I was molded by his own hand
sculpted to perfection and eager to please
who else other than my husband
for without Adam, there is no Eve
at least, that was before he slithered into our perfect life
pounding our perfect garden into the ground with his slick feet
conniving and a brute,
he convinced me to take a bite
and share my fruit with man
for what is mine is his
my knowledge is his
I am his
together we ate
snacking and licking our fingers with glee
wiping the secretions of the fruit of mankind
against the tree we tore it from
until our Paradise's pastures declined
the wildflowers overtrodded with weeds
the singing waterfall vanished
only to be replaced by an evil, magmatic spout
and our tree,
our once bountiful, glorious, fruitful tree
decayed from the inside out
Adam's burning glare rotted my fruit and my seeds
until they and I dropped to the burning embers on the ground
like nicks off of a pebble that was thrown too hard
or like hairs from the back of a matted mother cat
that has spent far too many heatless winters hunting
for a different life,
for any life
with no more than a curse from Him,
I became the failed experiment of humanity
tossed into God's own graveyard
left to rot with my stolen seed
Apr 29, 2022
Apr 29, 2022 at 1:16 PM UTC
it starts with you
sitting underneath the sun at dusk
the only noise you can focus on
is your languid breathing
while the scent of the hot wind
curls into your nostrils
in wicked streams
your slow and steady breaths
gives the beat for the rest of nature to imitate
her winds join in
offering a sweet and watery whisper
blending her breaths and your breaths in an airy duet
laying down the foundation for
the soft pitter-patter
of her plants and animals
her mischievous wind
knocks against the willow's branches
swinging her leaves.
their hollow ringing
is rhythmic and relentless
and then you hear it
the orchestral arrangement
that mother nature
has arranged for you
you become the conductor
of your movement
with your deliberate, languid winds
and when you take a pause in your rhythmic breaths
to savor the sweet scent of summer
as if it could be stamped on your mind
the kestrel's song plunges
into the orchestra
the shrill, sharp notes form a soloist in a flurry of feathers and beaks
completing the orchestra
as the moon rises, opening her pale eyes
as she sways to the rhythm of Earth's song
Aug 4, 2020
Aug 4, 2020 at 6:07 PM UTC
whatever you do, please don't read poetry because it ruins your life.
poetry will grab your head and freeze it in time,
peeling your eyelids open while
laughing at you,
forcing you to stare at the ailments of the world with no safety on.
you see the world for what it is
and when you do
your life is in ruins
you begin to cast doubt as if doubt were the bless yous that followed a sneeze
it's the doubt that brings kings and kingdoms to their knees
and it's the poet who plants doubt in young, malleable minds.
Jul 11, 2019
Jul 11, 2019 at 10:25 AM UTC
it's over a decade old
holding secrets I can no longer withhold
it's once vibrant colors now faded
and as I look into it my past feels jaded
I never knew how long it would last
that my hold on a lie would be so steadfast
the immensity and the intensity of the illustration is penetrating
behind us, the sun was pulsating
dancing among clouds, her beams shot through
like the final recital of a dancer who will bid adieu
the two of us poised like Greek statues in the light
him, in a sweater woven with gold and by sprites
and myself in a cape formed among the seven wonders of the ancient world
in front of a mansion that holds tales untold
the steps eager to see our eyes grow by tenfold
but then in the ensuing photograph
it is only I that stands
the glamour of my cape shedding
becoming the source of clamor
the lavender shade of my jacket is molting
falling apart, it reveals
a truth that only time can see
that our fanciful clothing was only a disguise
conjured up to distract their eyes
Jun 30, 2019
Jun 30, 2019 at 11:37 PM UTC
like a tree alone at night
my father sits in our garden
the lone star in the sky showers him with radiance
and apart from the wind tussling around with his parchment
the furious scribble of his pen
he is silent
stoic
and solitary
he is eternities away
lost in his mind space with no suit
and I can no longer recognize him
until suddenly
he jumps
taking a graceful swan dive into the untold
with no mission control relaying actions
just his mind
before he emerges with the sun
steadily walking towards my mother as she stands on our patio
the sky behind her as if it were painted by Van Gogh himself
turbulent and swimming with passion
I can see him again through the parted clouds
he is different, yet the same
as he turns towards my window
giving me the wink he always has
I realize:
no matter how far he travels
and how long he stays away
my father is still my father
and there is nothing that can make me feel any other way
Jun 30, 2019
Jun 30, 2019 at 10:56 PM UTC