The poetry of Beto Ochoa, Prose from a spiritual warrior


The Poetry Of Beto Ochoa~ Prose from a spiritual warrior

Friday, July 29, 2011

The Night

Deep, dark, mysterious
The night goes on before.
Dappled on its inky fabric,
Tiny bits of light
Tease of life unknown.
We have such a luxury,
That day divides our Night.
But out beyond our shores,
There is only the Night.
So as I float and dream,
Upon the blessed waters,
I submit to the Eternal Night.
Its wondrous chasm frees me.
For all I’ve ever been,
Or all will ever be,
There is only this one moment.
Floating free.
In the cryptic chasm of the Night.

The grand oaks teach us patience.
Yet grasp they ever for the day.
And muse in ancient verbs
Abstruse tomes, written by the wind.
But in this magic moment
Enlightened by the unfathomable,
The oaks and wind sing a secret song.
Renewing their fealty to the Night.
And I have my martial music,
That I may march into the infinite.
The Night

Thursday, July 28, 2011


Oh grand machine of grand design,
I press your keys one at a time.
Pray words take form on rendered wood.
That I will craft them fine and good.
With fair intent and understood.
The gilded script now fading, wrinkling,
Spaced by hand upon the frame.
So long ago, yet all I see;
Is that script staring back at me.
The pulp and linen standing by
A pile so neatly stacked and styled.
I pray the words will come, and good.
Yet all I see is,
Somewhere within my huddled id
The words are there but staying hid,
And only one fine gilded word
On ancient frame in wrinkling script
Is there within my frame of view.
I close my eyes but it remains.
And though I muse of joy and pains
My poor imagination strains.
The grand machine of grand design
With keys worn barren over time
Yet every station's script remains.
I pray the words will come, and good
Yet all I see is,

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My families came to Texas when It still belonged to Spain.



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