It cuts me, their words
Words of departures
To other lands and other faces while I remain,
restricted, unearthed,
Like nails hammered my feet onto
Earth
The day they depart,
Like ghosts their silhouettes dance
As I hug them to go
like a piece of me vanished
I wave goodbye
I still wave goodbye --they never glance back
I am the waver at the points of departure;
Shaking with the hands, shaking in faith
Of return
Shaking with the tremor of ships and steam
And bursting with jets of water that leak
from the corners of my being
I am no one's wave master
My travelers see me
when the edges turn into dust.
Sunday, June 29, 2014
Saturday, June 28, 2014
Infinite
Infinite is the possibility of
Tracing a circle's origin
Watching the shooting stars
And plastering a sparkling star on a
Round infinite circle
To measure affection and devotion
It resets the circle of infinities
To the beginnings of drawing another circle.
Tracing a circle's origin
Watching the shooting stars
And plastering a sparkling star on a
Round infinite circle
To measure affection and devotion
It resets the circle of infinities
To the beginnings of drawing another circle.
Music
In all the minutes that tick
I hear music
Not only rising from the handles of
Time
But notes come onto my ears;
What I hear is the music of others
The music of their thoughts
The beating of their hearts
I hear these every time someone gasps
For air, in surprise, and
every time someone calls a name
People hear jabber
But to me it is all eight notes
And a few strings.
I hear music
Not only rising from the handles of
Time
But notes come onto my ears;
What I hear is the music of others
The music of their thoughts
The beating of their hearts
I hear these every time someone gasps
For air, in surprise, and
every time someone calls a name
People hear jabber
But to me it is all eight notes
And a few strings.
Wednesday, June 25, 2014
Sunday, June 22, 2014
The places we look into.
Instead of looking into me,
like you always do,
you look into a frozen image of me.
A freezing in a moment in time.
Instead of high-fiving or laughing
together, we laugh
silver, light blue beaming from us
onto us.
This is what we all became
a generation of embracing blueness alone
to shied from
a gradation of white, a gradation of lonely we
are all too uneasy to face.
And so we become machined words
in my quest for you, I like others work on words
I text
text
text
text
text
text
more
text
text
text
text
and wait
Instead of a warm embrace
I
get a vague tick,a broken smile. You
are not behind the screen this hour.
Banksy's Modern Love. (and so are all modern relationships, including family and friendships)
Submerged
The ports know no recluse,
They are not a release of a thought
or an emotion
They just release the ships in the face of the unknown
But bellow the surface
It is all black,
It is all blue
And then it is all so lit up
In metallic rods, bellow the skin
The metallic rods is what saves the soul
The rods consume the body
For how can a fish rely on its captivator
for light, for air
When it drowned itself?
They are not a release of a thought
or an emotion
They just release the ships in the face of the unknown
But bellow the surface
It is all black,
It is all blue
And then it is all so lit up
In metallic rods, bellow the skin
The metallic rods is what saves the soul
The rods consume the body
For how can a fish rely on its captivator
for light, for air
When it drowned itself?
Friday, June 20, 2014
Chasing joy
They both ran after joy
Masters in running,
they hold their arms out for joy
Joy to fall into them
Joy to break onto their summer barren shoulders
and Joy to brush by the tails of their dresses and pants
His Joy sits under the tables
curled chewing on a duckie
Her joy lies else
in the droppings the paint leaves
trail over messy paper
But Joy totters along behind them
walking on two, rabbit pink feet
and joy makes his own sound
ma-ma, ba-ba, me-me. That was joy.
Under the Parisian Skies
'Sous le ciel de Paris
S'envole une chanson ( Under the Parisian Sky, flies a song) ' Edith Piaf, Sous le Ciel de Paris.
She saw him
Under the Parisian Sky:
Young, bold, a little sunburn gracing
the side of his eyebrows.
She saw him a statue of perfection
In a place not her own.
The skies of Paris were no different than
A summer's breezy brush against her
plisse skin.
She had imagined Paris of the accordions
Paris of the croissants, of art and old hunchbacks
She had seen this Paris anew:
She had seen the lights
And Bercy and the Opera houses
She had fallen in love with Paris without
tasting her, she had fallen into the romantic slip
of long summery nights and old film reels
While she sat near the dusty window
A book perched itself in the gaps on her lap
And she stared once again at the last
point of departure destination: uncertain.
Photo not my own, google search.
Tuesday, June 17, 2014
In distance's war
We wake up today in a midst of a
friendly, nondestructive war
A war I launch in my plane flights
in recluse for words
from a wallow, red brick room.
I never commanded war, I vow
I will face the war of distance
of exile if you hang
dangling, little soldiers for when I fall
I vow and fight my face first,
then my shadow
then my body weight down by old
sticks, stones and garland prayer
Then I battle rage of the unclear death in me
the death that rattles with the calendars and
with the muck on the gas hob I clean in
blood, spit and fire.
In the sunshine, later
each nook or branch reminds me
of my heroes
of my soldiers in uniforms made
with song lyrics, with the baring of teeth,
with photographs and with hugs
Each unkempt corner inside of me
is an image that pushes on my battle
inwards, onward
This war against my terror, my mirror
I fight
All alone
Alone
A lone, unsteady
maker of bread, wrapper of wounds
I run, I jog, I walk till a break
from the crossfire descends by dawn
because the soldiers
my heroes
walked out of the shadows
Away from my trail
one by one
casting behind them
silver plated pieces of earrings
zirconia shine bracelets
a few words
and three pressed roses
in distance's holy war.
friendly, nondestructive war
A war I launch in my plane flights
in recluse for words
from a wallow, red brick room.
I never commanded war, I vow
I will face the war of distance
of exile if you hang
dangling, little soldiers for when I fall
I vow and fight my face first,
then my shadow
then my body weight down by old
sticks, stones and garland prayer
Then I battle rage of the unclear death in me
the death that rattles with the calendars and
with the muck on the gas hob I clean in
blood, spit and fire.
In the sunshine, later
each nook or branch reminds me
of my heroes
of my soldiers in uniforms made
with song lyrics, with the baring of teeth,
with photographs and with hugs
Each unkempt corner inside of me
is an image that pushes on my battle
inwards, onward
This war against my terror, my mirror
I fight
All alone
Alone
A lone, unsteady
maker of bread, wrapper of wounds
I run, I jog, I walk till a break
from the crossfire descends by dawn
because the soldiers
my heroes
walked out of the shadows
Away from my trail
one by one
casting behind them
silver plated pieces of earrings
zirconia shine bracelets
a few words
and three pressed roses
in distance's holy war.
Monday, June 16, 2014
Sculpting in the head
In the artist's clay
the images gather
An intense, undercover make out
of opposites narrates itself beneath the nails.
the images gather
An intense, undercover make out
of opposites narrates itself beneath the nails.
Yellow
My skin you said turns
buttercup kisses
each morning with the gulps
of poison to live
My hair is already cupped in butter
shiny yellow oils, and you
a caress of an artist
it is the palette of your paintings
that seeps onto my thinning,
breaking hairs ranging from red to grey
Raging from waves to thunder.
My eyes are the normal brown
They don't change from the common norm,
I scan you walking towards my pillows
with the basics: water, bread and a smile
My hands lean onto yours
my arms are shaded spots
little stamps and untraceable dots
in all the imagined stains possible
My arms can still hold us before I break
Now I shall not crave difference
or uniqueness
or a mixture of all the other shades
I am too yellow, I know
I am stiff,
brownness is my only option now
to round, like a thick, hot bread loaf
to simmer like a bag of tea
that's the gradation of the shade of yellow
I am allowed before
eroding into air.
I am to become all degrees of the rainbow
other than a primary color
I have already swallowed the sun
for today,
And it trails on my tongue
with sunburns.
Yet we meet at the primaries, every morning
You at your blue and me at my buttercup:
Yellow is a mutual foreground for anrything.
buttercup kisses
each morning with the gulps
of poison to live
My hair is already cupped in butter
shiny yellow oils, and you
a caress of an artist
it is the palette of your paintings
that seeps onto my thinning,
breaking hairs ranging from red to grey
Raging from waves to thunder.
My eyes are the normal brown
They don't change from the common norm,
I scan you walking towards my pillows
with the basics: water, bread and a smile
My hands lean onto yours
my arms are shaded spots
little stamps and untraceable dots
in all the imagined stains possible
My arms can still hold us before I break
Now I shall not crave difference
or uniqueness
or a mixture of all the other shades
I am too yellow, I know
I am stiff,
brownness is my only option now
to round, like a thick, hot bread loaf
to simmer like a bag of tea
that's the gradation of the shade of yellow
I am allowed before
eroding into air.
I am to become all degrees of the rainbow
other than a primary color
I have already swallowed the sun
for today,
And it trails on my tongue
with sunburns.
Yet we meet at the primaries, every morning
You at your blue and me at my buttercup:
Yellow is a mutual foreground for anrything.
Friday, June 13, 2014
Viscous Villain poetry
'I will not ask you for forgiveness. What I have done is unforgivable.' Maleficent, Disney.
From the fire and the flames I rise
Take out the shame, curse down the iron throne
Cast away the spindles
Revoke the walls of thistle
I no longer want them to be mine--
I, queen of lonesomeness
I, princess of bitterness
make it through each centimeter of the dark
by light of a flickering match
I keep you because you are
what remains of faith in me--
I rest my anger in a blaze
cast it a ring around my lips
cast it red. A last seal
before the sun's last kiss.
From the fire and the flames I rise
Take out the shame, curse down the iron throne
Cast away the spindles
Revoke the walls of thistle
I no longer want them to be mine--
I, queen of lonesomeness
I, princess of bitterness
make it through each centimeter of the dark
by light of a flickering match
I keep you because you are
what remains of faith in me--
I rest my anger in a blaze
cast it a ring around my lips
cast it red. A last seal
before the sun's last kiss.
Twists
No tree grows straight under the sun
It bends and shapes by it direction
No human grows out of good or evil
Alone
There's a twist in all of us
some manage to cover their
twits and sharp edges
with a soft, untangled water strainer
Hiding them for the world to see.
It bends and shapes by it direction
No human grows out of good or evil
Alone
There's a twist in all of us
some manage to cover their
twits and sharp edges
with a soft, untangled water strainer
Hiding them for the world to see.
Thursday, June 12, 2014
Three nights, three pillows
The third night you appeared in my dream
I stopped calling it coincidence
I do not call it fate either
Now I sleep
my eyes are wide open
to avoid your various apparitions
I pull myself away from
frames of silver pictures
moments gold in memory
The pull saves the space
you fill
three pillows and a Labrador
breathe differently
above my right shoulder.
I stopped calling it coincidence
I do not call it fate either
Now I sleep
my eyes are wide open
to avoid your various apparitions
I pull myself away from
frames of silver pictures
moments gold in memory
The pull saves the space
you fill
three pillows and a Labrador
breathe differently
above my right shoulder.
Sleeping with T.S. Eliot
Excerpt from a new poem:
Go sleep with Eliot
He could use your company
for soon the world would end
not with a whimper
but with the tick of an ink pen.
Wednesday, June 11, 2014
Mother Nature
Part of bigger poem:
When he edged her to put herself in syllables she answered:
I am
Nature at its best
Stars and meteors in my head
Fire fills my eyes
Water runs through my veins
And I breath lavender...
Picture not mine, found on Google.
When he edged her to put herself in syllables she answered:
I am
Nature at its best
Stars and meteors in my head
Fire fills my eyes
Water runs through my veins
And I breath lavender...
Picture not mine, found on Google.
Land callings
You are at sea,
fluttering between the ocean's breath
and its buttery foam
When the land calls you
You answer it like a feverish dog for milk
Like puppy who lost his dish
When the mainland calls
You never drown your ships;
for the sail had already began
and the tide had washed away what it could
When the homeland calls you, beacons you
You answer before you both lose voice
Because when the mainland; of nostalgia and hope
of fear and half chipped dreams
grips you like a fearless shark
or wrecks you like algae
You answer.
The mainland has been sending her frequent callings,
It has been lighting the houses for you
but you have been playing deaf,
giving ears to the waves beneath your toes
You have been playing blind
gazing at the northern star.
fluttering between the ocean's breath
and its buttery foam
When the land calls you
You answer it like a feverish dog for milk
Like puppy who lost his dish
When the mainland calls
You never drown your ships;
for the sail had already began
and the tide had washed away what it could
When the homeland calls you, beacons you
You answer before you both lose voice
Because when the mainland; of nostalgia and hope
of fear and half chipped dreams
grips you like a fearless shark
or wrecks you like algae
You answer.
The mainland has been sending her frequent callings,
It has been lighting the houses for you
but you have been playing deaf,
giving ears to the waves beneath your toes
You have been playing blind
gazing at the northern star.
Picture not mine, found on Google.
Burns
We live in hell
In an eternal, bottomless fire hole
With pitchforks made of our own hands
weaved from thistles and adorned
with razor blade shrapnels
We live in burning, constantly
in rings of fire and of smokes
We burn the land's treasure
to fuel our days
These days we burn,
to ash in calendar corners and reminders
We throw it all away
but we mostly burn ourselves
and we burn love
only to prove, we, humans
are stronger than emotions
We burn to dust,
then try to walk away from the blaze.
In an eternal, bottomless fire hole
With pitchforks made of our own hands
weaved from thistles and adorned
with razor blade shrapnels
We live in burning, constantly
in rings of fire and of smokes
We burn the land's treasure
to fuel our days
These days we burn,
to ash in calendar corners and reminders
We throw it all away
but we mostly burn ourselves
and we burn love
only to prove, we, humans
are stronger than emotions
We burn to dust,
then try to walk away from the blaze.
Tuesday, June 10, 2014
Check box: Woman Writer
I am a woman and a writer
It was never a case of division
a need to be clashing over the choice
The parts fit onto me
like a size 12 tank top
loose around the shoulders cut
clearly for the world to see a few
edges here and there and a tone design.
I am the check in the box of woman writers
not just feminists raging, I speak woman as
a native tongue
and think woman as I dress each morning
I feel woman on the street and woman in my head
woman behind a computer screen and a woman in bed.
I fall in the cracks of women before me: freedom fighters
artists, saints and sinners
coloring the canvases in shades
of blue, ivory and stains of red as they walk
above the sheer, sliding fabric
throwing down all that weights them down
I am a woman and a writer who
dreams in full color and slips
character portfolios in her
afternoon slumbers
between tea cups and afternoon jokes.
I am a woman writer
but I do not write with my womb
nor with my breasts
I do not rage with my red lips
or lined eyes,
I keep body parts for their designated purposes
but I scribble about a woman
being a woman with one heart
and five heads
I scrawl the world of crawlers
out of wombs of joy and bloody misery
I type set misery and scratch my way
around fear with the backs of my pen.
From the shoulder blades to the toes
I become a compressed mixture of all before me
I am a woman writer
My words, my children
are my legacy
It was never a case of division
a need to be clashing over the choice
The parts fit onto me
like a size 12 tank top
loose around the shoulders cut
clearly for the world to see a few
edges here and there and a tone design.
I am the check in the box of woman writers
not just feminists raging, I speak woman as
a native tongue
and think woman as I dress each morning
I feel woman on the street and woman in my head
woman behind a computer screen and a woman in bed.
I fall in the cracks of women before me: freedom fighters
artists, saints and sinners
coloring the canvases in shades
of blue, ivory and stains of red as they walk
above the sheer, sliding fabric
throwing down all that weights them down
I am a woman and a writer who
dreams in full color and slips
character portfolios in her
afternoon slumbers
between tea cups and afternoon jokes.
I am a woman writer
but I do not write with my womb
nor with my breasts
I do not rage with my red lips
or lined eyes,
I keep body parts for their designated purposes
but I scribble about a woman
being a woman with one heart
and five heads
I scrawl the world of crawlers
out of wombs of joy and bloody misery
I type set misery and scratch my way
around fear with the backs of my pen.
From the shoulder blades to the toes
I become a compressed mixture of all before me
I am a woman writer
My words, my children
are my legacy
Sunday, June 8, 2014
Fortune teller
An ice slice,
he had said the fortune teller
that's your intention: it is a lack of movement ice is
A state of in between that serves no purpose
Amid the sugar cones and the beers
From two sides paved in grit
she asked if that was to determine
A future
It looks static, you see
a state of breaking even
but then again, your soul received ice
it is hard, but it melts. He smiled
beneath a witches' hat,
the gap toothed fortune teller.
the gap toothed fortune teller.
Saturday, June 7, 2014
It runs
Trickling,
It goes, downwards, onwards, never stopping
It evades both of us and we are not eternals
Nor ethereal, nor angels- not even vampires
We would soon expire.
Don’t try to touch it, don’t try to go back- it bites
Time
Thursday, June 5, 2014
Words, language, word power
Before you bite your words
make them your best friend,
or your wide-eyed lover
because they, your words
are not a means for a cause
they are the causes for
the greater good.
Before you think of language
A device, a document or a chore
think of it as another face of the sun
As a runway to wider skies
for language is a key to humanity.
Before you think of using words and language
for your satisfaction and your cynicism
Think of your self first
because what you say
is much of the human
you become.
make them your best friend,
or your wide-eyed lover
because they, your words
are not a means for a cause
they are the causes for
the greater good.
Before you think of language
A device, a document or a chore
think of it as another face of the sun
As a runway to wider skies
for language is a key to humanity.
Before you think of using words and language
for your satisfaction and your cynicism
Think of your self first
because what you say
is much of the human
you become.
New Ride
As the wind huffs beneath the doorway
While I sit to ponder
The crumpling of days, ways and constellations
Collide, like a train wreck
Like a scene after an earthquake
They become what's left of me
I live onto them, I live off
Crunching and munching
decomposed, deflated ideas
of what was and
what should have been
or could have been
and what could be
It is these roads I have taken
that send me on my way
every morning
What makes me,
is what I've made of and for my self--
Beneath all the wreckage
of voices and faces
I kneel,
I touch them-
My memories, one by one
I release them into the vast blue sky
as I turn toward the ground,
my confidant
The dirt beneath my feet
shines brightly in the eye:
Beneath a stone lies
A crumpled, half chewed coin
It is the exact fare
For a new ride.
While I sit to ponder
The crumpling of days, ways and constellations
Collide, like a train wreck
Like a scene after an earthquake
They become what's left of me
I live onto them, I live off
Crunching and munching
decomposed, deflated ideas
of what was and
what should have been
or could have been
and what could be
It is these roads I have taken
that send me on my way
every morning
What makes me,
is what I've made of and for my self--
Beneath all the wreckage
of voices and faces
I kneel,
I touch them-
My memories, one by one
I release them into the vast blue sky
as I turn toward the ground,
my confidant
The dirt beneath my feet
shines brightly in the eye:
Beneath a stone lies
A crumpled, half chewed coin
It is the exact fare
For a new ride.
Tuesday, June 3, 2014
a bit of faith
It is the first puffs of air one notices
walking through a room
a wild rush of scented flowers
It sits winking in the mirrors
when one takes their last glance
It is poised between two heels
on a stage where millions take the stand
It bends with the road, and gives without
flying too high
or sinking so low
It keeps ones head and slides onward
with every passing moment
sometimes it is hard to pin down
sometimes it goes into hiding
and once its found, it is never again lost
it is crowned with jewels,
lady confidence.
walking through a room
a wild rush of scented flowers
It sits winking in the mirrors
when one takes their last glance
It is poised between two heels
on a stage where millions take the stand
It bends with the road, and gives without
flying too high
or sinking so low
It keeps ones head and slides onward
with every passing moment
sometimes it is hard to pin down
sometimes it goes into hiding
and once its found, it is never again lost
it is crowned with jewels,
lady confidence.
A little elf
There's a monster of slumber,
a tiny little elf--
it sits on my eyelashes
each morning
it bends them shut
sending me again to where we meet,
over and over
To lands where dreams are the reality
a tiny little elf--
it sits on my eyelashes
each morning
it bends them shut
sending me again to where we meet,
over and over
To lands where dreams are the reality
Sunday, June 1, 2014
On the no longer Caged Bird
'For the caged bird
sings of freedom'- Maya Angelou
Songstress is a bird's song
in a woman's throat
She, holds the world at her right shoulder
and cradles the rest away. Vain, and sinking
Her thoughts roam as she stands for riddance
Between the basket of food and thought
Let them be what they want
She cooks the whole neighborhood
deserts squeezed out of the milks of her breast
and leaves space for cherries on top.
She makes of living a possibility without
a need for a charade
Life is simple-
Let it be then
A seamstress she kneads of words
cloth to cover her boy
and leaves the yarn spools
running
trailing
surpassing races and gender
and the blinking moments
She emerges, rising like dustier winds
A phenomenal, pillar of a free bird
Let it fly,
to the vast skies she soars:
A perfectly made woman.
Maya Angelou (1928-2014), one of my idols in writing, Rest in Peace.
sings of freedom'- Maya Angelou
Songstress is a bird's song
in a woman's throat
She, holds the world at her right shoulder
and cradles the rest away. Vain, and sinking
Her thoughts roam as she stands for riddance
Between the basket of food and thought
Let them be what they want
She cooks the whole neighborhood
deserts squeezed out of the milks of her breast
and leaves space for cherries on top.
She makes of living a possibility without
a need for a charade
Life is simple-
Let it be then
A seamstress she kneads of words
cloth to cover her boy
and leaves the yarn spools
running
trailing
surpassing races and gender
and the blinking moments
She emerges, rising like dustier winds
A phenomenal, pillar of a free bird
Let it fly,
to the vast skies she soars:
A perfectly made woman.
Maya Angelou (1928-2014), one of my idols in writing, Rest in Peace.
Round
Round, ragged
We walk
air puffing our from us
like three broken down chimneys
lined up against one blue sky
We are on the same piece of land
for now, before we both get sent into space
A space vacuumed from proclamations
and questioning
There's a roundness inside each of us
inside all of us, creatures operating on
air and fear
There's a tire that just keeps on rolling
pushing us beyond ourselves onto
A will to life
A will to beauty
A will to a new tomorrow
and onward we roll
like the earth spinning round itself.
We walk
air puffing our from us
like three broken down chimneys
lined up against one blue sky
We are on the same piece of land
for now, before we both get sent into space
A space vacuumed from proclamations
and questioning
There's a roundness inside each of us
inside all of us, creatures operating on
air and fear
There's a tire that just keeps on rolling
pushing us beyond ourselves onto
A will to life
A will to beauty
A will to a new tomorrow
and onward we roll
like the earth spinning round itself.
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