Clockwork GodHe knew there was a simple solution:Clockwork God4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Go back and altar history—
He would work backwards.
The atomic clock would be simple;
one well-placed sneeze would knock it off course,
then he would find the Swiss watchmaker
and explain to him in chocolate tones
that punctuality was overrated.
The Greeks would be a challenge.
It would take the hands of several gods to convince them to smash
those handsome sundials.
Then he would reach into the soul
of the first homo floresiensis who
looked at the sky and decided to delineate day and night,
to make them into two halves,
And tell him that things were just fine whole.
And there would be no before, no after,
No hour, minute, second 'til
his four weeks left were gone—
There would only be now.
NirvanaIn the jasmine windNirvana3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I trace the gossamer shawl;
Beading silver sand along
my toe. The bewitching sonata
Swaddles lotus wrists; swaying,
The feral ripple - a soft gyration,
Navel's caress. Painting the moonlight
My arms swell; Wings shimmer -
A desert mirage. Soaring unto nirvana
petrichorNiobe weeps.petrichor3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
gold scattered rough across
cracked earth and the last
remains of summer - they fell
like leaves in the arms of the wind.
some scents cannot be captured.
the gods bleed onto rock,
and the stone sends her prayers
in return: petrichor.
listen - the heavy thud of
rain on parched ground;
the monsoon sealing life back in;
the sky bows and kisses earth.
No KerouacYou're no KerouacNo Kerouac3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
she said -
no open road of verse,
your life's work painted
in a gaudy yellow line,
slapping the asphalt
like a greedy river.
You don't own a Nikon
or black loafers,
or hop a boxcar
to sleep under stars
they make God himself
inhale too much clean.
You have no cool
lurking in the corners,
giving skin and ink
to strange women;
no green rush of neon
or cheap whiskey
pissing in the wind,
to rape the sunrise.
You just have a mouth
angels could fall into,
your tongue and lips
a lean and tangled beast,
words breaking up
in a torrent
like a cacophony
of electric blue...
Thirst of a Poetthe bards have bumblebees in their mouths,Thirst of a Poet4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
for language is babbling,
a brook in a bowl, joy brimming;
billowing, rippling, surging
and spilling; sashaying down,
with a swaying sound (oh-so wistful, oh).
language is burbling,
an impish kiss of mouth from mouth;
bewildering, baffling, bemusing
and tricking; tumbling round,
to touch a fellow Fool and his nought (so wistful, oh),
and disturbs a Poet, who slips
into a dream of a vagabond
"where are you calling from?" he murmurs,
in his sleep, and the newspaper flutters
with a snore; then rests on his chin (just so, oh),
and language sidles past him up to me,
and places a river upon my lips,
3 in the AfternoonHappiness is when the door clicks shut3 in the Afternoon3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
at 3 in the afternoon and sunlight
stalks in uninvited through the blinds,
making a sepia mess of the room, and you
are waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting
in the sunken sofa cushion like a lost
nickel looking to be found. The truth is
you found me, standing just inside
the doorway like a stray animal brought
home for the first time, imbalanced
ragged and confused. I stumbled on myself
that first time, making more contact
with the floor, tables and walls than I
did with you. In some respects, that
hasn't changed. I trip on my feet,
walk into walls and door frames still,
but every now and then I bump into you
and remember what makes this home, what
makes you home.
YieldI plant my feet in a grove of whispering trees.Yield4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Cool breeze sweeps limbs which yawn and stretch,
soles decompose as toes grow, break through soil,
descend into deep brown fists of earth.
Trunk thickens, arms broaden, fingers twist
and branch into capillaries which bud and burst
into saw-toothed leaves and apple blossoms.
Soon my limbs are laden with fruit.
Freed from burden, we swell in praise of rain.
Recipe for Disaster196 NationsRecipe for Disaster4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
1 Nuclear Strike
1 Retaliation Maneuver
6 Billion Dead
Don't bother baking -
the radiation will take care of it.
today sky and grasstoday sky and grasstoday sky and grass4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
are the same :-
, and the sea is dreaming,
, and the field
is courting the wind
simply, with dandy lions.
let the women work
the sun's world
, for many-then tell me
over a cup of smoke and tree:
"it is a time to find love in palmistry"
"I have found a
time to harness the sky
with love clasped in my arms"
bird sigh sun drown heart dance
, looking for
hooray, my sweet heart
- to a greeneyed lad muse as joyful
as eros in silence
DisenchantmentI said your eyesDisenchantment3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
were ripe for stealing,
but my fingerprints lied.
They left a strange future behind us -
a discourse that bruised
between my gums.
Don't sleep so loudly.
with sightless hands.
The boy next door
can hear you
behind these bars,
has left its ghost
inside our pockets.
offerings of a ghostand there was a vague veracityofferings of a ghost3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
in the whisper of your touch
that faded like feathers of frost
before the fevered kiss
of my breath.
winter settled slowly
down the curling knots of my spine
the same path
where your lips once burned
like candles in the night,
shadows tossed high
as autumn leaves riding reckless
on the wind.
at times i feel
this cup of bones
will crumble, blood and ash
and only that
and heavy hearts too full to bear
will break against the cool,
upturned cheek of earth
bare of greenery
but veiled in sinking snow.
your every echo is a curse
limned in regret
and the sting of dark hair whipping
in my brimming eyes
carries the coldest winds
across whitewashed memory,
the bite of ice built
upon a wasteland.
even a shiver cannot shake
the ringing feeling
that your absence speaks
a greater truth
that you were never here
unworthy.You: A vast oceanunworthy.4 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
slipping between my fingers.
I: A tap, leaking.
I.My bones were glass blown:I.4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Crafted to curve lowly -
(un)beautifully - furling like
Imagine me transmuted, bursting through
desquamated skin. Picture my
clay-molded contours liquified
and awakened, shifted:
But I am unseasoned - grape-shelled,
guileless. Esotericism is overflowing
in my veins:
This path is as smudged as
its traveler (skidding yet
never slowed), clotted
Watch my fingers splay, breaking
from my tendons to
grasp tangible air
You can neither scorch nor
whittle me into
nail-sized hopelessness, only
Steeled, my jaw is set -
diffident, not shattered.
VaingloryI watched Daedalus cradle his ivory child,Vainglory4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
melted, winged bronze crowned in seaweed:
he released his reckless child,
threw him to the winds in hopeless abandon
watched as the sea ruined him.
Decadent in ripped seashells,
he escapes into obscurity,
exalts the lamented to the point of notoriety -
Tell him I saw his face again
...in Picasso in art in war in despair,
he hid his face, a disgraced Eros
(still winged, still winged,
these wings bind flesh from stone,
from sea-besieged rock)
but still so naked in his shame.
"So desolate, o desolate,
O, so desolate, Daedalus?"
croons the wicked wind,
and the crooked man's back hunches
with weighty wings.
Tell him I read his story in fiction:
in vainglorious masks and molten men,
and in spiral seashells dipped in honey,
molten gold; I open these gates of frozen gold,
hail Apollo, hail lord, hail glory,
and my burden is: my offering I hang
for you to see flight, thy mortal's wings.
Summer WomanWoman, you are my burnt sienna sculpture on Sun-days.Summer Woman4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
You are hiding my strength in rufous hair
and I feel you: russet-flushed to the touch,
jagged collarbone curving into neck,
easing into shoulders, into breasts;
woman, you are the warmest stone –
you are summery stone
to my water-drenched hands.
Woman in deepest reverie, you are hiding
my strength in pacific oceans of titian;
in running veins. My grasp
slips from skin slopes of sun and stone,
slips from you.
Woman of ragged flint and oil,
in sleep, your wind-kissed stone-neck drifts,
surges into a soft arch in air –
and does not meet ground;
and does not bow.
Stardust and cracked pavement.She's still breathingStardust and cracked pavement.4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
though her eyes are all stardust now,
lips mumbling about dippers and bears and horse heads.
I am telescoping her
focusing in on every line and shape:
the convex curve of a cheekbone,
irregular freckles dotting a
We are an upside down compass,
She doesn't understand
so I just keep quiet
while she holds me,
bodies close but souls
We are lying on cracked pavement in
a lonely deserted parking lot,
a blackened planet's surface,
a reminder that
I am lying on a burnt, imitation model
of her world --
and that I am
Love Is Not A MetaphorBirds do not care if you are broken.Love Is Not A Metaphor4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
They are just birds, occupied with the business
of survival. The wind that carries them
does not care if you wish to be weightless,
cradled in arms it does not possess.
The ocean it greets does not care if your tears
would push its boundaries up continents
to meet mountain tops that would no more
fashion themselves into soft beds
for your beaten spirit than learn Latin
to remind you that love is no metaphor
& you will lose it by thinking thus.
Of Half-Filled WordsShe is not a flutterbird.Of Half-Filled Words3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Her fingers are skittish,
her smile is not.
Do not fear that you will
drive it away.
Sadness is her fumbling limb.
It is unwanted, yet
When it is January
she will tell you,
"I am still struggling.
And I am becoming so many people
all at once.
A conglomeration of beauty that
I have managed to mangle.
Please, do not be sad for me."
Sometimes her sorrow is
meant for you. But mostly her.
Those specks and spots
of ocean storm lulls
reveal her truths:
ones she does not want
to extract from herself.
Her heart is not a rabbit.
When it beats
faster, faster, faster,
you need not
run harder to catch it.
ScornHer restless heart cries, Love! I am here to be found,Scorn4 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Everywhere - here - following voices of all in Greece,
Yet from her mouth, there is no sound.
A fair nymph's merry voice once rung from sky to ground,
Until the cerulean-eyed Queen gave it cruel release –
Her restless heart cries, Love! I am here to be found.
And vainly she, swift of wind, silent of voice, follows round
Her beloved, who scorns her with lips of cerise –
Yet from her mouth there is no sound.
The wind carries her silent lament, for he himself is bound
To one who wears his scornful azure eyes and vain fleece;
Her restless heart cries, Love! I am here to be found.
Surely she knows Eros has struck her beloved's heart deftly around
with passion for a brook whose laugh slays a heart's peace.
Yet from her mouth there is no sound -
The fair flower, who holds Echo's heart, pines as a lover drowned
in longing, for the murmur of his river lover will not cease.
Her restless heart cries, Love! I am here to be
MaelstromI smell winterMaelstrom3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
in your bloodline,
the thick throttle of crimson
trapping the snow
and the crows' last laugh
stretching out the wires
taut and high over me.
I smell the cold
in the trees
where your face still hangs
caught like antlers,
weed-boned and blank
in the thin sunshine
of a drowning man.
And your kisses
still reek of snow -
frost chewing through my tongue,
cleaving to your smile,
blemished and beaming
in the surly light
left dying under your thumb
caught in my maelstrom.
strangeryou came clinging to the grace of a summer storm'sstranger3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
underbreath, came cold hands and tired eyes
and a bruised lip i'd longed to kiss
when you stumbled on night listing
too far to the left
cross my thistledown garden by old dusks
that wilt between, i'll keep my door open:
your lady in sepia doesn't live here, only
the ghosts and i -- and Grandmother,
in the far-between wanders when she can
but i've a place where you can
lay your wayworn bones to dry, and
if morning should come calling, i'll not
tell her where you sleep. and stayed awhile.