#vowels
Fallen winds are scheming, as the biting cold was teething –
and in season, you could never forget the warmth of love,
when you’ve had that first feeling. But as your eyes start
to look like home, they gave me a welcome by the mat
at your door – where every kiss you, felt sunk deep
into your pores.
The result of a heart, is keeping score of how many times
it broke apart – criminals do fall in love, as they were
the ones who stole your heart. Warm in their innocence
as they court you with a smile; but when that love faces
a trial, don’t we start to judge our place in this love?
Your lips in their warmish water, now boils the joy out
of my smile – I’m a bit steamed when you bring your ex
around.
But I must have loved you as a vowel; even when
you became my X, I still love the pieces of U. And I
sometimes think about you more than I should; for
when we still love someone who doesn’t love you
back, don't we wonder sometimes Y?
Apr 1, 2025
Apr 1, 2025 at 5:25 PM UTC
the soul likes
when I dress him up like this:
few vowels,
more consonants,
syllables, and all the rest
that float
on the white clouds
of dreaming
on the red waters
of the heart.
he could hide, of course,
but would rather
show off scars and slashes.
naked, colorless being,
he needs
the glitter of language,
rhyme and rhythm,
similar, succeeding sounds;
he needs poetry’s depth,
beauty
and immortality
and the lucid glare of eyes,
substance
and stimuli,
to exist
to be more than a song
that plays
in silent frequencies—
so he flows—
from the deep of feeling
washes out burdens
like a mighty stream;
and unto paper
blooms up the slick and scented
petals of pain
like rain.
Oct 24, 2020
Oct 24, 2020 at 11:39 PM UTC
Outta whack,
Outta sync,
Wanna write,
Can't think.
Words dance,
Outta time,
Mismatched,
Bad rhyme.
Lines smash,
Commas fight,
Vowels heave,
Rhythm's *****
Verses clatter,
Phrases crunch,
****** muse's
Gonta lunch.
Gotta write,
Gotta pen,
Words'll come,
Dunno when.
Day's boshed,
Outta sight,
Gonna bed,
Good night!
Sep 24, 2019
Sep 24, 2019 at 6:43 PM UTC
The ground is dimpled with different footprints
large and small
deep and shallow
human and animal
Some have more depth than others ever could
having walked miles and miles.
To be light on ones toes
is a characteristic
of those not old
of those not tired
or of those who are sneaking.
I'm not sure how to decipher these prints.
But we can learn much from the steps of others.
There is truth in how we walk
with strong, deep steps
or light strides
weighted with experience
or floating in the feeling of living.
The reason behind the steps we take in life
are sometimes never known
are sometimes never noticed
we keep our heads down
but we don't see that we're walking
on a path that has been walked before.
How come we walked like this?
Who walked and tripped?
Who stepped in the trap?
How did the earth disappear beneath them?
These footprints are ancient,
preserved to reach a modern time
but their reasons were left far behind.
Sometimes we are left with all the evidence.
Sometimes we have all the facts,
but none of the reasons.
Sometimes we vow to find those reasons.
Sometimes we are content to let it remain unknown.
Feb 5, 2019
Feb 5, 2019 at 11:04 AM UTC
a nd with my e yes
i widely o pen,
I see yo u
like consonants
needing their vowels,
I need Y ou
Dec 5, 2018
Dec 5, 2018 at 7:48 PM UTC
Long ago, Moon reigned alone and empty
born of the Gods Sky and Sea.
The world was painted with a pale light,
that came from Moon's own might.
*"Hello, I don't believe we have met before?"
"Call me Heat."
"I am Light."*
A meeting destined in the heavens above,
inspiring Heat and Light to love.
For Moon had grown sickly all night,
as she never had time to rest from her plight.
*"What shall we call it?"
"The yellow light that we lit?"
"Yes. It's like a disc. A shining disc."*
Light circled Heat like a shield.
Blinding those who do not yield
with their interest or attempts to charm
Heat away from Light's arms.
*"Perhaps we shall call it Light?"
"No, we shall call it Bright!"
"Please, we cannot fight."*
This world moves forward even as time stands still.
Heat takes Light's hand with great thrill.
A movement not so grand,
yet it's worth more than the price of this land.
*"Feel the warmth of his heat!"
"He climbs the sky with no fear of defeat!"
"Moon can finally rest her weary feet."*
The pair watched with great pride
in the sky, their child no longer hides.
Look at him! He soars! He flies!
Bringing heat and light to the lands beneath the skies.
*"My child, formed from Heat and Light"
"Please do not feel any fright."
"My child, vow to keep balance with the night"
"An eternal dance with Moon so bright."
"And remember above all else,"
"That when the dark arrives,"
"know that Moon will maintain hope and life."
"Maintain life and hope, my Son.*"
Oct 15, 2018
Oct 15, 2018 at 10:02 PM UTC
He had wandered far in his truth quest.
A man by law, with 19 years he can attest
and ended up stuck in the west.
With limited cash in his name,
as he had abjured his family's fame.
Since his beliefs differed in his chest.
The family ideals were deceptively lenient.
Kindness was taught but he had never seen it.
His views were seen as unnaturally scenic.
A family that preached their branded acceptance,
made the man sing their praises and dance
with their rhythmic rants.
Maybe he is just a rebel;
A phase where instead he sings treble,
because the bass is in a bubble.
His head shakes and dusts rains,
falling just like earthly remains.
The ideas caused by yesterday's pains.
Heartful man, take care in the west
Listen as lives differ with the rest.
Make a pledge and mind the dread
Keep a level head.
Keep a level head.
Sep 14, 2018
Sep 14, 2018 at 1:44 PM UTC
Travel under the eastern sky
keep your eyes on the road, do not ask why
that barren landscape, the color of rye
makes the hardened townspeople cry.
Legend states that the dusty flatland
was a servant to the sun so grand
the sun demanded amusement from the land
and the land created the dance of the sand.
The sand would fly throughout the desert space
for the sun to bestow her grace.
The act would make a storm and erase
any proof of fate and leave no trace.
The townspeople never spoke of the event,
but you must know what happened to an extent
when small ones run away at the advent
of these storms, the sands erase all torment.
You must vow to not wander from the road
when the sands hear the sun's lovely ode
and feel the need for a storm to explode
to dance and bury us all, as the sun foretold.
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 10:02 PM UTC
In my thoracic cavity is a clock
that rhythmically sounds tick, tock.
Pumping blood through my body
giving my hands an opportunity
to point out a good quality
And a fault.
It is good that you know I am with you
but a fault is found in this sad room
as sounds of this hospital's gloom
absorb into my aching brain
I almost miss your words full of pain
what you said will always stay.
"I think of days of old
days of gold
days that told
us to cling and hold
onto occasions
that you and I had.
Days I thought could not go bad
Days I thought could not go bad."
Your clock ticks, but it would not tock
arrhythmic palpitations hold your body in lock
arms turn into stiff, limp imitations of parts
your body can find out how to start
its own trip into that forlorn dark
with no comfort from a singing lark.
I'm no lark, I bring no comfort of dawn
but I'll stay up with you as you yawn.
Your soul's windows full of worry
build up this notion your light will go in a hurry.
I vow to you as your light grows old
that you and I had days of gold
that you and I had days of gold.
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 12:35 AM UTC
Follow the odd northern winds
with just some sense of indifference.
Do not become glued to the ground
its toxicity will weigh you down.
So push yourself up, fly with the wind
twist, turn, spin with the debris.
Twirl with those stuck in the breeze
enjoy the feeling of weightlessness
the kind the ground never could give.
Fly through the sky, throughout the night
do not stop even when it becomes light.
It is best to ignore the ground below
since it is not good for you, trust me, I know.
I just need you to vow to me right now
don't look down
don't look down
don't look down
Jul 12, 2018
Jul 12, 2018 at 1:22 AM UTC
My wrist begins to flutter
Eyes launch a dilation
Thoughts descend to encounter the lead
All to create a selection of words
Words.
Developed by 26 letters
Colliding and stringing together
As a whole
Consisting of vowels
Meaninglessly rising to the top
Attaining popularity
Among the rest of the 21 others
And consonants
Creeping and crawling
Just to be acknowledged
B,C,D,F,G,H,J… and so forth
Nevertheless
It can’t be done nor spelled without
A, E, I, O, U.
Y, O, U. You.
One consonant
Two vowels
But a word
Filled with power
Who are you?
Are you the Z creeping and crawling
just to be acknowledged?
Or are you the A
meaninglessly rising to the top?
Unity
Just like the millions of words in usage
Formed by both consonants and vowels
We also need each other, from A-Z and everything in between
26 individuals
Each one with a certain ability
To be capitalized.
Which letter are you?
The letter awaiting its turn to be first?
From A, B & C's
Uniting with L, M, N, O, & P’s
To make a bigger “picture”
A bigger, story.
Now in this time
More than ever
We need unity between man
To form something bigger
Unity
It starts with U
A letter nevertheless
But also Y, O, U
Now it's completely up to you
How are you going to write your story?
How are you going to string together the vowels and consonants?
Because in the end
The only one that can create a perfect ending
To your own story
Is A, E, I, O, you.
Oct 8, 2017
Oct 8, 2017 at 10:29 PM UTC
Yesterday an old,
dusty notebook appeared on
my desk which I have
never thought to read
or even open again.
It was the book of
days filled with your words;
heart shards of mine which I kept
for another life;
for another me.
But now on I cannot tear
apart my gaze from
its pages for I yearn
to morph into one with your
own vowels and consonants.
Nov 27, 2016
Nov 27, 2016 at 1:18 PM UTC
Each time I opened my mouth, it felt like I was speaking in vowels. A-E-I think you are an angel.
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 3:28 AM UTC
I opened my mouth and it felt like my soul was speaking in vowels. And what came only ever sounded a little like Y-O-U.
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 3:23 AM UTC
vowels veering
tongues twisting
mouths moulding
words wavering
sounds sliding
and everything changes.
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 5:16 AM UTC
Men with your sort of name are dangerous.
The way each letter makes your tongue work as if it knew you would never be easy.
The way you sound sharp and ready to break me like the bones you wear.
You carry the weight of ghosts I'll never know, the way each vowel kisses the next.
Men like you are dangerous, and your obscurity makes you all the more sinister
May 24, 2015
May 24, 2015 at 7:38 PM UTC
i still spell gray
with an a
not an e
in my po-etry
does it matter
to the grammar?
hoo's to say
says the owl
to the vowel
it's a gray area.
r ~ 10/17/14
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 4:59 PM UTC
Vowels
Your eyes Your eyes
My hand My hand
Your heart Your heart
Our soul
Oct 2, 2014
Oct 2, 2014 at 9:44 PM UTC
I used to think that all of them were just bodies. She-figures, they came and went, facilitating infinite happiness and following with hellacious heartbreak, aorta explosions galore. They pass. I stay. She goes. I remain. We all take a trip, but she falls asleep while I follow the road, I sing the song, make the lyrics up as the 101 heads West, and I careen against the Pacific. I see silvery-white plumes of whale breaths spouting, they break the rocks of my rock and roll. When the levee breaks, we'll have no place to go- I'm going back to Chicago.
California. Line 5. Verse 1. She is born in Arkansas, in Denver, in New York City, in the back of a taxi cab, her parents waiting for a table at Earth Cafe, 1989. There are concerts, balconies, elevator shafts, and on benches. The gain rises, the volume up and up and up, I offer her a cigarette, I ask her if she likes my dress, I show up with two palms full of a flame, and I say hello. Browsing in high-definition, the water is warm, my feet are planted and I have everywhere to go. Classical emporium of light fill me with ease, greatness, and belief. She asks me if I'm gay. Every great confusion can be proven to be fortuitous with enough time on hand. I kiss in cars, in bathrooms, and barrooms, in hallways, on staircases, on beds, church steps, and legs. I touched a leg, ran my fingers through her hair, my thumbs curved to the height of two ears alongside a size B head. I love art ***** i burn candles, and I swirl the wax around until the walls wear masks of white. I check-in to a hotel. I stop to buy wild flowers on the side of the road, or to climb down a ravine, we open a page into an enormous patch of strawberries, wind-surfers, and the golden Palo Alto beaches. I am in Bronzeville, on my way to Bridgeport, I am riding the train, browsing magazines, and singing new songs in my head. My lips are wet with excitement and the musings of the Modern Art Museum and the gift of a first kiss; behind the statue on Balcony 2, near the drinking fountain, the Eames couch, and two lips meeting anew. Bravery in twos.
Chapter 1, Verse 2. The chorus is large and exciting. New plastic shining coats. Smocks patterned with the Random House children's stories that we played with as children. We didn't wear gloves, or hats, or pants, or our hearts on our sleeves. I was up to my knees in hormones and very persuasive. My fifth birthday was at the Nature Center, you chased me into the boys' bathroom and kissed me with your wet and four year old lips in the second stall from the door. I eased up maybe 2% since then. The speakers are a little bit fuzzy, it's like listening to the spit of someone's tongue cascade the roof of their mouth while they pronounce the British consonants of the 90s. Said and done and saving space.
I am saving up for Grace. A crush in the mid 2000s, black hair, long legs, and the only brunette for a decade before or after. We played doctor, with the electric scalpel we turned our noses red with Christmas time South American powders. A safe word for an enemy, the sun for an enemy too. You bolted out and took my early Jimi Hendrix Best Of compact disc case too. While we're at it, you took my Michael Jackson cassettes as well. I go mid-range, think Kiri Te Kanawa in the whispers of E.T.'s Elliot. Stuffed-animal closet party for seven minutes in heaven. Your family came with butlers while mine came with over-educated storage. A blue borage sky in the intestines of life, a splinter in the shanty-town of invincible daily struggles- both of us were born again in O'Hare Airport's Parking Level D. Too many nonsensical arguments in two-tone grayscale ripping open the packaging of a course about trysting in your twenties.
Your stomach's history is overpowering. It is temperamental, mettled by spirits and sleepless nights, borborygmus, wambles, and shades of nervousness you were never comfortable speaking openly about. The history of your ****** was privatized, in options and unedited films shot over and over candidly by a mini DV desk camera, nine months to read you wrong to weep in strong wintry walks back and forth from The Buckingham to the Dwight Lofts, Room 408 without a view. All of your secrets in a little miniature of a notebook, bright cerise red. You captured teardrops in medicinal jars meant for syringes. You tied strings to your fingers, named your field mouse Ginger, and introduced your mother as Lady Darling. Captain with stingray skin, the hide of Ferris Bueller with the coattails of James Bond, dusted with daisy pollen, and clearly weakness. You ate me like bitter herbs on Thursdays, and like every other woman I've ever met, on Tuesdays you always kept me waiting.
I have wings for everything. Yellow wings for a woman in a yellow dress, Red, White, and Green wings for Bernice from Mexico City, Purple wings for Mrs. Doolittle the doctor who worked at Taco Bell, the Jamaican priestess who was traveling through Venice Italy- we smoked hash with the grandchild of James Joyce on the Northern pier against the aurulent statues of Apollo and Zeus, Cupids' collection of malevolent tricks, SleepingB Beauty's rebuttal in fending off GHB attackers, my two dear friends who were kidnapped in clothes, abandoned in the **** and only remember eating chocolate donuts with sprinkles and the bruises and dirt on the insides of their thighs. Nothing clever. Nothing extraordinary. Everything sentimental, built to withstand soot, sourness, and early female bravado.
You know how to play the piano so you've said, but i only have the CD you gave me to prove it. I do have evidence of your addiction to men and ******* I have your collection of dresses with tags still on them (but every woman has some of those), there is the post office box in Kauai, the Halloween card from last November and the two videos I have stored on an external drive in a nightstand adjacent to the foot of my bed. You sleep atrociously, talk too quickly, and **** like your father abandoned you when you were five. Your talent for taking photographs is like your skill-set for playing the piano, but I don't have the CD to prove it. You don't believe in social media, social consistency, friendships, or hephalumps and woozels- with the exception of the classes we shared together in college, I've never seen you outside of the most glamorous of fashion. You hate flats, hats, and white wine, and for as sad as you can seem to be at times, I've only had you cry on me once. While we were on the phone, three days after your mother hung herself. That's when I last left California, and I haven't been back yet.
I love a Kristine, but once a Britni, a Brandi, a Joni, a Tina, Kristina, Kirsten, Kristen, and a Katherine and Kathryn too. I know rock stars who are my dearest friends, enemies who I share excellent taste in music with, and parents who've always had my back but show it in lashings of the tongue and of the belt. It's been two years and three states since I was two sizes smaller than I am now. I've never considered the possibility that I was the main character and not the supporting actor, but due to recent developments in antipathy and aesthete, reevaluation, and retrospective nostalgia. All of this is about to change.
I am me still evolving without my usually stolid and grim ****** features. i bare brevity to situations existing that would **** most or in the least paralyze a great many. There is one for every hour of every day, and one for every minute in every hour, second in every minute, and more than the minutes in every day. No one has a second chance, shares a different time, or works off a different clock. I have been called the master of the analog, king of the codependent, and rook to queenside knight. I share a parabola for every encounter, experience, and endeavor. I am three minutes from being a cadaver, one drink away from a drunk, and one thought away from being completely alone. I think upright, i sleep horizontally, and I love infinitely. I am the only finite constant i have ever known. I am the main character, the script, satire, sarcasm, and soundtrack are mine.
"I don’t care if you believe it. That’s the kind of house I live in. And I hope we never leave it.”*
*There's A Wocket In My Pocket by Dr. Seuss
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 4:25 AM UTC