Into the night

The night
               unfolded its silky silence,
               unrolled its pleasant warmth.
In the confluence of moments,
                                             we sat.

Leaning into the night,
you say,
            "These are my fears.
              Tonight,
                            I'm not burdened by them.
       And, these are my dreams.
              Tonight,
                            I'm not bound by them.

You have fire in your eyes.
You have patience upon your lips.

Unbound by your dreams,
unburdened by your fears,
you reach into the heart of the night.
And you claim it as your own.


I witness a nightflower's triumphant bloom.

A flower dies tonight

Summer is in bloom. Memories come back in wafts of floral fragrance in the cool evening air. Clouds cover the scorching sun and I sit down to write this to you. A letter I will never send.

I picked a gardenia, held it gently before I put it in water. Perhaps only to kill it slowly. Gardenias were your favorite.

The white of surrender, the scents of intrigue. The blooms of peace. This letter never read. Your memory, for now, stays fresh in water.

The scent of gardenia dissipates through the night.

The Myth of Atlas

The weight of the world
on my shoulders.
I want to tell the story again.
----

1.

I want to tell your story.
I want to live your story,
                      your dreams.
I want to feel your sorrow,
               see your stars.

I want to tell the story
as if it's a wildfire
spreading across our plains,
and becomes a legend on the horizon.

I want to tell the legend
             until the legend is vast,
             until we forget it was our story,
             until we believe its mythical powers.

I believe our stories are mythical.
I believe all stories are mythical.
I want to tell the myth,
                  the story again.

2.

I kneel on the right,
bracing my left,
shoulders flat,
head bowed--
expentant;
Atlas the giant
reborn
to bear the story of
your world
in silent witness.

A poet's gift.
Atlas's curse.
We tell the story.
Again.

3.

Atlas is a poet.

A poet sees the pain,
seizes the hurt,
feels the weight of it
crushing,
and carries it on her bent back
to the end of time.

Atlas carries the world,
holding it,
feeling it,
loving it,
breathing it in,
as if it is his own.

The giant he is,
he carries with his brute force
and caresses with his deftest touch unfelt,
all the joys and sorrows
of the world.

Atlas
on his broad shoulders,
unending strength,
carries what others cannot.
Atlas is my brother.

Atlas is a poet.

4.

I stand witness
to our times.

This house of
life and change,
this playfield of
passion and fire,
this temple of
sanctity and sacrifices,
this garden of
blooms and thorns,--
yearn to be
witnessed
and be told to times and generations
not yet passed.
I stand witness to
this world
where cries of suffering
empties one of empathy,
where mourning of cultures
deceased
is in chorus with
triumphant marches of new revolutions.

Someone must remember and hold on.

Someone must feel every pang,
                must sing every note,
         and must see the vivid colors
                                         of fire burning the woman in Kabul
                                 and the fire of passion
                              in two lovers' burning kisses,
         and witness them,
                be tormented by them,
                be taken up by the tidal surge,
                must surrender to them
                and feel the truth in them.

If a story isn't heard,
how can it be retold?
Who would lament for the splendors of Babylon,
if none witnessed
that it was
looted, gutted and burnt to the ground?

5.

The wonders of the world
wondrous,
the little wildflowers
wondrous,
the light of the setting sun,
--a noose,
getting tighter around
her swanly neck
-- that is wondrous;
the golden dawn shining
on the hopeless drunk
lying in his filth,
that is wondrous,
moonlight encircling the shadows
of friends,
that is wondrous.

And wonder is nothing
if not witnessed.
Wonder loses its myth
if no one bears the burden of
its beauty.

6.

To hold on to the world,
to love its sad beauty,
to witness it throb with life,
to believe in its myth,
to carry it to the next people,
and to retell it as it all happened--
coated in the power of myth:
if that isn't the heaviest burden,
Atlas's broad shoulders wait to know
what mightier challenge there is.

I witness this burden.
Atlas is my brother.
The poet searches for the myth.

I want to tell the story again.

Ephemeral

It has been
seasons
since these lips drank the sweetness
of an ardent kiss.
Oh, the pleasant warmth!


And, now you come
in Apollo's chariot,
with all your green exuberance
adorned with the splendor of spring.


Spring is a fleeting joy,
nestled between barren winter
and searing summer.

These kisses of a new lover,
this courtship dance,
this new spring
washes away
memory of the heart
laying fallow
and prepares it for sowing
the seeds of a summer love.

The romance of all this is
in its fleeting nature.
It doesn't ever last
very long.

Spring I

Spring is a time
for renewal.
New growth,
new flowers,
new dreams
take from the rainbow
and paint
with Van Gogh's brushes.

Spring is a time
for remembrance.
New buds break through
the shells of old;
and new love
envelop
the hollow of old.

Untitled

A poem read a thousand times
colors in
new imagination
as though
I see you in this new light,
not having seen you
in seasons before.

Salve is,
the poem
does not
shy away
from
this new imagining.

Wine from Rumi's bottle

Falling in love is much like
reading Rumi's poems.

Never ask if this is the best
poem this night,
but ask if the poem
speaks to you.

Ask if the bottle
from which you drink
is a gift,
and not if that bottle is the best
you could buy at the last call
of the Vintner.

The Vintner wishes you to
taste the wine,
feel it in your tongue,
infuse the sweet aroma in your breath;
and neither to own
nor to enslave the wine.

The wine you want to own
may not ever be truly yours.
But, at the end of the night,
the bottle that
holds you gently at a kiss's distance
wishes of your lips.
Only at that hour
the two of you become one,
for you become the lover, keeper, and dreamer
of the bottle.

Falling in love is much like
reading Rumi's poems.
If you're wishing for a different poem,
you keep on wishing.
Because gathering close to the heart
what is yours,
and not asking if it is the
best you can gather is the secret of love.

Open the bottle.
Breathe in your lover's breath.
Drink the Red.
Kiss the lips.
Read of Rumi.
Or the glow of the morning sun
can never caress your naked flesh.
Or the silver of the fullest moon
can never shine on your naked soul.

---

Dedicated to Michelle Castleberry and Matt DeGennaro.  The muse for this poem is a secret who I keep deep in my bottle. And of course, Rumi.

One man's freedom, another's fright

Your post adolescent
manly fingers
under pressure
from your demanding
arm strength
hold this thirsty blade
at my neck.

My post modern
deadly fingers
quiver from my
technological might,
holding these aerial sentinels
at your head.

Not that we will
break off this staring match;
but if we did,
we may just be able to go home
to our domesticity
where your mother may
make me a hearthen flatbread,
and where my son may hold your hand
in urging to play swords with him.

---

A poem commissioned by David Lockman.

Verses on wisdom

Wise among us is he
who sings joyously of life and its promises.

Wiser among us is he
who has seen the valley of desolation
and yet has risen from it
singing of hope.

Wisest among us is he
who sits deep in the valley of
desolation, amid Sorrow,
and sings life's song
to Sorrow itself,
so that there too can be joy
in the heart of Sorrow.

What the mountains teach me

In the truth of their friendship,
the mountains told me that
Wind erodes,
at no fault of her own.
It is in her nature.

And they foretold
that you'd corrode me.
Though I've learned from the mountains,
how hard it is to corrode away
gently!

An invitation

If you come for my funeral,
remember this poem with you.

You'll gather with others,
by the river, in the forest,
where I once was
and where you will let go of me,
like ashen emotions in the downwind.

You'll have known only parts of me,
like others gathered,
although your effort was to know me;
because that's all I've known of myself.

You'll have loved me for the friend I was
and you'll meet ones whose enemy I would've been;
and all gathered may agree that
I might've been a worthy enemy
as much as a worthless friend.

You'll come with a bouquet of memories.
And may yet, in my living days left,
I give you something that you'll cherish then.
But knowing the barren field I'm now,
I foresee that
your bouquet will be of
dark dead roses.

That will be, though, something;
for "many a man has been given less."
When you come to mark my passing,
please know that regardless of what
you'll have left of me,
I've tried to give the most I could.
A poor man, I was given little to give away.
And so, when you come to give me away,
I wish for it to be
only
a soft spoken farewell,
a quiet smile.

Nesting

We were walking to
nowhere.
There happened to be a tree
with a squirrel
we passed by.
Outside was this
anticipation for fall and
the promise of winter.

You, me, and the squirrel knew
if there was ever a time
to build a nest,
to seek refuge from merciless cold
wind buffeting us,
this was the time.

In its eager mouth
and busy claws,
the squirrel gathered twigs.
Each twig, a triumphant flag
hoisted in the wind,
not regretting, but celebrating the wind:
the squirrel put them precisely
together.

I imagine you put your twigs
precisely together,
building a nest that only have room for
one.

Next fall,
far apart,
we'll still watch squirrels build their nests;
perhaps a gulf,
perhaps a continent between us
that we'll not mention out of kindness.

In sorrow of Victor

The first flowers of spring
wish for breaking winter's shackle.
I, then, step outside
for a lonely walk,
wishing for your touch,
much as the spring's warmth
surrounds me.
I want to sing of you
as the warblers sing of spring.
Unlike theirs,
my song remains unsung.


The first colors of fall
brings respite from summer's burn.
The cool air and the blue sky
framed by rainbow leaves
make me wish of your vibrance.
Inside me,
the drought of summer singes
and the drab of winter reigns.
Walking in the hues of fall,
I, a blank canvas,
wish of your colors.

--

You surround me,
not touching.
You paint around me,
not coloring.
I walk towards you
in the fall,
in the spring,
with tears dark,
and a mourning song unsung.



----------------------------------------

Inspiration came from this.

Untitled

A bud,
timid,
breaks open into the world,
curious if the sun will shine today.
From the depths of dormancy,
to rise,
requires an audacity,
immeasurable boldness,
treasured only in vulnerability.

The poem,
from the depth of my emotions,
comes to wonder,
if the shine of your acceptance
will be the reward;
wondering,
not knowing,
brave and timid all the same.

Every instance
of a bud breaking,
a poem speaking,
a hand seeking another
is an instance
when beauty is self-sufficient
in vulnerability and needs nothing else.

Pasts of us

Oh, how the world moves!
And we move with it.
A dance of light,
a tune of time,
a step forward--
we move in synchrony.

Shadows of us
remain in place
in the moment
while the rest of our beings dance on.

Some strange light,
some melancholy tune,
a faded photo,
the moment at dusk
pull us back gently;
as if to remind
we also were.

Psalm 2, from the Book

I rise in rebellion.
From you,
my heavenly god,
I proclaim my freedom.
I forsake your kingdom
because I'm the king of mine
and the subjects are souls that long for me,
as I am a longing subject in theirs.

Our divinity comes from
singing our joys in chorus
and crying of our pains in gratitude.

No smite of your lightning rod
bestows righteousness in us.
Kings and queens of this kingdom
find righteousness in compassion
and in blasphemous inclusion.

You and your petulant pouting,
you and your whimsical smiting,
you and your arbitrary kindness,
we forego in this kingdom.

We are Seraphim's spectre
and we proclaim our freedom.

Dementia

A photograph
of my mother smiling
and holding a child
used to comfort me from its perch on the wall.

A monochrome,
it used to tell me
that even when I couldn't love
knowingly,
I was loved.

And though I didn't remember
the moment of that photo,
that moment was etched away
in my mother's heart
along with thousand others.

It was comfort knowing
the past that is me
was loved and remembered.

I'm close to my mother.
I smile to her and
I smile with her.
Somehow still
that woman on the wall
is more my mother
and the child more her son than
we are now.

My mother forgets.
To hold us close.
To care for us.
To sing us a song.
My father called and said,
"your mother forgets everything."

With every wisp of memory
lost in the puzzle of my mother's brain,
I lose every bit of me:
every bit of me that I couldn't remember,
every bit of me that I might remember,
every bit that I was comforted to have
safe in my mother's keep.

Now,
everyday my mother forgets
and I wake up a little less of her son.
A little less of her scent
embraces me.

That photo on the wall shifts.
It slowly decays.
The woman on the photo remembers
to smile,
but not who the child in her arm is.
And some days she remembers that
she is
and she is being held and carried
by a middle aged man.
But who he is,
we can't remember.

Dhoop

Prologue

Dhoop is the name of the incense
they burn at the divine pedestals
in hindu houses.

When I was little,
not old or powerful enough
and not sacred enough,
I looked on from the gateways of the houses
into the rituals,
feeling the waft of sacredness
the air carried to me.
----

Bold I am,
timid I am,
brave I am,
scared I am;
I watch you glow like a firefly,
worried to reach for you
if you fly away.

I reach.
I retract.
I dream.
I wake up.
I thirst.
I thirst.
Turbulence is an understatement for this.

The elegance of your presence
cuts me, cuts me.

So I seek sanctuary
in the smell of Dhoop,
and turn into this boy I once was,
not worried about being turned away,
standing at the doorway,
taking in the fragrance,
like there's no tomorrow.

The storm and me

This twilight,
as I was running,
I saw a dark storm passing.
Massive the storm,
spanning the horizons,
I chased after it.

Hearing the thunder
in my footsteps
and in breath of my flared nostrils,
the storm felt challenged,
and chased after me.

From field to field,
forest to forest,
barrenness to lushness,
we danced after the other.

Then the storm lifted me up and whispered
"why do you seek oblivion?"
I said, "I seek,
because I know no other
expression of the fury inside me,
but you.
Because in you,
I find harmony with the storm within.
You sing the song
I yearn to sing."

Seeing that my unrest was his
and his rage was mine,
cocooning me in serpentine lightning,
the storm let me in.

I accept

This not a poem,
but it be truer than truest.

I accept on my feeble shoulders
that be broader than broadest,
all your burden
that you bless me with.

I ask nothing in return.

A Gypsy's Letter & My Once Love

These are two poems that're posted on my trip-back-home-blog that speak of a self forlorn for its identity and/or a forgotten place/love. Written this past winter during, obviously, my trip back to my roots.

A Gypsy's Letter

My Once Love

My morbid passion

"I cannot but see the beauty in all;
because I'm a seer or beauty,
                   a lover of truth."-- said the poet.


"I cannot but drink of the darkness in all;
because I'm a seeker of hurt,
                   a singer of sorrow." -- laughed the madman within.

-----

Dedicated to Kahlil Gibran

Untitled

A mighty oak
sprawls upward
spreading dreams
of growth and greenness.
It gives the world its breath
in hopes that the world would
care for the many dreams
it spreads in its acorns.

When you pick up an acorn
from seasons last:
Be Gentle;
because you cradle
the corpse of a dream.

Flowers from last night

Fallen flowers
in the cool warmth of the morning
reminisce the sweet embrace of the night last.

Fallen flowers
in the sullen stillness of the morning
lament the possibilities of what could never be.

Fallen flowers,
like our souls spent,
lay in the tart craving of visions past,
     in willing surrender to the harmony
                                                        lost.

Untitled

Far away sounds ring
in my bones.
Colors, once black and grey,
multi-hued now,
dazzle my eyes.
Lonely winds once
raise a storm today.

Whose dreams color my imagination?

After seasons of drought,
thirsty I was,
rain has come.
Spring has come.
You have come.

Far away sounds sing
in my bones.
They sing, "Come away.
                 Come! Come!"

Untitled

At dusk,
I ran after my shadow
and sometimes, playfully, it ran after me.

Last evening, my voice sang to my ears.
Last night, my dreams bade me good night.
When I cried, solitude gathered me close
and whispered,
"I'll be your muse tonight."

Let's sing the body electric

Souls confined in body's brick,
I sing your body electric.
We'll write our story on clay,
put the tablets in fire, and play
our lutes of desire's strings.
Lust unfurls its shadowy wings.

Souls confined in body's brick.
My heart beats to your touch's music.
Your flame, my shame, wounds to lick,
kisses to kiss, moments' bliss, a plunge epic.

Uprooted

1.

That I've torn myself
from the bosom of my mother,
from the comfort of her hearth,
from the peace of her scent,
from the joy of her smile,
from the blessing of her touch,
saddens me.
Oceans apart,
I imagine her wither away
under the onslaught of time.
These were the best years of my life
and I've kept all these moments to myself,
to fuel only my self-pitying agony.

2.

That I've separated myself
from my lover's kiss,
from her silken hair,
from her heart-stopping laughter,
from the mysterious dark of her eyes,
from the sanctuary of her palm when I'm tempest,
saddens me.
Emotions apart,
I imagine her in search of a new heart
under the onslaught of melancholy.
These were the best years of my spring
and I kept all these moments to myself
in this island of solitude,
to fuel only my lust for depression.

3.

That I've gone away from the land
that nourished me,
the mother of my mother,
from the green of her promise,
from her seasons of heartbreak,
from her vibrant colors,
from her rivers full of life,
saddens me.
Continents apart
I imagine my land searching for calm
under the onslaught of chaos.
These were the best years of my vigor
and I've kept myself away to a distant shore,
in this land of machinations,
to fuel only this sad thirst
for my own history.

A lament

I am a poet
with a mercury pen
to catch glittering words
that hide behind a shimmering veil.

I am a poet.
Loan me your words tonight.
My sorrow endless,
like the dark of the new moon,
my happiness
gone like birds
gone south for the winter,
I search for words
lost long lost.

Give me your words tonight;
words like:
"Sorrow is beautiful.
Sorrow is a phoenix that
reincarnates as happiness.
Spring comes surely after winter."

I am a poet,
with a mercury pen,
and winter in my heart,
wishing to catch words
gone long gone.

I am a poet.
Loan me your words tonight.

Eulogy for a song

The theft

In the shadow
of the moonlight,
the wolf screamed
for its soul
that the moon stole
and hid in its silver.

The moon, silver,
as it was,
shone innocence
and took only what
it felt necessary.

The dance

Under the endless black sky,
the wolf danced
around the moon,
wishing, cursing, praying,
for a soul,
for the blessing of rebirth.

The song

The moon,
as it was,
merciless and loving,
smiled at its lover,
and sang a deep melody,
marking the sacrifice
of the dancing wolf.

It sang of the promise
of union one day,
and of sadness
that the wolf's love song
will always be a lone howl.

Majestic

Anger is angry
when it is red.
But if I tame the anger
you hurl my way
and twirl it like
a fire spinner,
with my imagination,
we end up with majestic patterns
that read
forgiveness and love.

--
Not quite a poem, but it is a boulder I need to get off my chest.

Pieces of our souls

She,
having walked a long path,
asks me at my door,
"Give me a sliver of your soul.
Nothing less will sate me.
Worry not, for I have my soul for your savor."

She asks me
on a blood moon
when my soul cries for
silver's touch
and my mind seeks relief from
how pieces of me were torn to bits
last time I tried this.

Moon in one hand,
soul in another,
my eyes afire,
my body parched,
I turn to her.

I see her lips are honey,
        her eyes are dark,
        her teeth sharp,
        her touch soothing,
        her cleaver keen,
        her nails clawing.

I open my mouth.
I turn to her
and I say,
"Have we been here before?"

Her Lips by Clementine von Radics

"Don’t ask me about her lips. How they ruby and burn. Stretch full over white teeth, taut like a drum. I want her to make music of me.

Don’t ask me about her hands. The way they are scarred with stories. How they slide down her legs as I stare. Mouth cotton; eyes hungry.

Don’t ask me about my hunger. The way my stomach drops tight when she looks at me. The way my palms itch for her bones. Don’t ask me about my fear. The way she comes to me.

How I open my mouth to say 'Yes' and it comes out 'I’m sorry.'"

(Via UGA Spoken Word)

Some nights

She wears the face of a jackal.
She smiles the teeth of sharks.

She claws her way in:
her talons, that of a dragon,
seven colors,
severing
my innards
with curious tenderness.

Her eyes--slit,
looking me in the eye,
sing a lispy lullaby.
I, her smitten prey,
oscillate in the confusion
of a dream, a nightmare.

My eyes, tar-black,
emotions leaching out,
look into hers--slit,
and hear the lullaby
for what melody
it could be.

Some nights,
dreams just don't want to be told apart
from fantastic nightmares.

Priestess

You were Apollo's Priestess
                             in the temple of the sun:
                                 radiant in the glow of your devotion,
                                 mind conquering in the strength
                                 and uniqueness of your beauty.

I never worshipped the Sun God.
I worshipped the God of indulgence.
I spent my nights in impurity's embrace
     and my days in Bacchalanian pursuits.

Seeing you changed all that.

You changed the way I doubted everything.
You changed how I would find
                            a spec of dirt-
                            darkness
                            even in the brightest of white.
I learned to hope again.
I dared to dream again.
I wished to love again.
All because of you.
I gave you my heart.

I didn't see
                that curved dagger in your hand
                carefully hidden in the white of your robe.

Without me seeing
you stabbed mercilessly
my poor heart,
until it could take no more
and died a pitiful death.

You must've chanted a dark incantation
while my heart lied there a corpse.

Now, slowly it rises again
in bruised blackness,
emotions dripping away.
What vile words did you say?
My heart beats in a monotone!
No more laughter,
no more joy it knows.

It now lives like a voodoo corpse
resurrected
when there is nothing to live for,
but the mistress.

You are a voodoo priestess.

My hopes and dreams,
tears and pain
all stay right outside of reach,
behind the shimmering veil
that my heart meekly struggles to break.

That veil is your creation.
This bind is your will.
This dark magic-binding me- is your shackle.

This sacrifice could've been
bright, glorious and of love.
Now you've sacrificed me for your gain.
and I know only bleakness, gloom, and obedience.

Untitled

If she were a bird,
edges of her feathers frayed,
colors vibrant no more,
song barely audible,
the spring in her step a memory,
she would remember her nest, once full,
with the beaks tirelessly begging
and she lovingly bringing bounty of the season.
The nest is falling apart now.
The straw holds it together barely.
The adhesion of love surrounding the nest
may still be strong,
but not stronger than time.
Her male doesn't keep out intruders;
but waits with her
singing a mournful song,
waiting for the end of days.
Some seasons bring a note or two
floating in,
that tells them the younglings
once nestled in the nest
have their own now.
If she were a bird,
she wouldn't reflect,
but unknowingly accept
that what once was green
would turn grey
and then dust.
What is sad is also inevitable.

If she were a wolf,
she would remember
the joyous hunts
with the soft forest giving way,
the promise of prey's soft flesh
rushing her on,
with her alpha by her side.
Warmth of the prey's blood
would sate her thirst,
nourishment from the flesh
would fill her belly
and make her want to return to the muddy den
where young pups waited in ignorant impatience.
She brought food in her mouth.
She brought drink in her breasts.
She watched the pups turn into
sturdy wolves themselves.
She would remember
and her alpha, an alpha no longer,
would rest by her side,
with the ache of time in their bones.
If she were a wolf,
she wouldn't reflect
but know by instinct,
that pups leave,
jaws weaken,
joints ache,
fur fades,
eyes dim.
She would know
that what once was green
would turn grey
and then dust.
What is inevitable is also sad.

_____

Posted just before I left the rubble of a city, for the embrace of greenness.

In his warmth

I pass my father
as he rises from his slumber
and leaves his warm blanket
in the gentle cavity of space.

Weary,
I lay myself in the warmth of my father.
His blanket cocoons me
and I travel to a sanctuary
I have not known in my wanderings through barrenness,
I have not known since I was a youngling nestled in the strength of his chest.

Cocooned in his warmth,
I travel to a tall forest of sturdy greenness.
His smell fills my senses.
After an eternal thirst,
my eyes finally know rest.

On the edge

Lurks dark desire
on the edge of the night
to kindle the fire,
to control and win the fight
for and against the monster (desire)
that you flame with that unnatural light
                                                of beauty.

There I stand
on the edge of the night,
on the edge of darkness,
                                   ecstasy,
                                              the pure joy of holding you close,
while the monsters of us that is desire
dance the deadly steps of fire
                                            saphire
                                            that we kindled
                                            on the edge of the night.

Longleaf

1.

Soft shadows,
soft light,
soft needles,
tall pillars,
green openness,
hand in hand,
we turn to the sky.
Against the blue dream,
you're my mossy plane,
and I am longleaf.

2.

Simmering heat,
golden drought,
summer of rain
and pain,
burning kisses,
clawing embrace,
heart in heart,
we turn to the sand.
Against the deceptive softness,
you're my sweeping fire,
and I am longleaf.

How far do I go to forget you?

I have run, run, run
until I was breathless
and was only stopped by
the chasm of despair
opening in front.

I have run, run, run
from this chasm
to a frosted peak of stoicism
climbing endless dead rocks of emotions,
and found your blue sky
smiling upon me,
as if only to say
there's no hiding from you.

I have run, run, run
away from the frosted peaks
to the land of growth and green,
and tried hiding under
a green canopy
from where I could barely see the blue sky.

Green shade of growth
invites songs of joy,
be it the vibrant birds
or the calm but unruly forest stream flowing.
It reminds me of my songs for you.
And peace here I don't find.

So, I run, run, run,
from a chasm,
from a frosted peak,
from a lush canopy,
and seek a monastery
where nothing will remind me of you.

Breathless, I run, run, run.

Untitled

You,
infinite waters,
moved me,
the immovable boulder,
from the mountains,
churned me in your white rush,
cut me into pieces,
and shaped me
into the rounded stone I'm today.

I carry in me
history of the once immovable mountain
and the promise of growth in these plains.

For now, I'm a rounded stone.
Though you carry me,
I direct your flow in eddies around me.
And I happily exist in your carving waters.
That is
my statement in defiance.

Fallen Leaves

This crisp chilly wind
disperses your flame colored hair,
just as it
caresses my shame colored pain.

Looking up, I see a celebration
of end of green and growth
by the free flying leaves
of many colors.
Each leaf is a word,
each of their turns in space is a poem,
and their synchronous flight an epic.

And just so,
at the end of our season,
as the warmth of your love wanes,
my emotions,
once green,
now blue and red,
vibrantly fly
in the mind's graying sky,
in one last celebration.
                               

"No" is a kind word

Sometimes "No" is a kind word.

Dreams beckon,
but I don't know.

Poems wish,
but I don't know.

Pain surfaces,
but I don't know.

Joy promises,
but I don't know.

You intrigue,
but I don't know.

What you'll say,
I don't know.

I hold my breath,
I don't know.

I don't know,
because it's not yet.

Sometimes,
in these times,
"No" is a kind word.

I love in defiance

That who I am is not yours to judge.

That I am water
and I will nourish you,
I'll shape you if you're the land,
I'll feed you if you're a river,
I'll seep to your roots if you're a willow,
is not yours to judge.
It's a gift to you.

That I'm light
and I color you,
I'll illuminate you when you're dark,
I'll shade you when you're scorched,
is not yours to judge.
It's a gift to you.

That I'm the wind
and I'll gently sway you,
I'll erode you if you're the mountain,
I'll move you if you're the dune,
I'll renew you if you're the forest,
is not yours to judge.
It's a gift to you.

Accept, reject,
grant, deny:
all these you can do.
And I'll flow away
if it's the end of your
              season for growth,
              reason for renewal,
              prism for splendor.
That who I am is not yours to judge.

Synchronicity of barrenness

My heart is sand.

When I saw you,
I wished for rain,
so that I could banish this barrenness.
I asked of you
the rain
to blend green in this golden grey.

You reached inside
and found no rain there
and said, "My heart is sand."
I said, "Give me the
blue of your pain,
red of your love,
green of your touch.
I'll paint you a lush forest
by the seaside,
beneath the sky,
on a red sunset."
You looked wishful,
your eyes wistful,
and I was hopeful.

Still you looked away and
said, "My heart is sand."

Poem for a willow

I slumber deep beneath the surface:
a seeping fountain,
nourishing,
close to your roots.

To the depths of love,
I dream as I gather you close,
and spread me to you.
Will you will me
through your roots,
shoots,
to the freedom
of a blue sky?


-----

Inspiration for this came from Willow, a poem by Terese Gagnon. Her blog is http://teresewritestheworld.wordpress.com/.

A kind note to one who tore my heart

In case.

You have ever wondererd.

Or will.

I...

Still.

The price of my heart

Thus is set the price of my heart.

That I don't want to be a part of your life.
I want to be your life.

That I'm a beggar and still, like a king,
I demand to reign over that heart of yours.

That in sickness and solitude,
I bear the burden of your emotions.

That in morose somberness,
I deserve the right to make you happy.

That if you're a river,
you'll flow to me.

That if others gather for the quiet beauty of the river,
I'll tear my heart apart from your grasp,
and carry away the torn fragment, bleeding.

That though my heart is clay,
it values, for our purposes, the same as your golden heart.

That you own my heart.
Yet when you break it, you do so in quiet repentance.

That I am your king,
as much as you're my queen.

That I deserve to be the only singer
in your royal hall.

Thus are the terms laid.
Thus is the price set.
Thus I trade my heart with you.

My terms are tough,
but are the only terms I agree to
in trading this clay heart of mine;
for I have only one to give.

Price that I must get.
Price that you must pay.

Choose your bargain well, my love.
Choose your bargain well.

--------

This is the third poem in the trio of poems about hearts. Written this past summer.

Barren

I recoil.

I have always been fond of curly hair
and rosy lips;
and certainly a heart as beautiful as hers.
She, my muse tonight, conjures
this seed on my palms
to plant and grow in my
most intimate of fields.
But knowing that
you burnt with abandon
my fields,
nothing grows for now,
from planting this seed of love,

I recoil.

Lament for a dance

There was a time
when your heart danced to my strings
and my heart yours.

As the dances became
predictable and regular,
we said we wanted
a dance that was jarring,
a song that was beautifully haunting,
a painting with no patterns.

In love, we said,
we would walk lonely paths,
seeking
such dances with new hearts,
such songs with new voices,
such paintings with new canvases.

Though these new expressions and pulls
are rewards unto them,
some fair mornings, I miss your smell waking up
(I remember resting my wishes
on your soft shoulders as we lay),
and some inviting evenings,
I miss the light caressing
the angles of your face
(I remember losing myself in the mystery
the sodium light created around you).

In between new searches
for new dances,
I remember the ones with you
with a quiet smile
and a mournful heart.

--

For Fern.

Digital

1.

Space. Dot. Space. Dot. Space. Dot.
Motion. Event. Moving. Stasis.
Searching. Happiness. Running. Staying.

Event to event,
stasis to stasis,
happiness to happiness,
sadness to sadness,
we go.
These pixels of events make up our lives.

In between pixels,
we run to escape the space in the middle,
so that we can again experience
the green (of growing),
the blue (of pain),
the red (of love).

2.

Colors swirl me around.
Pixels create images
of breathtaking quality.
And I realize,
among these pixels,
among these colors,
the most vibrant in my life
are the ones that are you.

Trifoliate

Trifoliate my soul:
one blade faces the Sun,
one touches the Earth,
and one soaks in Water.

In nourishment I grow.

----

From my last visit to the mountains.

A prayer

Tall columns,
green arches,
blue stained glass,
timidly bright sunflecks
create a mystery.
I stand in your cathedral, mother.

I come with empty hands
but with an open heart.
The web of life
weaves a mystery around me.

In tall columns of the sturdy pines
that reaches into the earth,
in green arches of leaves
that builds the bricks of this cathedral,
in sunflecks that color it all,
I rest easy.

Usher a blessing upon my heart.


--------------------------

Can there be mystery, can be be worship if the goddess is the Earth and all strength emanates from her? I feel so, when I stand in her cathedral. One of the two from my last trip to the mountains.

A song of praise upon my lips

1.

Nevermore I'll be blind.
The glow of twilight,
the blue of the night,
the light of dawn
touch me now.
Have I seen such magic before?

Have I seen the green of leaves,
                    the blue of the ocean,
                    the dark of the storm,
                    the violet of the rainbow,
                    the red of my lover's heart,
                    her black hair in silvery moon light?

I see them now.
Mother Earth, I make this covenant with you.
Nevermore I'll be blind.

2.

Nevermore I'll be deaf.
The rustle of leaves,
the stormy winds,
the strength of thunder,
the song of rains
touch me now.
Have I heard such hymns before?

Have I heard the sonority of birds,
                     the quiet of the crickets,
                     the murmur of the river,
                     the howl of wolves,
                     the wail of my mother,
                     her lullabies in time before sleep?

I hear them now.
Mother Earth, I make this covenant with you.
Nevermore I'll be deaf.

       

Untitled

I lay there.
Life left me, but imagination hadn't.
I turned blue and stiff.
Rigor Mortis necessitates hiding.
I thought I heard you nearby
digging.
Digging you were
with a song upon your lips
and the steady pace of sorrow upon your blade.
I expected you to come
just bury me.
Farewell tears were too much to hope for.
You never came.
You had another to bury.
Beneath the grey sky
and upon the damp soil,
my eyes open,
I was mercifully left to rot.

Untitled

I met a youthful lady
the other day,
struggling to walk on her crutches,
but smiling still,
because
the metal pieces that
held her broken foot together
were going to be removed.
She had healed.

So, in hopes of removing
the metal bits and pieces
one day,
I search for them.
I think
it is for lack of those metallic bits and pieces
my heart refuses to heal
from your breaking.

In search for deep personal connections

Our lives are fast paced. We run from place to place, from people to people, from stimulus to stimulus. That is how we live now. However, it is my belief that we didn’t evolve to deal with a time frame that we just flicker through. I believe, we, along with our minds and our social connections and our thought process, evolved through time frames that are longer lasting. Because of this day-and-age demanding from us quick interactions, I feel, we often move from interactions to interactions with a haste that’s unsuited to our intellectual craving, our spiritual growth and, deep personal connections. This disconnect prevents us from sharing our creative selves, our intimate selves with people that we cherish. Some of us maybe are more suited to deal with a disconnect from all three (intellectual craving, spiritual growth and deep personal connections). If you feel that such a disconnect is not preventing from being who you are, if this does not resonate with you, the rest of this piece is not for you. If, however, you feel what I say resonates with you, these words are for you.

If you have felt this disconnect (from fulfilling your intellectual cravings, from your spiritual growth, from deep personal connections), that ultimately results in a disconnect from one’s self, maybe you can associate with having thoughtful words to say, but not a time for it; having sonorous notes to sing, music to make, but not a time for it; having a creative urge to share, but not a time for it. When was the last time when you showed another friend a painting that you did, a creative photo that you took, a poem that you wrote, a song that you learned, a dance that you felt free in? Often, when we have these urges to share our creative sides, our true sides, our thoughtful sides, we decide not to for fear of getting hurt by negligence and by apathy. I suspect the negligence and apathy are products of living in an age where everything is rushed and of not having time. We are also burdened with a reductionist attitude (often prevalent in the Sciences, but also pervasive in the society at large) that wants a pointed, quick interaction and a quick thesis. Such interactions leave no room for mystery. As much as our friends like and admire us, we can’t demand their full, creative, thoughtful attention whenever we need it. So, we bottle up these sides of us and we’re stuck with this disconnect from our creative selves, our growth and that of the people we care about.

I think, to disengage from this disconnect that is forced upon us by the pace of our lives, we need to find a time that is slower, we need to create connections that are stronger, we need to locate a space where we are our intimate, creative selves.  This pursuit of a slower time, stronger connections and a creative space can be individual pursuits or can be a plural effort. Individual pursuits such as writing a song or writing a poem still need a plural appreciation to be meaningful. What is a word if not cherished and understood by another? What is a note, a melody if not cherished and received by another? The pursuit of creative, intimate selves via finding a space and a suitable pace of time is still a plural effort, because it is via the appreciation by others that our words and songs and dances and paintings find meaning. So, here I arrive at my thesis: for our intellectual and spiritual growth to exercise self-expression, we need a slower pace of time, a safe space via the establishment of deep and real connections.

How do we create this magical place where we are who we are and we say what we truly want to say? I don’t have a complete vision for the exact steps to take to get rid of the disconnect that I keep alluding to. But as a simple first step, I propose that we meet with people with a similar intention periodically to slow down time, to share our creative selves and build the connections that make us truly human. It is a pursuit as individual it can be and still be plural by each of us mutually admiring the individual pursuits. Is it an intentional community I talk about? Possibly, maybe. Must we have an agenda? No, because it is a time and a space without agenda that we seek. So, I ask you to come, sit by me and sing the song that has you enchanted for the last while. So, I ask you to come, sit by me and listen to the poem that just came out from my heart being wrung like a rag. So, I ask you: come, sit by me and let's slow down time around us and appreciate how truly magnificent it is that we intentionally appreciate each other’s creativity. All this will only make us more human. 

Her laughter I want to forget

Hustle and bustle,
shiny lights,
fancy dresses,
liquid laughter
fill the space there.
This downtown
where we end tonight
will offer us golden poison
in golden goblets
so that the liquid laughter
stanches the
dark deep trenches of solitude and sorrow.

Take me downtown tonight.

Harvest moon

A bright full moon
shines at its fullest.
We harvest tonight
what we sowed
when the summer rains passed,
and nurtured
when the summer drought threatened.
Together we gather
what will be in store for the coming winter.

While the rest of you are busy
collecting the golden promises
of a happy winter;
in my fields, I gather gleefully,
kernelless corn
and drying sods.

Do you think this bounty,
my armfull,
will be enough
to get me through this winter
to a new spring?

Fall never came

I forgot that seasons change.
This cool breeze
on this fair morning
announces Fall,
the arrival
of senescence
and promises the multi-hued end
to a green summer.

An end to the scorching sun
and the beginning of harvest
this morning promises.
This morning I feel,
but I don't believe;
for, within, the summer of your love
of verdant shade
and searing burn,
rages on still.

This too shall pass

This I tell you, my friend.
Hearts are meant to be broken
and mended.
Then cruelly broken again.
That is love's blessing upon us.
The rictus of pain you try to forsake
is only part of the symphony.
There's harmony and cacophony in this symphony.
What arrogant fools are we to
accept one and not the other?

Can we imagine,
in the forests of green,
if there never came a dry season,
the forests to grow again in renewed vigor
come rain?

True, rain is your heart's desire.
The scorching heat of the blasted pain
sears you.
Tears pool in your heart.
Those tears are your rain,
                        your heart's desire to love,
                   and your savings for growth,
when the seasons change to make
                                                   you radiant again,
                                                   your heart pliant again,
                                                   your touch verdant again.
For now,
              we take the season as it is.
It is love's blessing upon us.

Anatomy of an urban wreck

I hear the siren.
I look up from inspecting you
inspecting my body.
Within my body, lying there,
was my soul.
Within that soul was our love.
You inspect the death of our love
as you curiously glance over my body.

I hear the siren
coming.
You're unhurt in this wreck.
They'll come and take you away.
You're fine.
You'll be fine.
I'll just stay here
looking on at you
as you're taken away.
You color red and blue in turn.

Eyes

Those eyes!
They're not eyes.
They're daggers:
an uncovered blade
cutting my heart up
to uncover dreams hidden within.
Oh, your eyes.

Those eyes!
They're not just eyes.
They're words in flow,
            a poem,
giving new colors to monochrome dreams.
Oh, your eyes.

Those eyes!
They speak to me
in waking
and in my dreams.
My imagination takes flight.
And those eyes of yours look on, within.
Oh, your eyes.

Those eyes!
They're not just eyes.
They're raw passion.
In my imagination,
I'm the female spirit,
you're the male.
You overpower me.
I'm pliant,
      soft.
I moisten,
I glow,
I blossom,
You slide inside,
our eyes locked.
Oh, your eyes.

Silenece

Silence severs,
You think.

You think:
silence is a lock put on the door never to be opened.
Silence is just rejection.
Silence is dreams suffocated,
                   paintings torn,
                   colors blotted out.
Silence is a clean cut.
Silence is a break,
                   a cruel farewell,
                   unspoken spurn.

See,  I know music
and I hear the music inherent in our lives.
Music is everywhere.
And that music is not sound only.

It's sound and silence.
Silence and sound.
Color and Monochrome.
Pace and Pause.

Silence is a sound not made.
Silence is a poem unwrit.
Silence is a painting imagined.
Silence is a note not sung.
Silence is a kiss, promised.
Silence is a dream not realized.
Silence is you, just not close.

Silence isn't what you think.
A song is not a song without the pauses.
Sound is meaningless without silence.
Fulfillment is nothing without emptiness.
And
Love would be nothing without your spurn,
                                                       your rejection.

Curses

So I want to
cast a curse upon you!
I resist and resist until
the pain forces me to
spit out this curse
that'd be the end of your happiness,
                    the death of the light of your sun,
                    the depth of your darkness,
                    the beginning of your depression.

Unable to resist
I open my mouth
and cast this curse upon you:
" Go where you may find happiness.
Go where the sun shines the strongest.
Go where darkness hides from your luminosity.
Go where depression doesn't have your address."

Surprised at myself,
I try some more.
I want to see your man be slaughtered, be eaten by vultures.
I want your children to not know love
and be raised by wolves to become animals themselves.
I want your hair to turn into Medusa's
and gouge your eyes out.

So I say,
"I wish a pair of gently strong arms and shoulders
to forever bear your burden.
I wish you have the sun and the moon
for your son and daughter.
I wish the autumn sun flows down
your hair in golden cascades.
I wish the evening star shines in your eyes always."

In this struggle,
I finally realize that
the vitriol that emanates from the pain you inflicted
will always lose to the radiance
of love my heart holds for you.

(Untitled)

An electronic summon
comes from you,
unaddressed.
You already forgot my name?
It could smell of stale roses,
I imagine,
and still grabs my attention
like your hands used to grab my genital.

Your summon,
unaddressed,
I can't decipher.
Is it in codes?
Is it all truth told, but told with a slant?
I stare at the screen,
at this summon
that calls me nowhere
and asks me to do nothing.
Cage would say that
nothing is something.
Maybe he would say that
nothing is everything,
because nothing is a blank slate full of everything.
Maybe he would know what you summoned.
In his letters to Pauline,
paucity bore promises,
and ungiven promises intrigue.

It's intrigue your email causes.
Unlike Cage's letters written on paper, full of touch and personality,
your impersonal summon on this electronic media
keeps me intrigued about
what it could've smelled like,
what your handwriting would've been,
and what you would've said,
for lack of all those in this summon.

Story of the creative process behind "(Untitled)"; that last post

(I suggest you read the last poem, i.e. the poem below this post before you read this post)

Poems are born of emotions. An emotion comes to you. It promises to give birth. Sometimes it does and sometimes it doesn't. Emotions need to be true to a certain extent, at least for me, to write based on that emotion. Although the emotion may translate into the poem; the poem may not be just a statement of the emotion. As Emily Dickinson says: "Tell all of the truth. But tell it with a slant"; poems come out for me in a slanted, contorted angle (with respect to the emotion) that leaves a mystery about the emotion. Think of a good portrait photo. Think of a beautiful face: straight, deadpan and looking at the camera. That results in a passport photo. For a good portrait, you need some angle, some light and shade that tell a story. Similarly, for an emotion to be a poem, there's that need for a slant, an angle. To illustrate, I felt the following emotion for the previous post:

"Aura Morris,
You cut me up
in pieces:
bones in one pile,
flesh in another.
Blood drips.
Marrow oozes on
the thirsty butcher's block.
A sun fleck
shines through the dank cottage,
reflects onto your shiny cleaver
to illuminate your face,
your euphoric eyes
glistening in the grizzly lust of butchering."

Now, as you see, this emotion is strong; but I may not want to call it a poem. It is quite dependent on one real person and something that I would actually say to her, if I see her. It's just a statement. On the other hand, the poemized version, that is, the poem posted yesterday is what I wrote down. It's told with a slant and I feel, for a reader, conveys the emotion much better/more intriguingly/mysteriously than an actual statement of the emotion itself.

(Untitled)

Your apron
once white
(still in some places)
is bordered with rosettes of
dry crimson.
Your eyes tearful,
my eyes ecstatic,
look on
at the tools of love your hands hold.
One hand holds a curved knife,
a cleaver adorns the other.
A chopping block sits in stoic acceptance
in front.
In the dim light of the cottage,
our faces intent,
we inspect in front of us
what once was.

You say,
(half pleading)
"Don't you suppose it's done?"
I say,
(half euphoric)
"Don't you think we can do a finer job?"
Reluctantly,
upon my insistence,
accepting the crimson rosettes of your apron,
you turn your blades again on
the minced blooded lump
that once was
my heart.

A poem by Sarojini Naidu

Alabaster

Like this alabaster box whose art
Is frail as a cassia-flower, is my heart,
Carven with delicate dreams and wrought
With many a subtle and exquisite thought.


Therein I treasure the spice and scent
Of rich and passionate memories blent
Like odours of cinnamon, sandal and clove,
Of song and sorrow and life and love.

---- Sarojini Naidu

I was and I did

What you make me feel
is not just the dew drops on the rose petals,
but the blood I left on the thorns of the rose bush.

What you make me feel
is not just the sea of calm,
but the storm that rises from it.

What you make me feel
is not just the laughter in my being,
but tears from my heart.

What you make me feel
is not just the desire to create,
but to dance the dance of destruction prior.

You make me feel like a king and a beggar
all at once.

Why do I tell you all this?
Because, even if you don't love me ever,
I want you to know that I was
                                               and I did.

What I don't have

What I have is
not what I wish.
What I wish is
not what is mine.
What is mine is
not what my heart desires.
What my heart desires is
not what is given to me.
What is given to me is
not your heart.
What is your heart is
not a wish to be mine.
I could write on, like this, all night.
I think what I'm trying to say is
that despite no hope of you,
I keep on wishing.

I wished to ask

Timidity overwhelms me.

I think of asking
for a bit of your smile,
an oblique stare,
a halfspoken word with tenderness in your laughter,
a moment of your elegant neck
in the light of half light.
Seeing that you are a goddess
of the first spring flower,
so delicate and yet so strong to defy
the heartlessness of winter,
I let timidity overwhelm me.

And though I forever wish to
bathe in your elegance,
                 in your presence,
I let timidity intimidate me.

Hydra

My love is no timid stranger to your guillotine.
Every time you cut its head,
like a hydra,
two eager heads rear up.

When I was in love

You shook my world, you rocked my core
when I thought I was immovable.
When I thought I was impervious, impenetrable,
you reached into my being and
made it rain on a sunny day and watered my scorched inner being.
When I was floating by, directionless,
you pulled me close to the shore,
then let go again, giving me a new direction: you.
When I thought I was a lecher who objectified women,
you showed me the sacredness in the curl of your lips.
When I thought I was blind,
you showed me golden waves melting and dazzling in your golden locks.
When I thought my senses were numb and damaged,
from seasons of unuse and abuse,
you made me smell the sweet pine forest floor of the Northwest.
When I thought feelings could only be deep and constant,
your ecstasy in my mouth, ephemeral and rising to a crescendo,
blissfully let me know that sometimes the shortest of moments can give me the most intense of feelings.
When I thought I was incapable of satisfying a woman,
your soft moans melting into my mouth, my being,
let me know that I can satisfy you.
I felt like a beggar,
You treated me like a king.
I was derelict and poor,
you colored me anew, and gave the wealth of kings to treasure in my heart.
I just wanted to tell you this.
Just this.

-------
I wrote this emotion (is it really a poem? The reader is the judge!) in April. And now, even when I'm past this love interest, this woman; these words still encapsulate what my feelings were and maybe are about her.

And a cool anecdote that no one knows, so I only tell you: I wrote this on my computer on my first night traveling from the US to San Jose, Costa Rica, while I was tired and sleep deprived. And then, when I finished, the computer/internet conspired to delete the whole draft. So I wrote it again a second time from memory, almost emotion for emotion copy of the first draft. Writing this, my emotions were just that strong, almost as if in a trance.

After Aura

I have searched for you
in this mass of brick and people,
ever since you said,
"Romance is a lost cause."

I've turned every corner
wanting to see you,
wanting to hear your laughter,
wanting to witness the golden sun shine down
your golden locks in golden cascades.
The search in this landscape has returned empty.

The quest in my dreamscape has been
filled with your touch
                      your smile
                      your eyes
                      your lips
                      your breast heaving
                      your eager torso
                              intoxicating me.

The yearning in my songscape
fills my songs with your essence.
The landscape of my imagination is fertile
with your presence.

But my eyes' thirst
and the emptiness in my being
tell me that
you stay just beyond my songs' reach,
                    just beyond my thirsty lips.

Having searched this world
                   and in the world where dreams are true
and not having found you,
I was sure you had been just another dream,
                                 a figment of reality in my mind's imagination.

When I gave up,
you just showed up.
The full splendor of you.
And as before, I was forever taken by a storm
                          and had not a clue
                                what to do.

The pain I cause

I showed my mother these poems:
poems of heartbreak, tears,
from a knife, a death-knell driven through my heart.

A teardrop as big as a pearl
pooled near the corner of her eyes.
"Don't worry, mom. I'm ok.
And these are just emotions in words."
    -- I assured her.

She looked at me, her countenance sad,
"Does pain translate in words, like this,
in your mind?"
"Yes."
"They're beautiful."
"I'm told."
"Can you write from pain that you're not the receiver of;
but that you delivered?
Of your cruelty?"
"Why do you ask?"

"Because every day passes
is a knife driven through my heart by you.
And it's been years.
I've heard you decay away
and I've wished for you to come sit in my shade
and rest a little.
I've wished in the twilight,
and in the dark of the night.
Can a poem be written of that?

"I've borne you.
You've eaten of my flesh,
and drunk of my blood,
and now eat away my heart.
Can a poem be written of that,
my ungrateful son?"

The cloths of heaven

He wished for the cloths of heaven,
as he was poor.
But he was rich too,
as he had a heart full of dreams befitting the kings.
He dreamt of holding you;
and you are befitting of a king's embrace.
He laid those dreams and wishes at your feet.
All he asked was to tread softly.

Little did he know
you were a queen yourself.
A queen doesn't tread softly.

When the rains

When the rains come,
it always reminds me of you.

Sometimes it reminds me of your kisses,
when the kisses quenched the thirst of my heart.

Sometimes it reminds me of my tears,
when longing for your kisses for an eternity
became too much to bear.

The rains are you.
And you are my rains.
I just wish I could walk in the rain some more.

Dream catcher

1.

You have always been a dreamer.
When you were little,
you started out to catch a butterfly
scarlet and violet and vivid yellow in color.
In your dreams, the butterfly carried you on its back
over the mountains, onto the green steppe,
where you fought bandits clad in black,
to free your knight in shining armor.

When you grew up,
you dreamt still.
But sometimes you were the one captured
and no one came for a rescue
and sometimes you sold your soul
to become one of the soulless marauders.

When I met you,
your heart was white but dreams were black,
bleaker than when Satan forces you to a lifetime of servitude.

I heard the urge in your voice.
I felt for the soft hopes that is your heart
and your eyes pleaded unknowingly.

I am the talisman.
I wear the shining armor.
And I will be your dream catcher.

2.

Springs later,
you sat in your cot,
exhausted from unimaginative sleep,
tired for lack of fancy,
longing for a dream that would take you
far away.

Your eyes looked at me accusingly.
I knew, I would have to bear the burden
of accusations and of failure,
for you were ready for a flight.

You pleaded unknowingly,
same notes and same melody
as on our first moon,
but this time to be let go.

You wished for a dream,
you wished for a break,
and you wished to start anew.

The butterfly came with soaring wings,
scarlet and violet and vivid yellow in color.

I saw you take flight and wondered,
I am the talisman,
I wear the rusty armor;
and with you gone, whose dreams will I catch?

A thought

I want to be close to you.
Kiss you.
Hold you.
Be inside of you.
See your eyes glisten in ecstasy.
Hear your soft breathy moan in my ears.
I want to cut my heart open and offer it to you.
But I'm afraid that as soon as you have it,
you'll dunk my heart in a vat of acid
                 again, just for child's play.

Kites

In the fields
the boys fly their kites
in the land of green and flood.
In the days,
when the rains have ceased,
white friendly clouds
line the edges of cerulean sky
and the breeze takes the kites
higher and higher.
Though it looks peaceful:
the multi-hued kites dotting the immense sky;
each kite battles with the other
to keep flying.
The strings of the kites are
coated with glass shards,
so that they can cut.
In front of you, I feel like
that boy holding the kite-string in bare hands,
beholden to the thrill of the kite taking flight,
not noticing the blood dripping from his hands
and pooling in a puddle near his feet
from the cut of the glass shard laden string.

Evening star

The evening star shines tonight.
Because I see
the reflection of it
in your starry eyes.

Salve

Dreams are salve
for wounded hearts.
Seeing that you have one
and I have mine;
I say, let's dream;
and see where our dream takes us.

On the precipice

You give me this room to stand:
on the edge,
close to the chasm.

My one palm faces up
touching the sky.
The other touches you.
The sky is the reality.
You are the dream.

So long as I stand on this ledge,
Reality touches Dream.

Cuts

Words course through my veins.
Words in flow
make poems.

That's why when you cut me
again and again,
out from the gashes,
flowed poems.

I didn't see

I saw the moon you are,
but didn't see the dark spots that marked it.

I saw the river you are,
but didn't see that it broke every bank that had held it before.

I saw the blue ocean you are,
but didn't see the deep dark trenches hidden beneath.

I saw the poem you are,
but didn't see the discordant rhythm it had.

I saw the magic you are,
but didn't see the voodoo in it.

I saw the intricate blade you are,
but didn't see it turning as it went into my heart.

In Gibran's Seasonless Garden

You invite me for a walk
in this garden
that is bereft of growth
                           of succulence
                           of senescence
                           of emergence.

You invite me for a walk
in this garden
walled in by dead stones
so that the winds of change
can't touch it.

You invite me for a walk
in this garden
where nothing changes
              nothing is born
              nothing dies
         and the only color is a dull sickly green.

I feel hopeful for the invitation
   but sad for the destination
as I have  walked those paths before
and have seen nothing grow.

You see, I am a growing touch.
                   I am a bright green.
                   I am the rain.
                   I am the sun.
                   I am the colors.
                   I am the winds of change.

You ask me to walk with you
and  to forget who I am.

I know if I walk with you,
the seasonless garden will be laid to waste,
and a green storm with branches and colors,
twisted mighty trunks with mossy planes,
and the interplay of light and shade,
will be, instead.

You ask me to walk with you
muting my songs of growing
               and songs of reaping.

I"ll walk with you, my dear,
because you ask.
But know that you can either
have the verdant pleasure of growing
or the dull pleasure of
                this seasonless garden.

Strength among us

The strong doesn't give up and doesn't accept failure.

The stronger doesn't give up, but knows when to accept failure.

The strongest doesn't give up and yet accepts failure,
but also has the courage to learn from failure and
to try again, to dream again.

My religion

My religion,
you ask?
It is love.
And it is writ
by the prophet.

A place

You like the sense of a place.
How the spring blends into summer
and into fall and winter,
and the memories you make
with your loved ones
in all these seasons
in this place
stays with you
even as you go far, far away.

You long for this place.
You long for the sound of the river.
You like the wetness of the air.
You like the strength of the sun.
You like how snow blankets your beloved place.
And you like how the forests and prairies
sing again in the spring.

You remember your first kiss on that lovely walk
with that crazy boy
who wrote poems
and sang for you.
You remember the time your friend held you close
because you couldn't stop crying.

Your memories of self blends with nature
in this place.
In this place, you're more than you.
You have a root, memories of a lifetime,
you have tears and laughter,
friends and families and lovers,
the two oak trees, mullberries,
maples, sycamore, milkweed, blazing stars,
green, bright green, and yellow and red,
spring peepers, a snapper,
a lonely runner passing you by,
kids on their bikes.

All these pull you back
as you mercilessly pull yourself away
to go to a distant shore
as if only to divide you again,
only to become less than yourself,
and only to carry the memories of a lifetime
in your quiet heart.

Dream catcher II

Small dreams,
small hopes,
small imaginings,
turn dark.

You toss and turn.
You thirst and burn.
You want to flee and run.
Where's your dream catcher?

You see me.
I see you.
You ask me in love
        to be your dream catcher.

I long and yearn.
I wish to try and learn.
I must be strict and stern
          to not let dark dreams pass.

Colors of the spectrum
and treasures of kings
are your dreams.
These shoulders are too narrow,
this strength too feeble,
I sit and think in failure,
      to be your dream catcher.

Tears

Why do I write?
Is it because I can't cry?
When emotions knot
right behind my eyes
that I see colors in darkness,
somehow I learn to let go.

Somehow I manage to cry,
not through my eyes
but this pen of mine
with its black tears
that creates a tapestry for your viewing.

What was not to be

Even the smallest of hills
probably start out to match
the Everest, in impetuous audacity.
Even the smallest of mountain streams
surely starts out to match
the length and prosperity of the Nile,
or the spiritual salvation the Ganges brings.
Every star wishes to cause a supernova.
Every wind wishes to raise a storm.
Every green shoot out of the forest floor
dreams to dwarf the large matriarch
and reach for light.
Every ripple in the ocean has the possibility
to become the tsunami.

But not all of them do.
Not all.

Some die for lack of light.
Some stop glowing.
Some just stop flowing.

The undercurrent,
the tectonic love that propels these wishes
and aspirations
stop moving or just stop being.

Is that what happened to you and me?
I don't know.
But I know what's not to be
                  is not to be.

Instead of riding the crest of the hill
on that wave of tectonic love
to match the top of the world,
we now face the chasm that opens between us.
Still though, there are memories
that will guide us as we face this chasm.

I remember your kisses caused
a thousand stars to morph into
a thousand supernova.
The stream of your love
washed away my exhaustion.
The seedling of our love
didn't get to tower over the whole forest.
But it rose, it grew, it blossomed
in that light and shade.
The wind of your emotions
raised a storm of tears in my mind
and I watched enthralled
the beauty of your tidal surge as it overpowered me.

So, despite the chasm,
despite the stream never reaching the ocean,
I remember fondly
the promise they all held.
These memories darken my horizon
and rain down on me
as I watch you walk away.

----

In remembrance of my wonderful years with Fern.

After the glitter wanes

When the eyes adjust to the glare
of our persons,
and see through the glitters,
the gimmicks, the words,
we pause.

The instant connection
that was electric
bites at our skin.
The shine that shone in our eyes
now hurts.
The song that was initially sweet
is now seemingly discordant and monotonic.

As we peel away layers after layers,
we stand in front of each other,
not sure what the other thinks.
Does he adore me?
Does she like me?
-- we ask.

As we peel away our layers
and stand in nakedness
in that harsh light of scrutiny,
we feel conflicted
and hopeful.

All gimmicks gone,
all ornaments thrown away,
all pretenses cast aside,
as we stand in nakedness,
with our naked souls in the palms of outstretched hands,
there's no room for faking.

To go forward, we must make peace
with what we see in each other:
all that is ugly
and
all that is sacred.

Violent Blue

We plan. We dream. We schedule our lives to follow that plan, to fulfill that dream. So tight control we wish to exert! We want to know what we have in store for the next minute, next hour, next day, month or decade. We assure ourselves we know what's going to happen, what we want to do and where we are going. Such is the attraction of a life well planned and perhaps, well spent. Control, fulfillment, seeing the future, prediction,-- such are our fancies. Then unexpectedly we bump into an irresistible force.

Imagine, seeing the ocean for the first time and maybe, every time, as you walk to the beach and then the intertidals. The white waves crushing into the shore, the wind rushing into you and then past, the constant arrival of energy that is beyond you and your control-- leaves you lost. Lost for losing control, lost for losing track of your thoughts of moments ago, and lost for losing direction you are. That irresistible force that is like the ocean overwhelms you, picks you up, thrashes your body, jolts your being. You get taken in. Contrasting vector fields of emotions and feelings swirl you around.

In all this, you let go of your plans, dreams, and schedules. All that is left is you and the ocean's will of taking you to distant shores for new dreams and new hopes, and maybe a new beginning.

------

Written at Punta Mala, Puntarenas, Costa Rica, watching and hearing the Pacific rush in.

A story

At the beginning,
in time before time,
two droplets of water roamed together
in the primordial earth--
one oval and beautiful,
and one elongated, a bit rough on the edges.

Then it rained
like it had never rained before,
as the earth was thirsty from the beginning of time.

As it rained, the two droplets,
one oval and beautiful,
and the other a bit rough on the edges,
                        came close.

Did they feel love?
Did they fall in love?
Who could tell?

As it rained down, so did the two droplets
and became separated upon falling on earth's surface.
The two of them, apart,
searched for one another.
Being water droplets, they didn't have memory of the other,
but was happy to move on and live on.

Somewhere there though, in the grand scheme of things,
there was this longing, this feeling that
two things that belonged together, were not together.
If they had feelings, the droplets would've felt
sad and melancholy for the loss of beloved,
happy and joyful for they gave life to the living.
And so they lived, giving life to the living.

----

One day,
in one of many days,
the sun rose and asked of the ocean
for two droplets of water.
From distant oceans rose two droplets,
(two very droplets of water rose!),
One oval and another a bit rough on the edges,
missing something in their beings, though they knew not.

As they rose, the felt the pull
of something inevitable,
something waiting to happen since time before time.

They rose and rose until their thirst from traveling
was quenched and cooled.
They became a part of the silvery dark cloud
just above the horizon.
Not knowing that they had been missing each other,
the two droplets felt joy and only joy
in finding each other.
Something felt right in the universe in that moment.

Having cooled in each other's touch,
they thrilled in the fall to earth's surface.
Exhilarating, lustful, momentous the fall was,
the journey was an epic.
There were kisses, for having found each other,
and there were tears, as somewhere in their beings,
they knew they would also lose each other.

As they broke off their embrace,
they looked forward
and having been water droplets,
retained no memory of who they were holding moments ago.

They started on their path again,
with this subsurface anticipation of a union in all of their being.

The universe sighed
and watched over them
until their next union,
if they ever meet again.

Chemistry

1.

My pulse racing,
your touch electric,
our eyes locked,
we kiss.

My heart throbbing,
your nails clawing,
our lips parted,
we kiss.

My breath shallowing,
your hands grabbing,
our tongues dancing,
we kiss.

I am demanding,
you are yielding,
our desires flaming,
we kiss.

Your hair flowing,
your legs shaking,
my arms supporting,
we kiss.

2.

A kiss becomes a thousand kisses.
A dream becomes a thousand dreams.
And we kiss.

-----

Just like I remember it.

The Birth of a poem

You ask me how a poem is born.
Here I tell you.
Imagine,
you walk a lonely path
in the hills,
in the forest,
and see this pebble
that speaks to you of possibilities.
You pick it up,
shape it,
polish it,
and wear it like a jewel.

Just like that,
on my walks,
I see emotions,
raw,
unpolished.
I pick them up
and care for them
and wear them close to my heart.
And that's how poems are born.

-----

I was talking with Sinja Zieger, who asked me how I write (for lack of a better word) poems. I was sharing with her a bit of my creative process. In the middle of that sharing, I bumped into the preceding.

The storm and the mountain

1.
The storm on the horizon--
black, ominous--
flows in, singing the song of destruction.


You are the storm.
You sing the song.
You destroy.


2.
To create, one must destroy.
To love, one must hurt.
To create a shackle that sweetly binds,
one must break the old shackle,
melt the metal and forge anew.


3.
You're the storm
who destroys and creates,
who makes me cry and laugh,
who washes away my being with winds of ferocity
only to give my being more meaning.


4.
Here I was,
looking at the storm rolling in,
the dark horizon,
the power and beauty,
of destruction and creation,
mesmerized.


When you rolled in,
singing the song of ending and renewal,
I was ready to be absorbed
and be taken by the storm.


5.
Shivering,
I forgot,
while you are a whirlwind of storm and destruction,
I was the immovable mountain who stood in your path,
overwhelming you with my stoic slopes and jagged peaks.


6.
While trembling to the core,
I demand your surrender.
While tempestuous, you comply
with lust for calm in your heart.


I am the mountain
Where you the storm will rest your head
and there will be calm.


And the rains you bring will flow down me,
to create new life in the plains.

-------------

A piece I wrote in the spring, soon after I started writing again. Despite my pen being rusty from non-use at the time, I think this piece turned out ok. As is customary with many of my writings of late, Aura is the muse.