Tigs Huertas


After The Feeling Returns

I cannot remember a feeling so different

...so new but familiar.
Like the lip I have bitten again, bite again
Of magnified minutes
candles reforming
from rounded molten lakes.
Dipping my finger scalds for a moment
And after the feeling returns.
I go back to the stomach or heart
Where the candle regrows, takes shape
The wax gives a scent of all summers ending
And autumn where all things are burned.



added 6/10/2014

Dusty Buds (from Life And Times)

Too hot to play the afternoon
in dusty streets all quiet then
so we'd sleep a while at siesta time
dream of rivers, winding and rough
I don't remember gentle things
aside from how my salted skin
would take the warmth and hold it there
it turned the whiskers white.
And other things came creeping too 
- a hunger you may never know- 
by moonlight we stalked through ghost fields 
we watermelon thieves 
Never was I lonely then
being always gang of three.
We roamed the streets until the dark
came creeping, ink on silk


added 6/10/2014

My Own Light Is A Slow Strobe


My own light is a slow strobe

a fish-tank timer.
Irregular, phased illumination,
a moon distracted.
Natural light
it comes as it will,
white shafts through the forest,
breaking it's ceiling,
searching ways to fall.
Some find the floor.
So too my own light filters
through a tangled canopy.
Through muddy shadows where 
sounds sink, absorb.
Some dapple, some cut through
- a spear in shallow water -
when the beam is strong.

I wait for it, invite it,
then I fight it.
Resenting that above the vines
brightness is whole,
unbroken, like your porch lamp that
never goes out.
High above, foliage dictates
How Much I get,
to share with dark leaves and mosses.
I like the dark.
Still, I'll chop down trees.
And when the sun climbs
it will show the brilliance  
the ugliness
of undergrowth exposed.

I won't need a torch
And the moths will all go.

added 6/10/2014

Beyond The Garden


Look long, to take in every line 

That each can know the other

(That detail observed truly
Should hasten intimacy)
And contour's shading, jaw and eyes
Un-shadow, in the knowing
There's always a beginning
A foreigner, he pleases me 
(a curse and gift my parents gave)
His turn of phrase engaging
Mistakes creating beauty
A sentence-full of words thrown down
Land wilfully, anarchic
He gives them better meaning

added 6/10/2014

The Call, The Answer

I, the magnet
plummeting headlong,
medium fast,
attracting curious metals.
Logical ways
I've yet to fathom.
Calling silent, unknowing.
Subconsciously aware.

Who is drawn forth?

Travellers, strangers;
people from afar,
their deepest roots
delved ever-long 
fed and grown in
Distant soil.
As if this note alone 
becomes the safety chord,
the mercy word.
Their displaced presence
proof of ever-rolling transience.

Moving, as we both are
makes no need
of promises,
moss or earth.

added 13/8/2014