At the Turn of the Year
sunda sora aoi mizuumi fukami keri
the blue lake.
hi kara hi e soutairon no toshi owaru
day after day about the theory of Relativity,
a year approaches its end.
basu tei ya dondon mawaｒu udedokei
the bus stop-
wrist watch whirls in a haste
ningyou no tsuya wo kabuseru hokori kana
covering the gloss on the doll-
obscuring the glory of a puppet-
soujiki de hokori mo neko mo kake ni keri
the vacuum cleaner-
chased away the dust
a second skeletoni. introductiona second skeleton2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
i was born 4425 miles away from here.
my heart still lingers there.
i don't want to have it back.
i go through the motions,
don't ask me for emotions.
i once thought i could be happy,
my mistake can be forgiven;
i was so much younger.
now i know better
than to expect anything.
because the only time you can lose,
is when you love something.
that's why i love myself.
The ElementsI.The Elements3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Wine as red as stained glass
is lifted up & tilted back
touch wood like thunder
having given up grace
thread across wrists & palms
spent vessels returning to the heart
Fingertips suffused with pulse
lift to lightning's loveliness
Google's PrayerGoogle's Prayer2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Our Google, which art in Wi-fi
Quick be thy search.
Thy results come, thy buffer be done,
On Bing as it is in Chrome.
Give us this day our daily updates
And forgive us our spelling
As we forgive those who butcher English grammar.
And lead us not into Apple,
But deliver us from Siri.
For thine is the Wi-fi, the processor, and the Android forever.
A ParenthesisYou were (a parenthesis, that pausedA Parenthesis2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the daily, mundane stuff
a bundled breath
of fresh joy,
and borne in the wonder
Gasping and grasping,
'til in quiet you laid
and I, my Child,
lie in quiet, still
And now, that is all you are,
and still so much more.
Apologies to LaoEach day is its own microstep--Apologies to Lao3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
since I woke from my mother's womb,
I longed to mimic new words, trammel
the sound until it blossomed
like a newborn, and oh how I birthed
stories--told them how I wanted
the author's sacrosanct title
once I've grown. But growing meant
learning the practice of citizens
and their due contribution: beast-slaying
nature of please, thank you,
an apology: sincere
or not. Then there is time--the first
breath of nine, exhalation
of five, the suffocating mandate
of overtime. You grow used to it:
the cyclical disappearance of parents,
pervasive need of sleep, a home-
cooked meal's gradual transmogrification
to a microwave's impatient beeps,
the drive-thru's static, monotoned voice
by a man who has already learned
what I am learning: to cherish
the alarm's morning hymn over my mother's--
now I'm rarely late for work--can navigate
those can-lined aisles, the cold-grey
of the warehouse with deep strides
until I lose track of every step within
my eight hours--my mind
Ode to my grocer...The grocery cart had old fruit smashed and dried to its grated floor.Ode to my grocer...3 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
"Someone really ought to hose that off," thought I.
I've had this cart before,
and thought the same thing then.
The parking lot was conspicuously short on cars.
Saturday morning is usually busier.
A corporate megamart has opened
just five minutes from here.
I pushed the cart into my familiar market,
defiantly devoted in the face of change
to my beloved grocer, unpolished, unrefined
and unapologetically human.
The Pinova apples are painted vibrant shades of yellow, pink and red.
Perfect in their imperfection. Better there be scars than a thick polish of wax.
And the voices around me are they from Russia or Ukraine?
Is that Farsi or Arabic? I'm too ignorant to tell, but I love them all.
Alien music wafts through the aisles like invisible fog over a transparent bay.
Languages I don't understand, unique rhythms and instruments, too.
Wait! Is that Alsu singing Inagda? I haven't heard that since I was in Moscow.
Chocolate ChaosRandom pastry movement: brownie in motion.Chocolate Chaos4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Sharing Communion Amongst Creation -DFC Day 30I.Sharing Communion Amongst Creation -DFC Day 302 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
The sun stretches her caressing hands.
Balancing on the horizon, it seems.
Last rays of day scatter across the lands.
As through a glacier, the light gleams
Over meadows and memories past,
Dripping off cardinal's wings into azure streams.
Galloping alongside stallions unsurpassed,
Golden beams falling with prancing leaves
And slipping into cracks of canyons vast.
Shadow wraps around illumination like sleeves.
Billows as smoldering incense in sacred art.
The day has left, has hastened like ghosts and thieves.
Shade stands resolute and rampart.
Rapt with the veiled, vanquished moon.
Hidden in devious clouds, the waves devoid of heart.
Luna moths glow like enchanted rune.
Catatonic branches creak languid and livid.
Stillness will be overtaken soon.
Rapturous applause is thunder; vivid
Echoes shake the stagnant air—
Bludgeoning and blasting what was once timid.
Rhythmic electricity fractures the sky with flare
To maze its way down, pricking Earth.
Stars hide their shine in such dark
Little EggsOne green morning, our fat little facesLittle Eggs2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Look out the kitchen window and
Find a robin and her nest on our windowsill.
She carries baubles and trinkets—candy
Wrappers and foil—before her vivacious
Red breast and weaves them tenderly into her nest.
My mother, laughing, says
She’s dizzy with anticipation, painting ponies
And clouds on nursery walls.
Soon enough little blue eggs fill
The happy twigs and their gaudy trappings
And the robin settles—snug, waiting.
We, too, wait for spring miracles on the
Windowsill. Weeks pass—she sits faithful—but
Eggs remain eggs.
Mother gets an odd pallor and avoids the
Kitchen window. Sometimes I think she wants to
Chase the robin away, but understands she’s dear to us.
We want to give the robin our support—she’s
Like family, now—but wonder how long it
Takes for eggs to hatch. Surely not this long?
“Sometimes things go wrong,”
Mother answers to our curiosity.
tree, fiddler crabIt took days to hollow out the soft partstree, fiddler crab2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
of the trunk, dig out the tree-flesh and sap,
polish the raw wood so that when he sat,
there would be no splinters. He carved his name
into the side, like a blessing, a declaration
of good fortune, and stowed his forest inside.
BrokenSomething in my brainBroken2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I am told
is broken, dysfunctional. It leaves me inept
when left to deal with language unspoken,
the intricacies of smiles,
the unclear line between malice and mirth.
It may have been the shot
given by the doctor
meant to protect but somehow doing harm,
the Hippocratic oath.
Or so say my parents, their organization,
so they may be exonerated.
They liken me to
Ted Bundy, H. H. Holmes,
and Einstein. Because a sometimes-flat
and it makes people uncomfortable.
Especially when it is not maintained.
At times I am too broken to understand
and sometimes I am not broken enough
because my puzzle piece fits
when you angle it
correctly, that is, upside down, with no
other pieces attached.
Something in my brain
I am told
is broken, dysfunctional, because
most people do not cringe when they are
tapped on the shoulder
their mother tries to hug them.
It may have been the air
polluted and toxic
meant to sustain life but somehow causing
on watching the night close its eyes on you1. I will not tell youon watching the night close its eyes on you2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
you are pretty.
How can the halls and angles of such honest humanity
be so pinched between sounds as elementary as these?
2. You need not be two stringent boughs of syllables
nor weave your viney bones abreast these five petty letters,
whirling in the fire of the river
Do not attempt to peel yourself layer for layer,
leaving all the disgust behind.
Do not tally your body six lines
too short, hemming the holes into
puckers red as those volcanoes of strength
bursting at the base of your hips.
3. Blood is not satisfaction.
Blood is not patience, waiting for the rooms to empty
HerculesYou grappled dragons and slayed gorgons;Hercules2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
you drifted on seas of sirens
to state your name.
Dominions were built with the strength of
crumbled at your fingertips.
Why is it you never expected
more than muscles to grow weary?
Fretting over fights;
jetties at night
full of skeletons piled high.
Hush the crowd with one word,
they continue to love you.
In your dreams, you wished for recompense.
Their defense: you deserved none.
Nightmares are now escapes from reality-
a quiet confidentiality-
not the other way around.
So wear that badge of courage,
badgered by the current
of the overflowing river of fame.
This is what you wanted.
Radioactive Snowflakes Oh boy, boy, boyRadioactive Snowflakes2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
For the last shall be,
and that arctic disposition will melt away in time
written on a hearth rug, read it and then
turn the dial back and tune into Goodbye FM
"Oh boy, boy, boy
Goldilocks should have been clad in HazMat,
bear in mind the Gouda enacts the rat trap"
For the last shall be,
when fractals free fall from the sky
thickening icycle eyes, cementing prisms with time
measured it all in half-life
Oh boy, boy boy
Across the Sea and Around the KotatsuSpringAcross the Sea and Around the Kotatsu2 years ago in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
Mom starts with rice. Japanese rice, one, two, three Japanese cup-fulls of rice grains into the cooker, because Sis eats a lot of this stuff. It's one of her favorite dishes, taco rice, and Mom's always happy to make it for her because it's the only way Sis will eat her tomatoes. But back to the rice. "You want to rinse at least three or four times, until the water's kind of clear," Mom says as she cups her hand under the cooker pot, letting the cloudy water wash over her hand.
Rice cooking's easy though – just fill enough water to the point the rice's covered, punch in a time (or set it to "Quick Cook," which with our creaking rice cooker still takes about an hour) and let the cooker do its thing.
Ground meat goes into a well-greased and heated frying pan. Break up the block so that it crumbles into fine little pieces, and do this with wild abandon, because this is taco meat. Mom uses any taco seasoning that happens to be cheap; most seasonings rack up t
the tease of Earl Greywhen leaves speak they rustlethe tease of Earl Grey2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
but shan't talk of lost cattle
out of bags like cats lying
purring perhaps stirring
gainsaying the language
of pictures - much fewer
than one thousand words
whispered soft - softer
ours to read into
by catching a hint of
some spiciness brewed
a sugaring of love -
or upcoming danger
a giving or taking
from whom in this strange land
once was a stranger
by this chance assessed
through one's cup or glass
darkly lit yet it be
from wet leavings of tea
hopefully let it be
the sugaring of love -
llp - dA - jan2013
DD - feb1/2013
VisitorThere is a ghost doing handstands on my front lawn,Visitor3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
wrist-deep in fresh soil. Her hands are birds
It's late, but no one comes to take her home.
The pale moon offers a silver smile -
the clouds disapprove.
Too tired to dream, she buries her legs in sky.
Tonight she is invincible, untouchable,
this frail girl beneath the stars
this death in light.
There is a ghost doing handstands on my front lawn,
falling to her white knees. Her stare is a pane
The eyes of the living are often murky but
the eyes of the gone
Winter 2012 Haiku Set12-6Winter 2012 Haiku Set2 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
cats in the hall
shifting to find
the last afternoon light
all day the old cat
follows a spot of sun
down the hall
all my raked leaves
now a pile
at the back door
a faceless penny
a cat's balance-
if you stop petting me,
seventy miles per hour
towards the coming dawn
PoetreeNOTE: The poem should have the shape of a tree. If it looks messy, your monitor is too narrow. Press "Ctrl" and "-" until it fits into your monitor, or follow the link in the author's comments. Thank you!Poetree2 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
In darkness sweet I dream I sleep; my fate to wait till time is ripe
A tender leaf curled in the seed, an idea that would be freed
I dream of bra
How To Ask Someone To Let You Love ThemI think you keep secrets under your skinHow To Ask Someone To Let You Love Them3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
like trees keep rings and do not know it,
like the sea teems,
like dark and quiet space
keeps every ray of light
the stars whispered to one another
when they were still young
and dying to make love.
I think you keep secrets in you
like the desert keeps sands,
like sleep keeps dreams,
like cities keep sleepless people
and people looking for sleepless people
to fall asleep with.
I think you keep secrets
like secrets like to be kept,
and I want to learn them all.
001. beginnings.Beginnings are vague things. Quite often you can't pin them down to one event you have to trawl back further and further through foggy past, peeling apart what ifs and untangling strands of memories.001. beginnings.4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Eventually one has to go all the way back to the start of the universe, and that's a question even the experts have to shrug their shoulders at. It's not like you can plug it into a calculator and come out with a balanced algorithm. At least, not yet.
But it is true that sometimes you can fasten down an occurrence or a moment or even just a single breath, like sticking a thumbtack through a dead butterfly, and label it as a 'beginning' in your mind. Identifying that one moment makes us feel secure, like maybe it was destined to happen instead of just being a random sequence of events that fed off each other and tripped over each other and eventually fell like dominoes to the unlikely conclusion.
Cvusscha Mistbane has pinned down a moment. Of course she knows that there are plenty of
Mollusca1.Mollusca2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Find whatever it is that is your treasure.
Bury it alive.
I wrestled the guardian angel for my birthstone,
just a pearl like some full moon risen from a mollusk's growing pain.
I counted the sheets of nacre like birthday candles,
peeled away each one until I at last remembered
that what I treasure is an infection.
It was a gentle kind of wrestling,
not Biblical, not even assertive,
more like the way two sprite wolf cubs play,
a light lunge, a jovial snarl,
a fight over nothing in particular.
The guardian angel renounced itself
as a guardian angel, said
I am a siren.
I lie in the tunnels of nautilus shells
and sing until I collapse with the echoes.
Then it hurts, like a shard of the wrong song
embedded in my skin.
It never healed the ache of adolescence,
just buried it under a fall wound's nacre.
Said one day, it'd show up in my smile.
On the day of the dewinging:
bury me alive.
I want to see what I can agitate the earth into.
crystallophonethere is a punchcard sincrystallophone2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
like a queen of spades smoldering in an alley.
you hear how the gears churn,
singing faster than we did before
back when black magic dropped like a
pair of socks from the sky with supplies
taped to a note that said
(oh, look at you now)
such a beautiful brain:
runs on gasoline?
have a gallon
or we can call it a balloon,
and a new pair of glasses
for your tapered eyes
(you peel the bark back on the logs,
but you're not sure what you see),
and life says,
either nail jello to a tree,
or keep your
icicles hanging from the eaves,
caterpillars frolicking in the ashes,
your 'Sam, I still don't have your number,'
and your totaled passion:
someone to hang inside out with,
string you up like a steak with.
what the hunger
is trying to tell me
my brain churns like butter,
my insides aflare, my chakras combusting,