for 12A13
And so we arrive, across the woods
of adolescence, at adulthood.
Muddy-shoed. Wounds freshly cut
from the incipient grassy parts.
Blood meeting the new mud,
like skin testing the water's touch:
their hairs standing like Olympic swimmers,
bent with the posture of delight and terror.
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 1:28 PM UTC
In place of memories — embers.
Inextinguishable, yet untrue
to the fidelity of what was.
The smoky curlicues, too,
have been denied. That whiff
of the past. Smouldering,
it warms the prudent hand.
Sears the lingering one.
In place of you — embers.
Charcoal flake anklets at your feet.
Wrinkling, shrivelling.
Your impassive verse-marked
way of staying. But when asked
to disappear, become so
unwilling.
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 11:59 AM UTC
Affection was her invisible hand gliding
down your back to map the gradient
of your spine. Love was letting
that unseen force replace intimacy.
She loved precisely
where demand met supply.
Razor-thin efficiency.
She reciprocated coffee for coffee,
love for love. No shortage
but no extra either.
She gave unconditionally
but only when all else had remained constant.
(We built everything on assumptions.)
But what was constant was never enough and
She'd explain it
away with your infinite wants and her finite self.
She made all the choices,
administered love like an economist
and made you her next best opportunity
Forgone.
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 12:57 PM UTC
little child, who is asleep,
whose innocence
is the milky way on his lips:
to whom do you call Mother?
little child, the moon’s crescent
lays like a birthmark on your cheek,
and your single strand of hair
the trail of a meteor’s heat:
why are you crying?
little child, do not cry – go to sleep.
a blue-green pearl sits
where your heart is – and beats:
they will find your Mother.
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 12:58 PM UTC
Existence stretches itself
like a rubber cap
strenuously spanning birth and death
Fitted tightly over the grease
and wheels while it waits
cross-legged, unhurried
(flipping calendars)
for the groan that halts
its throbbing clockwork
Even when Life first has snapped
Jan 20, 2013
Jan 20, 2013 at 11:58 AM UTC
write himself between the lines
and not at the end of them
forget himself between the writing
and not at the end of them
greet himself between the poems
and not at the end of them
want himself between the shelves
and not at the end of them
put himself between the poets
and not at the end of them
find himself between the covers
and not at the end of them
a poet shouldn't impose himself between,
at the end,
not even at the start
Dec 14, 2012
Dec 14, 2012 at 4:46 AM UTC