burasindaKafesler içinde, var birşeyler var da uzaklık baki. Hep yollar yordamlar diyorsun bana, bir duralım, girmeden içeri sen, ben nereye gidiyorum bil sen.burasinda4 years ago in General Non-Fiction More Like This
EndingEndingEnding1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
I dream, the earth splitting like a cracked egg,
Light thinning like dye in water.
Air hardens until we burrow.
I wake wanting to know if we will fall.
An apocalypse is an ending
This is a becoming.
DreamDreamDream2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I never dream of you alone.You are always with her.
She is transparent,
the walls, trees, paintings behind her blurred
within the outline of her body.
Lined with soot as I long for oblivion.
You blaze so white.
If I try to see the expression in your eyes,
I am blinded
as though I tried to read a blank page
in the noon sun.
FloatingFloatingFloating2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I float in the river, threads of green vines twined around me,
Twigs and foxgloves laced in my hair.
If I drown perhaps I will grow gills, silver slits.
A truck cornflower blue pulls over to the side of the road.
A man casually scoops up a little girl with pigtails tied with red ribbons.
She has no name now.
Fish stare at me with flat eyes like silver coins.
They place coins on the eyes of the dead.
But I am something else.
The princess dreams of spinning wheels that bloomed like asters,
Fingertips pricked, guppies swimming beneath her eye lids.
No one will find her.
The truck is now only a blue jay on a road ending in sky
Surrounded by the shivering weeds.
White on WhiteWhite on WhiteWhite on White2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
White on white, a Russian painter
played with light, finding differences
in texture, implication, dream.
When all is white, light turns to shadow.
Stare at the noon sand, white shadows spread
like milk spilled on linen, water under ice.
White on white, each painting hangs,
a window on an alien landscape
where there is no absolute, only depths of light,
variations of purity.
What creatures live in this world?
Do they love like us, implacable,
reckless, demanding vows, redemption?
I cannot save you. I can't promise
what I am. In this light, I am a rounded skull.
But if the light shifts, white darkening
into white, that bone might be
white bark, white fur, white stone.
White on white, there is no color
only waves of light and eye.
Length and width are transmuted
to shades of iris and slate,
turquoise and topaz, a yellow so pale
it will darken from your breath.
Our senses are slight. Like fish
who evolved eyeless, we slip
through a world narrowed, an ocean floor rift.
DreamDreamDream2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Mary dreams she is a child, hot gruel swelling her belly.
She has cracked her mother's pitcher and lied about it.
"Little girls who lie will grow long hairy asses' ears,"
her mother scolds, twisting Mary's braids.
Her father threads braided hemp through a ring
in a wooden horse's nose so she can pull it.
Mary piles pebbles into a wobbly house,
her father's house. No safety there,
just stone and air,
precarious and precise as instinct.
Ward NineWard NineWard Nine2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Ward nine is for the crazies,
The lunatics and the despoilers
Who know there are entrances that have no exits.
And for this knowledge, God give us
Of greyhounds with almond black, blind burnt eyes
Of crows that eat the inside of your mouths.
LookingLookingLooking2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
The angel Nectarine cloisters Mary,
surrounds her with stacks of linen canvases,
coarse with paint, gilded crowns and cherubs.
Mary touches one of the paintings,
"It wasn't like that."
In one painting, the child promenades stiff and poker starched.
In another, Mary simpers, a whey faced debutante.
"I have never looked like that," she says.
She cannot find the harsh beating of the dove's wings,
the lily wilting from the heat of her body,
the stunned pain, the child breaking open inside her,
a hard bud, the revelation of what can be lost and taken.
She cannot find the ragged taste of an angel's tongue
on her hand, hot and rough as a clay oven, an ox's hide.
LoonLoonLoon2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I dreamed I cried, a loon's cry,
a wail harsh as a blade of marsh grass.
Each word was insane,
I thought I sung of love.
When I woke, I had burrowed against you,
my face veiled by the shadow of your body.
And my fists were clenched like always,
palms bleeding from half moon cuts.
I carry a word in my mouth,
a round grey pebble
that I suck on to forget my thirst for you.
Because I will never carry your soul in my mouth,
my hands pouring over your skin like water over stone.
While we sleep, I kiss
the stone grey heart,
cup the smooth weight in my palm
until it cuts, stone touching bone
to remind you that I bleed.
And when we wake, bloodstains twine
and branch across the sheets.
My words are too harsh you say.
They pummel and scrape,
force you to look into the sun's blank heart
until the light drifts
like the ash of a dead house.
But the ash is soft, my love.
We can coat our pale skins
until we are grey, shadows and dreams,
and can slip through the
StartStartStart2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Paralysis, a chill,
I try to move towards you
but I can't. The film jerk backwards.
Apples blossom in their hands,
then fly and nest in green leaves,
The shattered glass melts, the head
falls backwards, no lines of blood.
The projectionist may figure it out one day
I try but ....a hand slowly opens, nothing there.
We must start there, smooth,
flat skin, then touch then heat.
DroughtDroughtDrought2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I watch for the pain
like farmers who scan horizons
and wait for drought, knowing
if not now, then soon.
Yet we still plant, finger
the dry soil, gather our omens.
If a crow eats butterweed,
tomorrow it will rain.
What we know is not
what we believe.
On StageOn StageOn Stage2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
We are dead
except for you,
stiff, fingers falling,
ripe plums, blue lips.
Your mouth is warm.
Is that why I watch you?
On stage, my hands hang,
snapped wedding posts.
"Zaplov" is my line,
"fire" in Polish.
The children's feet twitch
into lampposts. I watch you
standing in the wings.
Fire and more fire.
ShortcomingsShortcomingsShortcomings2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
A shortcoming of mine is to flinch
Before the uncertainties of bone and flesh
When moonlight screens the iron cot
I chain myself and wait
For feathers to hood a slurring face
Oh grandmother what a big nose you have
Once upon a time men could become monsters
Fingers coalescing into hooves
Bloody with revelation they knew the root
They are horrors
When Beauty awoke she found her beast
To be fur and feathers once again.
LandLandLand2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Scrubbed by fire
by the bristles of a monstrous wind,
by the singed brush of a coyote's tail,
a mooneater with flattened eyes.
He has stripped the land of portents.
There has been a holocaust here
and nothing has ever happened here since then
except the sighing of pipe lean squatters
who once were people
but now are moon eaters.
When you walk through their abandoned fields
all you find growing is sand and blackened bones.