Monday, September 30, 2013

An Early Evening (A Poem)



 Wordle128

The cold of twilight
Came early that evening,
The moon, a great yellow hangnail
That fell across the grassy hillsides
Where bees gathered
In their silent swarms.
We sat together on the sofa,
Empty dinner glasses between us,
Our bellies full of pasta and Italian bread,
Watching the headlights of
Cars lost in the dense fog
Of an early evening
Spill into our shadowed rooms
Like ghosts meant to pierce
The sharp end of our silence.
Your cold hand exacting a touch
That lingered across
The wool stocking of my stiff knee,
The kitchen still dirty,
The children already asleep.
Somewhere down the dark hall
Of apartment doors and mouse holes,
A grandfather clock chimed seven times,
An unbidden tinkling voice to touch
The silent reverie our hungry hands worshipped:
Our love, each other, this day,
A stolen second between the blackbirds breath
And the morning wake up call.
Us two, tolled of our early 4:30 am
Bent into the wall of one another,
A gentle cheek to chin,
As sleep lingered between us
Like a long kiss.

I Loved You From Afar (A Poem)



 

 “Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don’t know how to replenish its source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds; it dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings.”  Anais Nin

We loved in ways that daunted fate,
Diving into the blue emensity
Of each other’s eyes
Like a kind of twilight
The dead disappear into.
Blue as the depths of each October,
I bowed to the deity
Of a side-walk rusted mailbox
And awaited your letters,
Hungry for the crumbs of your drunken nights.
I’d sink into the starch
Of my wintered sweaters
And dream the blink of your kiss
As if, by divine, you’d materialized
Across the threshold of my kitchen door,
Hair ruffled of an eight hours drive,
Wrapped delicate as a present
I could open with my shaking fingers,
Eager to unfold the cigarettes
Of your gray scarve,
Curve the arch of my lower back
Into your outstretched hands,
The flesh of my own soul,
You, the extended skin of myself.

Friday, September 27, 2013

Consulting The Oracle (A Poem)


**Fall reminds me of fairs, vintage carnival rides still creaking in their metal and chains, of creepy tents and small- town attractions.  And of fortune-tellers who frequent these fairs with their incense sticks and tarot cards, adorned in crystal balls and their big hats. That's what this poem is about.

They say our most fertile dreams
Are let free of their captivity
When a calm hand unburdens the blank rune,
But I can’t help wondering
What black candle my enemies
Have burned against me
In their devilish pursuits to antagonize
The restless spirits of my ancestry.
For years I’ve searched for things
I can hold onto with my fingers,
Interpreting the depths of their inner ticking,
As if my own heart were a crystal ball
I could peer into, but I only saw reflections.
On dark nights fit for only
The invisible battles of witches and warlocks,
I imagine all the candy-colored fairies
That inhabit the purple trees
Of Jupiter’s iridescent moons,
I toss the girth of my life into an open notebook
Like a lone fortune teller
Lost amidst a sea of vocabulary
And daring my heavy shoes to swim
Into the birthing void of some other world.
But it is you, my muse,
The moving statue of my sixth sense,
You walk across the dunes of my dreams
To deliver me from the bone-scatter
Of white linens and mediocrity.

Thursday, September 26, 2013

A Quick Update

In the past several days, I did a small over-haul to my developmental blog.  It just wasn't resonating with me as it was.  My whole point in extensive personal self-development is to allow more inner freedom for things such as writing, art, and so on.

So, I switched things up a bit and will begin more posts pertaining to writing, writing prompts, and creative inspiration.

If you've been checking back on the blog from time to time, you should know the address/title has also been changed to The "Writer's" Retreat.  I think it's quite fitting.  Please stop by often and see what new things I have to offer!!

Tuesday, September 24, 2013

Things The Addict Knows (A Poem)

127
 
Each morning finds her peering
Into the empty earth of a cup,
She says she finds God
In the quiet of an up-turned bottle,
Says that secret spirits
Lay hidden inside a pile
Of discarded syringes,
The total sum of her three-year exile.
These are the stories her drugs tell,
Like nectar, she cradles her fix between
Her palms, a map of needle-pricks
Holding the skin of her flesh to bone
Like apple-red claws she can’t stop picking.
She is rash in her theatrical effects
In the quick way she loves men
For the cheap smell of cigarettes,
Smiling as she swears that
The sick way we love each other
Are clues to the secret of this life,
How the same things we’re drawn to,
The same things we live for,
Are also the ones that kill us gently
On a dark night while the world lays,
Lost in the stiff slumber of twilight,
We find ourselves falling down
The rabbit hole of another dimension
And ignorant the grit of our own substance,
We go on living in our same old ways,
Never knowing we’ve already died.

Into My Great Unknown (Prose)



Seven-thirty rings the bells of her skin and the day catches in my throat like a cough.  I yawn into the rays of my windowpane and gaze out into the dew-spinning after-dawn.  The rain-clouds are rolling their morning stroll across the super highway of the sky where birds roam without worry of the earth or its worms.  I mourn for the seven hours I lose in slumber come each nightfall, how the dark comes so quickly, each lost segment of my life’s time leaving only unconscious brain-clicks of memory. Later in the day, and only half-dressed, I stand atop the stairs and watch my daughters shoes fall into the darkened abyss of our front foyer.  I imagine our life-forces, a complete countdown of our minutes lived, the complete creation of each living being is but a star-fall into the great unknown, a catapulting piece of gray amongst the red clouds of mars; we live for a while and then wave as we pass into another realm of matter.  We walk the light of the earth, uknown, and wake each day unsure of where we went while we were sleeping.

Saturday, September 21, 2013

The Seventh Birthday of my Daughter (A Poem)



My daughters skin
Is the color of soft caramel
With the baby sleep
Feel of satin.
Sometimes I watch her play,
Phantom in her pretends’ doorway,
And hope she never feels
The need to tan,
The pressure of ‘pretty enough,’
The whim to pursue perfection,
Chasing its shadow
Into the darkened foyers
Of her twenties
Before realizing that, all along,
Everything she’s meant to be
Was already born into her bones;
The invisible rolling whims,
Fifty percent ancestry, fifty percent genes.
Fifty percent Asian eyes
In their gemmed Taiwanese.
Fifteen percent two great-grandmothers
She won’t remember,
Wrinkled in the skins
Of their new after-lives;
I imagine they watch over us
From the windows of each new moon.
Ninety-nine percent dead star matter
That roiled the residue
Of it’s mechanisms into my closed wound
And birthed my heart, this girl.
My gift to the clouds,
Made of universal clay,
The shrine-made-flesh
Part of me that lives and breathes
And kisses the earth
With the soles of her feet.