Around,
Around, and around again.

Electric dance of the magnetic mind.

Silver thoughts police the undefined maroon center,
leaving the heel scuff on the face of the passion parade.

Tumbling,
Falling,

The silver glove is  trapped in the ooze of the intestine swamp.
Holding its victim till suffocation points the way out.

You would think that printing all my recollections of you,
and shelving poems until my heart's ink ran dry,
would erase your umbra from my mind.
But you, in all your symmetry, are still there,
reverberating within me like the echoes of my footsteps on your stairs.

I walk alone now, our two shadows becoming one,
and I still can't get used to that
nor can I mind the gaps between my fingers where yours belong.

I can't bring myself to re-watch the shows we viewed together
without that black leather couch and our legs intertwined,
my eyes forecast their mistiness, you're all they remember.

You're alive in my bones
when I listen to that song,
and I must confess
that your warmth is still pressed
within the stitches of my favourite peach dress,
and I sample pieces of you
when I'm savouring your breakfast food,
you're the nicotine in my lungs, you're laced in B&H Gold,
You're the reason why I don't smoke anymore.

The ocean I put between us couldn't lead your ghost astray,
I thought you couldn't catch me in a land 3000 miles away,
yet you're noticeably there,
in the place you've never been,
against my very philosophy,
I carry you with me.


Copyright © 2021 by S. Y. Kalindara. All rights reserved.

I'm wearing a
mask
to hide my
face
from other people's
eyes
so they don't
see
all the blood
stains.

I used to read your poems
but lately you don't write
you're silent and aloof
you know that isn't right.
You can't close a door once opened
you can't abolish all your dreams
you're a poet of the heart
mustn't fall apart at the seams.
Say what you can in words
they speak the message true
spoken from the heart
the poems will see you through.
A hermit's not your style
a recluse, you are not
never give up writing
of things that you've been taught.
I used to read your poems
I'd read them once again
if you would send them out
(this one's from a poet friend)

She likes toy soldiers with mustaches
and rolling camels from newspapers
(that way she has something to read when she smokes)

She likes spin the bottle at recycling centers
and starting arguments over produce
(she prefers steamed vegetables, you see)

She adores staycations in someone else's house
and dinner theatre for breakfast
(a little Hamlet and eggs)

She likes every other Tuesday
and clocks with only minute hands
(it's more her speed)

She likes hunting for change in penny arcades
and five & dimes
(but not dollar stores...go figure)

She likes soda crackers (but not soda)
She likes beer nuts (but not beer)
She likes wine cozies (well, you know the rest)

They said,
"The most beautiful art is
looking into someone's eyes
when they talk about the
things they love."
And I said,
"Or looking at someone you love.
Or maybe, just maybe,
by looking at the mirror
is the most beautiful art
anyone should appreciate."

if ever

you don’t

feel

like you have a home,

pull me close,

wrap your arms around me,

rest your head on my chest,

close your eyes,

and feel the warmth of the fireplace

resonating from within my heart.

I broke too much
of myself
thinking someone
could fix me.

I should have not
turned myself
to pieces
in the first place.

Because no one
would ever keep
a broken mirror
in their pockets.

She said "I'm falling in love."

I said "I'm falling apart."

Wrap me up in your words
Bury me in the warmth of you
Until I’m left with your scent for days
As I fall in love with you all over again

you gave me a word to hold onto
it got me through the night
felt nice for a while
but we both know this isn't right
keeping your distance is a crime
I know this by the hurt in my chest
someone's placed you here in front of
me as a torturing test
you've put a gun to my head and I'm asking to die
for the sake of being dead
what I would do for you to crawl out of her
and into my bed

I think the problem is,
There is not enough of me,
For me

Somewhere
a kitchen light still glows
on an immense orange cat
waiting to scour both dog bowls
for leftovers
that have yet to appear
after even a single meal.
Twilight throwing
lavender shadows
across the cramped
polaroid drenched kitchen
where you slow danced
to something acoustic
before saying your first goodbye
on a bare concrete balcony
studded with cigarette ash
and stars.

I sometimes feel I'm an annoyance
And sometimes comes very often
And often I feel I'm not good enough
Even though I give my all
All is just a bit too much
It sometimes feels so overwhelming
And sometimes comes very often

I love him
I tell myself
I know that
We will be together forever
I don’t believe that
We could be separated
My thoughts tell me that
He’s the love of my life
Sometimes my heart lies and says
I could live an eternity
Without him
Like my friends say
“We’re perfect for each other”
And you can’t tell me
He’s not the one.

Now read from bottom to top.

your name is
forbidden in
my mouth
or in my heart
because when
i think about
you;

i'll cry a little more,
hurt a little stronger
love a little softer
because you no longer
make me feel sober

i'm drunk on the
memory of you

The poet lives two lives.
One on the outside,
And one in their mind.

When you look in their eyes
You could see an abyss.

If you looked long enough
You could sink into it.

But most people don’t see it.

Take the time to read the words, though,
And you would know for sure.

The poet lives in two different worlds.

When I think of the future
See my life
It’s pitch black
No direction
No light
But everyone else
They see a shining path
One so hard to miss
But when you’re blinded
By darkness
You miss everything

i do not believe in god
but i do believe in poetry
and for me
maybe poetry is prayer
and the universe
is an unwavering ear
in the shape of a god

Poet's are a blind-fold

Break my bones;
cut my throat.
Pull me open,
learn the ropes.

Breath me in;
taste the fear.
Shank my skin;
stand and cheer.

Kick my head;
let me bleed.
Unbolt my veins;
enjoy the read.

Gouge my eyes;
punch my face.
Wrap me up
in your embrace.

If I gave you my soul,
would you read each page?
Scribble notes of interest
and know me.
Would you take the time,
to help tape the seams?
Would you mend,
the fragility of my soul?
It tears and rips,
easily, emotionally.

Before we meet
I'd like to send parting gifts.
To my mother,  
To my grey dog,
To the sparkling sea,
To the brown eyed woman,
To my guardian angels,
I'd like to journey
Into the heart of their being
And get drunk in celebration
Then letting it all fade to black

Before you go,
Can I get one more kiss?
Will you tell me about your day?
And about your tomorrow too?
And could you maybe stick around
Just long enough to share
Every day of my life with you?

tarot has taught

me one thing,

the art of storytelling.

the theatrics were not as effective in communication
as he might have hoped
probably because I am not an audience
or a performer
and my literal questions were not answered

Good god that laugh

I can feel you every day

Just open your mouth

And please don’t ever go away