The porcelain
wind of the
moon lifts
it’s wings
of mine
to see
the clouds,
deserts and
dreams of
reality as
one, the
endless
stories of
the green
and golden
fields of
painted
starlight,
the breath
of unspoken
songs in the
conversation
of eyes, too
aerial to be
held, as the
rising, gentle
wind through
the leaves,
and the hair
of lovers in
discovery
of forests
touched
with mist,
rising above
the mountains,
falling as the
song of rain,
they are
rain dancers
who see poetry
as all, and all
is water

Porcelain begins to shatter
These dolls we all know to well
Looking past beyond the laughter
There is a story to tell:
Up on our shelves you eye us everyday
You pull us down, you want to play
Our bodies hit the floor
In pieces, you don't want us anymore

Porcelain put back together
You aren't done playing yet
Our skins stained, our clothes rags, tattered
We still can never forget:
In a corner catching dust
You never ever cleaned us up
We're left alone lying, traumatized
Unwanted in your hungry eyes

Porcelain isn't the better
Our shards, they cut your hand
And your feet, you should've never
Played rough, do you understand?
Fragile, you never handled us with care
Our bodies break, our clothes you tear
Now you're the one who bleeding
We're thrown away, defeated

I think smooth
Soft
White

Porcelain stands up to much
But one little crack sends it to the garbage

Porcelain is strong
Disguised as weak

Our marriage is old enough to vote now
and on this our porcelain anniversary
I vote “Yes, I do,”  over and over again.

A score of fine filigree plates I will gift us,
two broken to match the fragile times,
the eighteen days past the towers fall
when we married amidst grief and joy.

Our Noritake sacraments survives the bombings
of a blasted world, the cracking, fractures,
the buffing of our mistakes to a translucent
perfection, all frozen details rimmed with gold.

Cancer is etched on the lip, but so
is cure, joy, longevity, beauty, respect,
and the watermark underneath, our keepsake
forever, irreplaceable love.

As though her skin was stained porcelain white
She slipped back down from the sky cracked and marred
Though every second of my gaze was wasted
As in her final instance; before departure
She was stained porcelain white

I often wonder
if I am but a teacup
to your boils.
Without me
Where would you set
your pinkie
Where would you pour
your cream
Where else to discuss
the “new mortality”
but about my heated air?

Strings around porcelain skin
Bruises that are so thin
Skin never grows
Face never shows never feels
Twirl can she ever