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Mar 2018 · 297
It starts out as a premonition, a looming and ominous hint.

The base of the neck feels stiff and foreign. You tilt your head, stretching as if trying to listen in to a far away noise that soon reveals itself as an oncoming train, strain. Eyes stare outward, grow a bit wider, you hate being right. It is coming.

The first strike is as sharp as you remember, hits you from the side, like a bitter wind, penetrates, resonates. The pain spreads. You're now certain something's spilled inside you. Your stomach agrees and ties a knot.

Time to hide from the light, eyelids heavy, eyes beneath tender. Deep breaths only enforce this reunion, minutes stretch. Knuckles outline the brows, hard, a placebo you tell yourself helps somehow. Hours grow.

Fractured messages now slam around inside this silent chamber where only you can hear yourself break. It's going to be a long night.
Mar 2016 · 444
Incubus attack
The sheets move, forming waves in this ocean. A deep breath, a morning sigh at an hour that's neither rise nor set.

White snow on pillow but this skin is warm. Heartbeat, strong like a hiccup, feel it in my throat. A deep scratch on the forearm to arrive in the present. These dreams still tug at me, another breath, another breath.

Sit up dark, regardless if eyes open or shut. Chin to the ceiling, sweat moves along the back, like a ghost drawing a map. The beasts await patiently, your turn, return.

Onto naked skin, I slip on this erudite armor once again. Trembling, I fall back into the battlefield.
Jun 2013 · 729
Soft, gentle fur and I hope I write this legibly when I’m ninety. Will I make it to ninety?

My cat insists and purrs with comfort as I think of growing old. It’s too long, breath isn’t meant to hold this many memories, yours and strangers’. I grumble.

Does she dream like me? Would I purr if I slept soundly like her, with so very few needs during the hours of wake.

She watches me often, as if she knows, smirks and goes back to sleep leaving me an envious creature.
Jun 2013 · 929
Volatile nerves tremble and skin is raised, reaching.

I find an eyelash that clings, his gentle fingers are hard, gentle, never weak.

He blinks and so does the camera and I’m still, a breath caught within infrared.

There are trees, leaves that delight as I eavesdrop in their chatter. I touch the bark, pretend to not see the scars. I whisper for permission to leave another. D plus E.
Jun 2013 · 1.4k
The soft fur warms my skin, while taking a deep breath of December air.

I look out into the mist, the mountains are playing hide and seek again out in the distance.

I’m watching him let out a sigh from the corner of my eye, making me want to rush in and catch it, with my mouth. He smiles, knows I’m daydreaming of him again.

I look back at the mountains and feel at a loss somehow, perhaps nature doesn’t like letting go either, an uncomfortable slumber of cold mementos and frozen earth. Time feels like it’s standing still, and in this moment my favorite part is holding his hand, knowing he wants to hold mine, firmly.

Look up, Love. Atoms are dancing, colliding and painting the sky.
Jun 2013 · 1.2k
Palms together, the cold air settles slowly but with purpose and clothes me in goosebumps. I haven’t worn a watch in years, don’t need to know what time it is, know my heart is about to stop. The wallcreepers are on the move, feathers flee into the mist.

The wind seeks my attention, wants to dry the tears as I huddle but I won’t fight the strain. This mountain is familiar and I count cracks upon the skin on my wrists, assessing age that of a tree, rings now too many. Smirking while in search of the great white titan, taller than any sequoia.

The sun is prowling, scouting for a Tricity born tellurian playing hide and seek for yet another day. I jump and for a solid moment I feel an emptiness, an ethereal weight, I gasp and try again, gasp, try… sigh…
May 2011 · 1.2k
Czytać nadzieje w poezji jest dużo jak rozumieć niebieski kolor w niebie,
ona czuje, zna ten perfum, co nie może sama sobie kupić.

Ten wiatr ciągnie, utrzymuje ale nic ujawnia,
koty marzą, a ona ciągle czyta te same książki.

Szuka ten kolor wszędzie, jej farby nigdzie nie pasują,
wysyła pocztówki do siebie z miejsc nieznanych z których
zawsze pamięta dziękowac za piwo.

Lata idą, a ona powtarza sie, ciągle zapomina patrzyć na dół,
nieobecna że niedługo ominie go.

Reading hope in poetry is much like understanding the blue in the sky,
she feels, knows this perfume, that she can't afford to buy on her own.

This wind pulls, maintains but doesn't reveal,
cats dream, she still reads the same books.

Searches for this color everywhere, her paint doesn't match anything,
she sends out postcards to herself from unknown places from which
she always remembers to thank for the beer.

Years go by, she repeats herself, still forgetting to look down,
unknowing that soon she'll pass him by.
May 2011 · 667
Silver Wall
She is my maiden of truth
in the born tissue of nature.
She keeps me shimmering and clean
from the misfortunes of life.
Beautiful to a point when the sun is my sister.
She, who glares seeks answers in me.
I, who have neither time nor breath
will manifest her mortifying mouth and shape.
She stays with me all day, keeps me company,
I adore until he…

He comes only when the sun is set high,
when souls are free and water translucent.
He holds her hand and kisses the lips
that will never be mine.
She sees me yet not.
I see, cannot escape the shades my sister makes in revenge.
I can’t help but see the echo.
I cannot listen to the moans that should have been mine
and the body touched by me, I shatter

The villain leaves her lonesome.
I am to pick up her pieces, be strong for her.
Tell me, is this fair, reflection is my only caress,
she will not grant my wishes…shatter me.
Pain with the withering skies of my cousins,
she’s crying, torture of eye.
Let the leaves go, my friends, comfort me,
am I the only one?
She sits there alone thinking of him while I look at her.
Sometimes she comes close, looks at me and cries,
she touches my chest, I shiver,
I wish my mind could escape and explain all I feel.

On the 13th of snows she looked at me for the last time.
She gave me her blood as she angered and
broke me to pieces. I will never see the whole of her again,
all I see now are bits of a past I longed for…
She never sees me anymore but I adore
and I hear the endless moans of the villain
filling my reflection…
May 2011 · 1.2k
Aim of Oak
This little light will
guide this boy through
troubles and crashed airplanes.
Amongst these trees,
one will stand out.
Catch attention with
her beautiful red hair and
slim bark, the roots
subside, do not allow
to follow this green boy.
How can she survive
without her roots, to live for
this young boy that is
May 2011 · 851
Pale Betrayal
He walks in silence, within delicate air,
and holds his clouds in his fist, afraid
of letting them go.
He won’t notice as he bares thousands
of knives in his
back and walks with empty pockets.
It is grim to not find an escape, a little
room where all blades vanish
and no pockets exist.
published 2001 in The Pacific Review (vol 19). A magazine of Art & Literature, by the Department of English at California State University, San Bernardino.
May 2011 · 507
Prospect of Gold
I will gently pick up my tea,
and he will tell my fortune
from the leaves.
Trust your heart I’ll say
don’t dance on the lines,
throw away the cards.

Listen to my heart beat,
not the beats!
You need not predict
to find your way here.
Don’t count the stars
to anticipate an answer,
ask me…

Your sign is not your path
these veins are.
Your charms will never
substitute me
as prolific as it might sound.
Hold on to my hand
not my pasts…
Kiss my lips of jewels
and you will need no guidance.
May 2011 · 700
Vocal gash
Scribbling that old rhyme on her metasoma,
she doesn’t command the piano anymore,
lost in those gusts that carry the clouds across distant soils

To figure out just how to back track,
forming a new set
of aspiring lungs.

Pale on the horizon, standing tall
she whispers now, continuously
hoping to never become a mother.
May 2011 · 1.3k
20 minuter av frihet känns det
den härliga, kyliga brisen är renande.
Små fåglar delar glädjen av en ny dag.
Solen småtittar genom träden som släpper
små löv som liknar snö.
Trädens vaggnade och vinden påminner mig
om havet. Det känns fridsamt,
Jag vill stanna kvar.

10 minuter kvar av frisk vind som blåser
genom mig, känns helande. Alla tankar
Jag vill stanna kvar.

5 minuter kvar av otrolig harmoni av
öppet sinne for skönhet och inget annat.
Av känslor som flödar genom mig, av att
vara en del av det hela, av att vara
älskad och uppleva detta med all sinnen öppna.

Tiden är ute men jag vill stanna kvar. Nostalgi
“A Fall Moment”

20 minutes of freedom it feels
the wonderful chilly breeze feels cleansing.
Small birds share the joy of a new day.
The sun peeps through the trees that let go
of small leaves that  remind me of snow.
The waddling of the trees and the wind reminds me
of the ocean. It feels peaceful,
I want to remain here

10 minutes of fresh wind that blows
through me, feels mending. All thoughts
I want to remain here

5 minutes left of unimaginable harmony of
an open mind for beauty and nothing else.
Of feelings that flow through me, to be
a part of the whole, to be
loved and experience it with all senses open.

Time is up but I want to remain here. Nostalgia
May 2011 · 608
She crossed herself at the beach,
tied black veil over her
face, these eyes shine, never questioning
the waves, comforting once.
Dips the toes half way then
escapes, this fair mermaid
of moan.

Her hands bare wear the marks
of stones which cast upon
unfaithful skin, innocent
the elders said yet
youth prevails, lust along
with strung fist upon
this fair widow to be.

So she stares out over the
heavens, her oceans, this sea
of doubt where water meets land and
she can still feel the
quiver inside, the embrace,
saliva on her neck.
Never will she let go of her
king of waters and she will yet again
return here.

So the last steps she took, so
far away, yearning for that
never ending path, the
truth, perhaps even the sand.

When either realize
perhaps one day, this wandering
youth will come to sense,
the legacy behind
the sands, the waters
and all those sins…
May 2011 · 989
An ode to Ache
Let them go, him and her,
the trees will allow them to follow
with their green veils,
just like the fairies and their sons.
Let go, the fingers numb
it is certain that the ache, shall be for sought
in the gardens where their ambitions will rest.
Please do not ask “Why here?”
I shall not grant you this sphere.

In the gardens you will follow them in search of woe,
trying to find the missing works of Poe.

Decide whether the flowers will bloom,
will you stomp on them when the showers
detest this morbid couple?
The clouds are not white anymore,
they are but the water in your eyes,
as you weep, as we weep.
There is time, to weep, to mourn
there will be time to laugh.

Another rain will follow,
caress your skin in comforting
manners and you will slowly forget;
the times you cried, the times you laughed,
and all that time you had the power
to ask questions but never awaited the answers.

In the gardens you will follow them in search of woe,
trying to find the missing works of Poe.

You shall drown, my fair Ophelia
if you do not ask, ask if it was all worth while.
You cannot wait, you must pluck those flowers,
until you remember no more her long brown hair
and the way he’d hold her as his own.
I say, do not rest your eyes within illusions
for they will stay forever upon an oasis in his deserts.

Do not hesitate to look, for they kiss in
solemn ways you’ll never understand.
To say, “Do I pray?” and “Do I stare?”
It will never seem eternal until that one
look upon a finger of death.
To see the gleaming, the spark
should have been mine? Yours? Our?

In wondrous ways will he attain her love,
as she shall confess all her flora to him
and a week after that, a year perhaps
you shall wander and find,
yourself at peace perhaps,
as he shall walk once again
with a different flower in hand.

Only then shall we no longer weep,
for you, for her, for them.
We all walk within these skies
and as we fall we move the ground
Apr 2011 · 663
Travel in mind
She swings all day this
red. As she slumbers
off to the lands in which she
resides, she finds the
lad, her future band, her
hold on, her unfortunate task.
In her mind as she meets upon this
glimpsed shadow, this phantom
who steals her lungs, cannot plead,
for he is in control
of this she, herself in red.

Nothing savage, nothing graphic
as she will run away, lying in
sweat, away from this ghost of
enlightenment, she cannot be broken
for she runs faster than the
promises made to her.

So to the contradictions
he needs to **** his find, but
emerge in her heart so if
this red is to be left lone,
she needs to wake, this unfaithful
infant in mind.
Cannot stop for a drink.
Must run further until that frontal lobe ocean, will
confide her wishes, her secrets
for no one to unfold. For the papers
have been wrinkled and he will
unwrap ages to find her
Poem of love, within so many notes
on affection and tests on
emotional responses.

— The End —