard,...kept me alive.
            
            Over the aeons of time,
            I loved you, I am thine.
            Oh freedom, sweet freedom,
            to love, live and dine,...
            ...
            with you.


                                                -Pedro Sena; March 31, 1987
 

             
            GLOW
            ~~~~
            Oh, what a glow, the heavenly glow,
            ...
            your patience, the care, so slow.
            Though I thought and even hoped
            that some day, evolved, eloped
            I would show,...
            you would see,...
            that glow,...
            
            It came from my heart,
            happiness,...freedom,...
            ( as yoy call it )
            you'll never know it all,
            until you have come this far,
            stripped of your own body,
            chained from your love,
            me,...
            I'm just a shell inside a rock,
            ...
            now,...
            
            Oh what a glow, the heavenly glow
            when the day came and you show'd
            yourself,...
            let it be remenbered
            that what you free here,
            is what you have
            always wanted to revere.


                                                -Pedro Sena; March 31, 1987
 

 
            MAN LED
            ~~~~~~~
            The man who led his people,
            oh, they were so weak, feeble.
            He loved them, saved them,
            carried them, across the sea,
            ...
            he's left us.
            
            They were left alone and wondered
            what will become...?
            We look outside ourselves,
            life is loose, 
            disconnected and fearing
            with many hopes, desires,
            and many dreams, that end sad,
            ...
            like books on our shelves,
            ...
            one day we awake,
            do you know why?
            ( This is not a nightmare )
            And then we sleep,
            shall I tell you how?
            ( This is not rest )
            Soon we'll dream again,
            then and only then
            Shall I have your vow.
            
            He needed to free his spirit from the burden,
            of undisciplined, misguided few of a land,
            whose laws were selfish, written by the hundred
            now forgotten, through your fingers,...mere sand.
            
            The man who led his people,
            oh how, they wanted him strong,
            he's left 
            You must find your cross
            in heaven said he
            without any throng,...
            and so he went.
            
            One day we awake,
            do you know why?
            And then we sleep,
            shall I tell you how?
            soon we'll dream again,
            then and only then,
            ...will you know your vow.


                                                -Pedro Sena; April 16, 1987
 

 
            MOTHER
            ~~~~~~
            Oh Mother,
            that
            through your pain and life benign,
            you still gave me a hopeful sign,
            ...
            from
            your womb, your breast, your arms,
            love
            And how you brought us all down,
            from above.
            
            And how was it...you called it Care
            or 
            simply ( Teach Me!) how to be aware
            and
            I lived thru you, with you, without you
            and you wrote, for me, another big clue.
            
            Oh Mother,
            through your milk, you led a newborn
            on his way, to grow and to be torn,
            Yet,
            When all was done and said, who was there,
            Yeah,
            You,...the madonna that held my life,
            with a body, large spirit, and soul,
            Oh yes, how I remember,
            the one adored, the sweet holy arms you bear 
            that helped me, get away from it all,
            all that discord,...
            all that strife,...
            and all that lack of wisdom,...
            
            you,...
            the one who dared,...
            hold my body after the crucifixion,
            and,...
            shall have His angel in benediction.
            
            Oh Mother, sweet Mother,
            Take me.!.


                                                -Pedro Sena; May 5th, 1987
 

 
            LINE OF POETRY
            ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
            I wanted to write a line of poetry
            when words failed me, I know not
            how to find rhymes of symmetry.
            All of a sudden. Done. A final dot.
            
            You say quarks, strangeness and charm,
            I say talk, talk, never say anything,
            for the line flows, a stream, no harm.
            To my mind and body, just a fling.
            
            I wanted to write a line that rhymes
            and all I find is that old feeling
            short of acting, mirror of the mimes
            with attributes always too fleeting.
            
            You say this is good, this is bad,
            I say, I know not how the line came
            yet, the next word in the order ahead
            will still appear, sharply, but tame.
            
            I wanted to write a line for an ode
            and my sadness, then, started to grow,
            oh thankfull spirit, theach me the mode
            and I will help you shine and glow.
            
            I wanted to write a line of poetry,
            only to find there existed symmetry.
            I then stopped writing, 
            I wanted the lines to stir and move 
            until there was no life to prove..
            except,...
            that,...
            they had a life of their own,...


                                                -Pedro Sena; June 21 1987
 

             
            ASHES
            ~~~~~
            Ashes to ashes, or is it, dust to dust?
            the feeling wonders, then turns to rust.
            
            The gracefully disfigured lines of reason
            stood by, announciong the coming season,
            winter,
            and the wily old log made a hollow attempt
            to ignite the fires into the sweet scent
            of warmth,
            ...
            The sparkles appear and snap, asnd shine
            and away it lifts, your body and mind,
            carefully.
            I reasoned the old saying was wrong
            since ashes are,..really,.. dust,
            ready to be blown away by a gust
            of wind, like a tiny, breezy song.
            
            (The yule log speaks--how dare you treat me so.?


                                                -Pedro Sena; Dec 19, 1987
 

 
            FORSAKEN
            ~~~~~~~~
            Father,...
            why has't thou forsaken me.?
            ...
            or...
            err...
            have I simply, ...failed thee.?
            
            At times, cold and hard, bitter sweet
            I remenbered you, and cried in my sleep,
            as I gave it all to your holiest energy
            until my words became thunder and poetry.
            
            Father,...
            why has't thou forsaken me.?
            ...
            or...
            err...
            knowest thou best...
            teach me the rest...
            
            As I stand here, so nailed and weary
            feeling my flesh dying, eroding away,
            I see me thinking, so sad and teary,
            knowing that soon this body'll stay,
            ...here...
            So that one day we will all dream
            of what might have then become,
            and yet, the pain, has never been.
            
            Father,
            why has't thou forsaken me.?
            ...
            or...
            I... no... no...
            Ohh yes,... I feel,...
            thy embrace is waking me.!
            
            ...
            As I stood there crucified and leary,
            I felt that flesh drying slowly away,
            and I caught my soul, a bit dreary,
            as I awaited the moment at bay...
            ...it is here...
            ...now...
            ...and I say...
            My lovely children,
            why has't thou forsaken me.?
            ...
            er...
            or...
            better yet,...
            ...
            will you find the way to be.?


                                                -Pedro Sena; January 7, 1988


 
            SUPPER
            ~~~~~~
            Once upon a long time,
            I stood there, had some wine,
            that upheld certain divine orders
            and ruled life with fragile borders.
            
            As I spake, all the ears turned
            expecting new ways to be learned
            while sifting thru my words and deeds
            meanings from my soul and epic weeds,
            shall you all hear.
            
            Maybe,
            understanding will soon come
            to tell us, thy will be done,
            and at this table was a bread
            blessed with life of the wheat
            that was to be my shared dread,
            and a story of my overdue feat.
            
            After small talk and big chatter
            the bread was split apart, better.
            And some wine was poured into cups
            for all to drink, like little pups,
            that we all are in this still earth
            that requires so steep a rebirth,
            of faith in the heart of a loner
            like a miser, possessor and owner
            of a gift he loves not only for power
            but also for that scent of the flower.
            
            My instructions I then did read,
            with all mortal sin deeply vested
            until time's here for me to bleed
            and be released into lands blessed.
            
            It was at this moment of truth
            that I first met the resistance
            from my followers, such proof,
            of ignorance, thru the persistence,
            that such good cause has to live
            far into the night and next day
            as something we all have to give
            until it is safely placed away.
            I beg to differ, that my sure death
            is needed, for some, I am unwanted,
            and that I am not worthy of cause.
            But as my body simmers, short of breath
            I shall rise to another way, undaunted,
            where, edicts for the right hath no pause.
            
            The old story tells of treason,
            but an apostle without my reason,
            is not part of the highest plan,
            help me with His will, and I can;
            It will all be acomplished soon,
            much to your hardship, enemy's doom,
            that as tears flow, so do rivers run
            under that eye, the shining, ever, Sun,
            that blesses this humble, full, table
            with good symbols of my lusty fable,
            that soon  you will, nay, must, tell,
            ...to preserve this wine as my blood,
            ...this bread, my body it shows so well
            ...as I talk, let's enjoy what is good.
            
            This fear of the father's real magic,
            shall disappear with me, and it's tragic
            that you don't all see my, our, light
            which scares you with its might,
            for you too can do what I show,
            as you're also holy, but slow
            to accept reasons for my coming,
            as not the story of my becoming,...
            that you too shall one day accept
            the reality of my own dear percept,
            is indeed the vision of true seer
            whose sights are to him not protection,
            since you hold the unimaginable so dear,
            failing to verify its own predilection.
            
            I weave for you symbolic desire
            of a soul torn by monstruous fire,
            but I only see good in many men,
            and wish to bless them all, then.
            
            And you shall remenber this supper
            as I go and prepare to die, suffer
            an imaginary pain that I feel not
            as your tears flow and get so hot,
            ...
            remenber,...
            since you live by sure expectation
            of a dream full of ugly limitation.
            
            
            My friends, my life has just begun
            for I have heard that signal call
            and for you I wish the best aeon,
            and there are no more sermons at all.
            
            May you live your peace,
            as my life will cease,
            and I give you what's mine,
            so you'll remenber a wine,
            red it is as my blood,
            and better than what is good.
            
            Amen.


                                                -Pedro Sena; Feb. 8, 1988
 

 
            IMAGINE, ME
            ~~~~~~~~~~~
            I imagine ( a lot )
            a good friend,
            reading my words,
            thoughts of yesterday,
            or maybe today,
            perhaps tomorrow,
            and wondered if all the
            meanings were true.
            
            What was it
            that made me write,
            a few lines,
            ...
            and a few more lines,
            ..
            I know, yes, I know,
            a certain longing,
            or,
            I don't really know,
            because,
            I can't see what I
            want to tell you,
            but I see something,
            and I often wish to express it,
            as best as I can,
            that wonderful scenery,
            ...
            it's very hard to describe,
            even harder to show you,
            it is like space,
            ...
            a pastoral scene,
            ...
            a person, or two,
            doing something for,...
            I'm never really sure,
            what it is I am doing,
            but it is as if someone had motioned
            a baton, and sent the instruments,...
            flying,...
            screaming,...
            whistling,...
            praying,...
            all together,
            hoping to show you,
            yes, you,
            a glimpse of a world
            where peace reigns supreme,
            ...
            and if I can set you
            at peace,
            or better yet,
            free,
            then I have succeeded.
            
            I guess I know a secret, or two,
            though they are worthless to me,
            without you,
            the one who may lack the vision,
            not the sight, but
            loves all the same.
            
            And I write this for you
            who called my words,
            beautiful,
            gifted,
            for it made me cry, and bow,
            for my vision is true,
            as I write it for you,
                       .....and how.


                                                -Pedro Sena; August 15, 1988
 

            
            ACCOUNT
            ~~~~~~~
            The old accountant of time
            could never go,
            to the places I've been,
            and seen,..
            all the sights,..
            all the nights,..
            all their mights,..
            but I have been lucky,
            to notice and see,
            and learn from them all,
            as if they had been put there
            just for my benefit,
            I know this isn't true,
            but the conbination of events
            sure seems that way...
            reminds me of Allan,
            or Thomas
            or Lewis,
            and the many before me,
            ...,
            like them,
            I was less afraid than most
            to enter a world
            where the mind reigns supreme
            and the heart flutters ceaselessly
            with that immediacy of vibration,
            that might one day never stop,
            and last into the night of our day,
            ...and I hid 
            oh yes I did hide,
            and often still do,
            like they did, 
            one from his miserable life
            and love,
            another from his feeble
            and fickle friends, and
            the other to prove
            that not art is what one thinks,
            Yet another painting,
            poem of paints, for saints only,
            surreal they said,
            weird most thought,
            zen display it was said,
            so real, it hurt,
            as we thought of michelangelo,
            ...
            In a place where edicts of mind
            are stronger than any man's heart
            I cry to break the chains of ugliness
            and the many distraught fantasies
            of fearfull managers of wars
            who are ready to believe
            ...
            and attack
            ...
            the only real book
            ... 
            to negate their own
            ...
            heart and spirit
            soul and essence,
            as I am and you are
            ...
            
            And the accountant of time
            condemned my escape
            like the first I had no love,
            and had lost mine, 
            many dark nights ago,
            after a few stories,
            ...
            like the second, I believed
            not in institutions but heart, 
            even through the new malt
            of the gods, served amidst
            the dark chambers of heart, 
            to find the ways of mind,
            ...
            like the third,
            I wished to be free
            to break all bonds
            of negative creation
            and idealistic thoughts
            into the hellish world
            of my ...
            does it matter?
            ...
            vision of azure stone
            with depths are scary
            enough
            for any crow to survive
            theatre of loneliness
            life of the morbid mind
            ...
            I looked at the small
            very small mind you
            vision, colorfull
            soft, liquid,
            vinrations I felt
            a potion I must have had?
            ...
            I hesitated,
            I thought,
            Life went on,
            I died,
            I relived it, 
            ...
            it was still there,
            and we were one and only one
            and my hesitation went away.
            
            This time I feared less
            And less as time went by
            and I learnt creation was
            an awakening for any day
            when heart and mind
            finaly
            joined hands
            and walked together
            muttering not
            whether we were monkeys
            or snakes and lizards
            idiots or ugly trees,
            water matter or earth,
            beings or some people
            ...
            Yes I did hide
            many times
            for one billion years didn't exist
            for me and for any animal
            ...
            we were all friends
            not afraid of each other
            but friends
            who taught me about
            the existance of their real life
            which is less important today
            than it was for any yesterday.
            
            And the accountant of time
            begun to die
            many years ago
            of old age
            with that old tired face
            he was worn out
            as a macroprosopus
            and left behind
            a new son born
            and aware
            that when he feared less
            he loved the most.
            ...
            there he hid this time
            ...
            much to the consternation
            of a social demon
            who believes they are right
            ...
            and the world is wrong.
            rather familiar stance
            ...I remenbered myself,
            ...and even saw,
            
            they believe God 
            manipulaates things,
            ...
            they believe a writer
            is but hearty scum
            ...
            they believe their mothers
            birthed dirt(ily)
            ...
            they believed in anything
            with their purpose in mind
            which was not to live
            but to account for their
            one and only time.


                                                -Pedro Sena; Feb. 19, 1989
 

 
            SLEEPLESS
            ~~~~~~~~~
            On a sleepless
            endless and 
            tiresome night
            when the sick feelings
            reigned
            I sat in my bed
            of roses,
            and whispered,
            to myself only, mind you
            ...
            a few nothings
            ...
            I could hear a noise or two
            that innocently tried to speak
            but felt too tired to excite.
            
            I bemoaned my thoughts
            sick,
            ...
            of sadness
            ...
            tired
            ...
            of loneliness
            ... 
            full
            ...
            of helplessness
            ...
            the kind we find
            sedated freom life and well
            ...
            I contemplated many things
            ...
            hate.
            Nothing seems right.
            love.
            Where is it?
            death.
            who cares, anyway?
            life.
            with its pains,
            and misery.
            ...
            not even a bar of soap
            to cleanse its odors
            from stinking lines
            where gain is illusion
            and life is a delusion.
            
            All sediment.
            
            The starving poet dreams
            of public dreams, notions
            of lights coming and going
            and ideas flying and throwing
            themselves around, ...
            like a theatre
            no, no, no,
            like everyday
            all ideas flying in the night
            ...
            all for naught
            lost in the maze
            of cloudless mind
            ...
            why does anyone see
            such things
            I WONDER
            full of symbolic gesture
            empty of heart nurture,
            complete with head toss
            leaving us at a loss.
            
            Still I write
            and wonder
            sick and all
            bedridden and sad
            ...
            always feels that way
            ...
            when you're down and out
            would it make any difference,
            if you left,
            with all hopes,
            ...
            and all ideas,
            ...
            left me sedated,
            old tired useless
            helpless incongruent
            ...
            with only the sleep goddess
            approaching my clouded sights
            with its veil blankets
            that will soothe wrinkles 
            into a new stone
            smooth too
            and promise a new rest
            ...
            a good rest this time
            ...
            plenty of sleep
            ...
            gawd, I want to end this hopeless night
            when the king of pain
            stops thinking of reign
            as the bright lights
            usher in a new cause
            ...
            new hope maybe
            even a little art
            some care and thought
            respect, oh yeah,
            for a fool
            who dared think 
            beyond his father
            as a poet
            ...
            feels like one
            ...
            not quite yet
            ...
            soon
            !!!


                                                -Pedro Sena; March 4, 1989
 

 
            VISION
            ~~~~~~
            You,
            ...
            are no longer a vision.
            ...
            Or a poem.
            
            There was a day,
            and many a night,
            of wonder,
            of hope,
            of waiting,
            and perhaps
            of expecting,...
            and, I have often felt,
            ..'what daring'..
            have I,
            to stand and think,
            much less,... even more,
            write a poem,
            of hope,
            prayer like,
            that one day this will
            all come to happen,
            somehow,
            amid all the daily
            ...
            events
            ...
            and rotten repercussions
            of doubt and belief,
            some mine,
            most by others,
            that,
            ...
            somehow, in some way,
            I would one day
            stand up
            across your path,
            and blatantly
            tell you, that,
            ...
            I loved you.
            
            And you might say,
            ...
            do you know me?
            ...
            
            
            And I'll say,
            ...
            what is there to know,
            that can't be proved
            by your being,
            and, 
            standing here,
            ...
            
            I had to grow,
            you had to see,
            I had to learn,
            you had to be,
            and now,
            as the end of the past
            nears,
            ever so softly,
            I can finally
            see your eyes,
            truly,
            ...
            fully,
            ...
            and feel
            what can't possibly
            ever,
            be felt by many,
            but the lucky few,
            ...
            chosen ones,
            ...
            yes,...You,
            ...
            are no longer a vision.
            Or even a poem.
            
            And from my dream
            of our climb
            along the many splendour'd
            shaft of light
            shall the truth of truths
            forever be born,
            that no one can ever
            cast a side glance of doubt
            over the power of hope,
            or of love,
            and of care,
            ...
            (yes, I have cared,.)
            ...
            and of trust,
            Oh yes, trust,
            that indomitable faith,
            which can make
            or break all of us
            into worthless,unhappy beings
            whose desires are
            masters of oblivion,
            and reality is but
            a shadow of what
            it all could 
            and should,
            ...
            forever be.
            
            Sure it was hard.
            
            And, it was painful.
            But worth it.
            For in one second,
            all that ever was,
            only but a vision,
            perhaps a hope or two,
            and a wondrous sight,
            is now,
            so true,
            so clear,
            so perfect,
            and so inspiring,
            that I'm not sure
            that there even exist
            in this unfathomable idea
            of eternal time and space,
            enough ink and lead
            to describe you,
            ...
            or
            ...
            enough notes, scales and instruments
            to,..
            to surround you,
            ...
            or
            ...
            enough paints and canvases
            to delineate you,
            ...
            which will truly describe
            the feelings
            not even a second long
            of a vision within a vision
            which is,
            an incarnate truth,
            ...
            a specialized moment,
            ...
            of unbearable joys,
            ...
            when all time stands still,
            ...
            
            and shines,...
            oh yes, it shines,...
            ever so brightly,...
            when it finally can be said,
            once and for all,
            You ( my dear)
            ...
            Are no longer a vision.
            ...
            Or, even, a poem.
                      

                                                -Pedro Sena; August 4, 1989 
 

             
            SPRING
            ~~~~~~
            Amidst the spring breeze
            we sat and stared with ease
            and much peace
            ...
            quiet moments
            ...
            so serene
            ...
            few trees rustled,
            or move ever so quietly
            awaiting any signal
            to do their dance
            with the air sylphs
            
            wanting to be remenbered
            for their few lines
            
            or show off their new leaf
            at a poet in wonder
            amidst the spring breeze
            as we stared in much peace.


                                                -Pedro Sena; June 2, 1989
 

 
            WHISPERY BREEZE
            ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
            A whispery breeze of wind,
            slipped by me,
            ...
            I barely noticed,
            ...
            but I stood there,
            on this desert island,
            amidst
            land,
            dried land,
            waiting for another...
            whisper...
            from that scintillating mother,
            ...
            of pearl,...
            of life,...
            whose sweet and moist kiss,
            brings life to the inert body,
            that is dry,...
            ...
            and thirsting,...
            for nourishment,...
            yeah, life,...
            amidst this desert,
            arid,...
            and desert land.
            
            and another whispery breeze,
            shook me,
            ...
            out of my slumber,
            out of my long dream,
            of waiting,
            ...
            and nourished me,
            like,...
            like,...
            another sweet kiss of life,
            yes,...
            it did feel like,
            life,..real life.
            
            Out here,...
            in the desert,...
            we live,...
            we,
            manage to live,
            in spite of all odds,
            and manipulations of our nature,...
            or heart,...
            or heat,...
            yes, we live, and dream,
            to see another sunset,
            as the dawn slips by,
            on my side and I draw,
            my slight petals in,
            for warmth,...
            perhaps to sleep,...
            to be awakened later,...
            by,...
            another whispery breeze of wind,
            that will slip by me,
            and take me away,
            ...
            and I guess,
            out here,
            in the desert lands,
            there is nothing else to say,
            ...
            except,...
            it was such a long time away,...
            and,
            oh yes, and then,
            another whispery breeze
            of that wind just kissed me aw......


                                                -Pedro Sena; Dec. 11, 1988
 

 
            MODEL
            ~~~~~
            
            The artist
            stalks his prey,
            as she poses,
            ...
            overthere,
            ...
            very still,
            ...
            with an expressionless face,
            devoid of...
            spirit,
            ...
            but,
            full of vanity,
            look at her eyes,
            ...
            
            ...
            and the artist
            decides to think,
            as he watches his prey.
            
            He walks towards her,
            ...
            touches her cheek,
            ...
            it doesn't move,
            ...
            caresses the temples,
            softly,
            ...
            it doesn't feel,
            ...
            then he strokes lightly
            the tan-ed forehead
            ...
            it twitches,
            so he thinks,
            ...
            and the barren feel of
            a stone,
            reminds him,
            wondering,
            what is it that any artist
            can find in a fantasy.?
            ...
            if I help,...will it talk?
            if I hold,...will it walk?
            if I pray,...does it hear?
            if I state,...does it fear?
            ...
            
            
            
            maybe a good work
            will eventually
            find a reward,
            ...
            a soul for ,
            for,
            a visionless idea,
            ...
            inspiration for another
            empty hope.
            
            Maybe it will live,
            thy will,
            come alive,
            with truths,ideas,thoughts,
            beliefs,experiences,lifetimes,
            ...
            lifetimes,
            maybe she'll fit,
            as the other half,
            which can so easily
            accommodate the space
            between two hopeful,
            and lonely,
            ideals,
            ...
            feels like begging,
            for a partner,
            ...
            a little love, and
            hopeful visions of
            sharing,
            something,
            which has become so rare,
            that can't even be found,
            much less shared,
            with a stranger,
            ...
            or stone,
            ...
            a model, yet,
            a dreamer of vain thoughts,
            the reason why we
            suffer many nights and days
            of restless wonder.
            Nothing to be won.
            All to be lost.
            
            And that which we dream
            speak of
            wish to live for,
            ...
            
            
            
            is but a strange
            sight to the eyes of,
            even my model,
            the one who sits,
            and proudly poses,
            naked,
            ...
            ohhh,her attitude,
            ...
            and once again,
            I stalk my prey,
            quietly,
            the hunter,
            alone,
            ...
            until the fantasy
            is no more.
            And nothing more.
            Than a mere simple meal,
            ...
            at the end of another hope,
            ...
            ...
            until the next model.


                                            -Pedro Sena; March 8, 1990
 

 
            FRENZY
            ~~~~~~
            The frenzy of the moment,
            compared with the taste
            of the heart
            leaves the body,
            tired,
            and,
            at times unfeeling,
            ...
            and wondering,
            where will it all lead,
            after we are spent,
            ...
            and time has passed on,
            as we mingled our sweat,
            shared our moisture,
            and led our thoughts
            ...
            into oblivion,
            ...
            where.?
            
            But as often as I miss you
            when you are away,
            or I,
            am not here,
            ...
            this frenzy is a symbol
            of our unity,
            and,
            hopefully,
            not the only time,
            for I,
            always
            miss you,
            and the symbol is
            elusive,
            ...
            when we can't meet
            not just amidst sweat,
            but also,purity,
            ...
            it's the hair which speaks,
            the mouth which caresses,
            the eyes that love
            and the body,that adds
            to the adventure of the heart,
            blending,
            you to me,
            as if
            I was begging for less frenzy,
            a bit more of your spirit,
            a bit more of your scent,
            ohhh how nice it smells
            how tasteful,
            how colorful,
            ...
            much like your heart,
            ...
            the frenzy of any movement
            compared with the taste
            of your heart,
            leaves my body,
            ...
            no desire 
            no feeling
            no thinking
            just being,
            ...
            loving,
            caring,
            ...
            ...
            ...


                                            -Pedro Sena; October 8,1990
 

 
            SHADOW
            ~~~~~~
            Never in my, mine, yours, ours, life,
            have we met
            a true spirit man or woman
            whose gait was so bright and awesome that
            they feared losing their shadow.
            
            Oh god, dear god, where have we come to,
            that we can talk of you, think of you,
            but not see you, and, and be with you,
            in person, in the flesh, in the spirit,
            where it seems it all counts.
            
            MY SHADOW STALKS EVERY BEING
            AND WILL ONE DAY TEACH ALL, THE WAY
            OF DOING,  OF PLAYING,  OF SEEING
            UNTIL THE FEAR THEY CARRY WILL DECAY
            THEIR SMALL HEART OF THOUGHT,..
            AND THAT DAY, THEY WILL TOO LEARN
            THAT ALL WAS MADE, DONE FOR NOUGHT
            BUT FOR YOU,  TO GROW AND YEARN.
            
            Never shall I again fear my shadow
            as that of love, or perhaps fear,
            lest I discover that I am hollow
            and havent shed my skin, my tear,
            ...
            And no true spirit of heart
            shall ever gain AN insight
            until they too forever part
            with their imagined light,
            ...
            TRUE LIGHT LIVES HERE WITH ME
            AND SHALL FOREVER FIND AND SEE.


                                            -Pedro Sena; August 1991
 

 
            REST
            ~~~~
            Hope to hear from you
            much love to your and your family, and circle.
            ...
            kindness and light are to bear
            the fruits of heart, and care;
            until one can no longer sleep,
            but rest, eternally, in peace.
            
            (there...right after the letter,...extempore.)


                                            -Pedro Sena; November 3, 1991
 

 
            POET FORM
            ~~~~~~~~~
            Like a dream I haven't lived before
            after a lifetime of much, much lore
            I have fought for a vision of life
            away from all dispair and strife
            ...
            and one day I found a set of words
            that fit the mood, feelings and cry
            of a wandering man lost in worlds
            far easier to forget, kill or try
            ...
            a vision appears, the heart soars
            the eye moves, the brain explores
            and the view widens the skin pores
            and the hand flyes rapidly galore
            until it can copy the sight of reason
            of words beyond a doubt or treason
            left behind long ago in the dust
            of mind, thought and much distrust.
            ...
            yes, you marvel at the transfusion
            of sight into a poetic form,
            and I applaude the great confusion
            of thought, 
            then words,
            then lines,
            all in all, just free, to perform.

  

                                                -Pedro Sena; November 1992
 

 
            AYERS
            ~~~~~
            That we shall all connect
            despite creed, love or sect
            and join together in this flight
            to meet true love in its height.
            
            Near a rock are we today
            as we sit, and lovingly pray
            the words, the feelings of a care
            which teaches, praises, we bear.
            ...
            the life of true spirit being
            like god, and capable of seeing
            wishing its care to be taught
            lest it be wasted in thought.
            
            As we gather here in real life
            let us set apart always the strife
            and help end any, and all distrust
            into the night of ugly disgust,
            let us this day accomplish
            all deeds of healing and bliss
            and take it back to all our friends
            to help a world, inits many amends.
            
            Amen
            
            ( and enjoy the rock by all means! )


                                                -Pedro Sena; Jan. 12, 1993
 

 
            LONELY LINE
            ~~~~~~~~~~~
            It's hard to be alone
            in a world full of chaos
            where we hide in a dome
            of distrust and pathos
            but
            one day I awoke with a pen
            and wrote the page so full
            that the vision lived again
            and I wasn't lonely, dull
            since
            I could exercise my mind's wit
            into the precipice of the heart
            until words hid, no longer fit
            the loud cry that tears apart
            that
            which I would like to ever say
            and have found alone in dismay
            true beauty of life forevermore
            that shall speak and write for
            the vision
            ...
            the sightings
            ...
            ahhhh, a dream ...


                                                -Pedro Sena; Feb. 6, 1993
 

 
            PRESENCE
            ~~~~~~~~
            I saw a picture of the magic presence,
            and thought of a holy, mighty essence
            and wondered if I could ever fit there
            like all men, who go to a..., but where?
            Where,
            are you when the thought enters my brain
            as I deliver another beleaguered refrain
            attempting an explanation from within
            expecting an answer lying there-in.
            And I meditate thoughtfully thru words
            of the desires of love, care and fear
            realizing that answers shall come
            by way of the aetheric peoples, lords
            of light, vision, ever so very near
            our hearts,...fear...,when 
              thy will will be done.
            
            At another time I saw this magic presence
            and with closed, rubbing eyes, I dreamt
            that I would eventually see the pretence
            of my heart, which my ugly mind had leant,
            thinking that it would eventually see
            thru the pores of these massive bones
            all there was ever meant to stand and be
            far away from one's hellish, homes.
            At first I payed no attention to vision
            of alien sight.  How could these eyes
            not see with clarity into the distance
            and find the different ways of indecision
            without noticing some of the reasons why
            we have wondered into such vast expanse,
            ...
            of that magic presence.


                                                -Pedro Sena
 

 
            SAD BEAUTY
            ~~~~~~~~~~
            Although a bit sad, worry not my friend, 
            the best is yet to come to you, there 
            still is a nice flow to the poem, and a 
            peculiar beauty to it.  Even at the saddest 
            of moments we find a beautiful way 
            of describing them...... 
            that's the beauty...
            of the heart talking.....
            take it and put it to work.
            today is a new day
            your life has a say
            diminish your grief
            show us however brief
            all the love in a heart
            ready to live, new start.


                                                -Pedro Sena
 

 
            WELL
            ~~~~
            The bottomless well of a pure heart
            gives life, with pulse, easy start
            leading holy wine, thru your veins
            into the body, whose love He claims.
            
            And one is born with reason to live,
            stratching limbs farther than they give
            wishing to show our father how and why
            we have arrived, to live and to die.
            
            And as the wine passes from here to there
            we are reminded of his eternal, soft care
            that graces so illustrious and gentle body
            into the vastness, or into human comedy.
            
            Yet this angel lives within so very high
            protecting not the believers of a great lie
            who hope for admission into heavenly earth
            lest we be forgiven, thru his wine, or mirth.


                                                -Pedro Sena


