Madonnaher face a saffron blush-Madonna6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
a Madonna at dusk
stands at a barred window,
a cracked adobe cameo
of myrtle and palm fronds
I pause, spellbound
amidst slow-rising dust
from my barefoot trek
through a quiet village
to contemplate the new moon
when the Andalusia sky
is lavender and violet,
the village youths
a lamentation with lanterns
passing before their Madonna
bathed in the scent
of orange and mint,
through her gypsy hair
a raven's wingspread
The sky deepens-
blend with the soil
a distant row of cypress
marking where the road lies-
from the belfry, storks emerge
to glide majestically
in a slow, widening arc
their shadows undulate
o'er the cheekbone of a riverbed-
the dying sun casts its yield
through newly plowed fields
Purpose DrivenI didnt explode when I struck. My time would come later.Purpose Driven6 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
It was 1958. Hundreds of thousands of us fell upon the island of Quemoy. The reasons didnt matter to me. All that mattered was the long, cold barrel, the instant of ignition, the ponderous arc across the Taiwan Strait, and the fall. From a Soviet factory to now, my destiny was to kill.
I didnt explode when I struck. My time would come later.
I waited. Rain and wind piled mud over me. Cold, heat, night, day passed again and again. Then, the claw of a steam shovel, and I saw the sun again.
There was a flatbed truck, and crates, and thousands of my brothers stacked on top of one another. We clattered as the truck bounced along the muddy roads of Kinmen. Our war was over. My time would come later.
There was a bespectacled man, gentle, with a hammer and a practiced arm. I melted in his forge. I folded under his hammer, under his patience. I became thin, hard, and gained an edge that would split
little stirrings III: etherlittle stirrings III: ether6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
from a craft adrift my voice muffled by
distance stutters through the ether
and the ink blackness- I can see the sun
I'm surrounded by stars- suns that live
and die before my eyes my own sun
stands out because it's where you are...
again my feeble voice calls knowing
you can't hear but will dedicate the
rest of my life so that one day you will
Blue Ceramic BowlBlue ceramic bowlBlue Ceramic Bowl6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
rests on our table
where the oak-salver
used to sit, piling
dust for ever.
Blue ceramic bowl
made of our lustful
sins, decorated by our
tears and smiles
of so many hours.
Blue ceramic bowl
is where we hide
the miscarried child
our son, Oriel.
Blue ceramic bowl
filled with shame
and the trivial carving
of your name.
Catkuwrimo 2009Catkuwrimo 20096 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
witnessed by stars
lolling by fire
mew from kitchen--
empty bowl, again
a cat does not
delicate rose petals
the cat watches
Little black cat,
wicked claws strike
on unsuspecting terrier.
its a hard
yellow eyes yearn,
koi pool waters
fire, or waterfire, or water6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
were this blurred, we'd be submerged,
stuck under the waves
with warping colours & corals falling away
from a certain blue surface, where white animals are climbing.
hot & cold climb the same ladder into the eye
and we see everything sharper:
today there are sky-flags, halfway tattered.
browns & sea-thinned greens, then reds & great flames
but the starving stag, steaming in the cracked courtyard
says blue is autumn's secret favourite, the colour of bruise & ozone & iris.
a leaf can fall like a cracked mast, or a dead bird meant for the ground
where the plummet loves death's rest; or simply a painted sail
that dispels the break of landlocked bone
& breaks the windy hierarchy of leaves ― a mess of fire, or water.
but this wading one-hand-clap falls like a berry
too ripe to maintain the grip
of its slim stalk limb,
here it cannot echo
or be poisonous.
cold moon cinquaincold mooncold moon cinquain5 years ago in Other More Like This
guides frantic feet
who make craters of eyes to dance
OrcaA gutted ship's hull lists,Orca5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
dragged into a roiling sea
filled with blue-glass shark fins,
leaving entrails of fever through
depths of eternal night-
the oil-slick surface
shifting mottled moonlight
on coral reefs calcified against
the leaves of bodies that drift by,
sinking, to disappear into
canyon fissures deeper than the
shadows of heaven can reach-
pods of whales cruise overhead
giving off their eerie cries,
baleful orgasmic moans
as they claim their take
from the debauch of a hunt.
The moon reaches its apex
over the battlements...
deceptive silence belies
the solitude of a killing
during an orca night.
Getting nakedI forgot to put makeup onGetting naked6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
this morning. Wrestled with the idea
of running back to my room for it,
instead stayed put and thought
about being naked. You can
be naked on your face. And on your
liver. Naked on last night's leftovers. People
who say they want to look better naked
are just trying to compensate for something.
It rains, and I like to think it is
the sky disrobing unrepetantly
onto my hair and cheeks. We
are its afterbirth, stagnant puddles
upon the ground. When I think of
the word 'stagnant' I picture a man who
will never whisper white nothings about
pomegranates into my neck, skin
dropping away from oxygen. But where
is my mask? You
are underneath so much these days
that there seems no need to cover myself
Playing for closureStanding by the stairs,Playing for closure6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
how I met your parents midway,
going up to my room, them
in their hands
a wonder that I, later,
also found in you.
Your mouth moving
in quick laughter. Our looks
like notes passing across
a classroom. Then one day-
How can I describe it, it is
as if I inhaled deeply
and found no air willing to come back out.
I hung up your shirt even
as your body narrowed itself away from me,
like a closing eye.
At least I got it
so there was no black or white,
no chessboard to end
our game upon. But prevailing
logic did not bring us back. We
walked away from our
shop windows, until you became
a mannequin that
I could not dress, an idea
with a three-month expiration date.
Rubaiyat: PersephonePersephoneRubaiyat: Persephone6 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Life springs from her flowering feet
like a pup that suckles its mother's teat
while her hair flows with the Phlegethon's fire
and curls into a shade of summer heat.
Her voice is far sweeter than the lyre's
like the innocent touch of two sapphires,
and her skin is a virgin alabaster
protected only by floral attire.
Her eyes are curious lavender asters
that know both beauty and disaster
A burning rosebush in Elysian pastures:
that bride to death, her love, her master.
I Hope New York Does Not Sink-Open, theseI Hope New York Does Not Sink-5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
arms like elevator doors
aggravated too many times
by the pressing of a button.
The dark breaks in through my curtains
and I am looking at a stranger
the way I never do on the train. Each day
is sun and jeans and aching licking at heels, traveling
around the ankle, throat
much lighter than kneecap, eyes
wider than my stride.
The first thing I
learn from the city is why
my posters keep falling off the walls.
They are colorful and expressive, but
do not know how to cling
to that which sustains their brightness.
We are seven blocks off broadway
and the traffic is spot on. I am
five minutes ahead
of exhaustion, until I deposit
my breath onto my bedcovers and
sink my steps like ships into the carpet.
Bouyancy, you see
remains a theoretical state, until suddenly tested
by the weight of daring.
Leaves FollowDaydreamsLeaves Follow6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Visions of love, drugged dreams of
Pain sweeter than sun
She turns the TV up, she's
A.m. again, another minute
Until sleep seeps in.
Reflections flash, some other past His tinted thoughts
Wishing she didn't want to see that he was strong, and
Windows closed, and true to fantasies they spun, now
Whispers low held himself
Bedpost RedemptionYou were trying to get something out of meBedpost Redemption9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
when you remarked
you always leave me
to make the bed."
That's because you were the first to climb in -
"I'll do it later."
"No you won't, you never do."
I love the way you appear dead when your eyes roll back,
it's such a good look on you.
I leant against the chipped doorframe,
with off-white paint flakes
decorating my shoulder.
but don't say I didn't offer."
just like every morning,
A Younger Version of MeFew remnants of your hairA Younger Version of Me6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
still linger in my sink
no matter how hard I try
to wash it down the drain
and forget that this thing
this moment in time,
meant anything more than
me hating myself.
44443890a country road444438908 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
is splotched and bruised
with autumn slush,
the remains are warm
and simmer patiently -
in the distance,
a cluster of geese
the incomplete karyotype1. The First Mendelian Letdownthe incomplete karyotype3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
One by one, we unload our Punnett Squares.
There are traits we could cradle like nostalgia.
Some of us spent entire childhoods scrubbing
away our freckles, hoping either to extinguish them
or to capsize them like floating candlelight.
Some of us cried when we drew blood, not because it hurt,
but because that's when we realized that we were
blacktop scribbles, chicken-scratch genotypes.
There are traits we wish we could toss away, but like coins.
Recessive claims heads, dominant demands tails,
but when our inheritance rolls into the gutter
we have to know what we're worth
without our pocket change to back us up.
We mourned of Mom's miscarriage
as its ultrasound, a sprouting
of fingers wrinkled like
second generation snap peas.
Eyes unopened, we never caught
maternal or paternal reflection,
either blue glass or cold steel,
regardless of what he looked through
to see the sun.
He would have made a better mistake
than he'd ma
SisterSister5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
The phone rings at three AM, she is
lying with the coverlet half off and the
window open to the cool desert air
for once, instead of the AC. Her hand
hits the side table, almost knocks the
glass of water over. The receiver is
cold against her face. "Hello?"
"Are you coming out for New Years?"
His voice, unchanged. She remembers
when the children were a chaos behind
it, when the dogs barked and her
sister yelled for quiet. Silence now, and
that voice. "Sorry about the time, I forget,
you know." She can hear him catch
his breath. "Well?"
"I wasn't planning to "
"If it's money, you know We can
find a way to get you out here. I mean,
you know we'd all love to see you."
She knows exactly what he means.
"I'll think about it."
"Call me back," he says.
They don't say goodbye to each other.
The click on the other end is more like
home than the tension in the words.
She takes a small drink and rolls back over.
Sleep is long, dark, and dreamless.
She likes flying. The mountains
my friend friday My friend Friday spends Tuesday afternoons looking for things that no one else can find. These things are small and blend with the everyday so suitably, that they elude most of us, even after our morning coffee or cigarette. But invariably Friday finds them with ease, and sets them upon my doorstep every Wednesday morning, pawing at my breakfast with his fresh wonders.my friend friday7 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
I saw a boy die yesterday! He howls, the door slamming behind him. He is not in the same room as I; he is yelling this across my house at 5:30am, eliciting angry grumbles from my somber roommates. Sending the saloons doors clacking and banging, he gushes into our kitchen and tosses a mangled G.I. Joe on the table in front of me. The boy was in the car in front of me. I was driving to work, laughing at NPR, as ya do, and there in front of me, a man was flying, this man! He grins, snatching the disable veteran off the table and waving it in front of me