"cava" poems
Deoxygenated blood flows from the body to the right side of the heart through the Vena Cava.
From the Vena Cava to the Right Atrium.
From the Right Atrium through the Tricuspid valves.
Through the Tricuspid valves to the Right Ventricle.
Up the Pulmonary Artery.
Through the semi-luner valves.
Out the pulmonary artery.
To the lungs.
Blood becomes Oxygenated
Oxygenated blood flows from the lungs to the left side of the heart through the Pulmonary Vein.
From the Pulmonary Vein to the Left Atrium.
From the Left Atrium through the Bicuspid valves.
Through the Bicuspid valves to the Left Ventricle.
Up the Aorta.
Through the semi-luner valves.
Out the Aorta.
Oxygenated blood is sent around the body.
Blood becomes Deoxygenated
Deoxygenated blood flows from the body to the right side of the heart through the Vena Cava........
SO If you tell me your heart is "literally broken" just don't.
It isn't broken.
It just hurts.
It's just feels horrible.
Painful.
A feeling that hurts you and feels like your heart hurts so much that it's actually broken.
But your heart doesn't actually hurt.
It's just a feeling.
The cycle stills goes on.
It is still functioning.
So, next time you feel your "heart breaking" and literally being "torn apart",
Remember...
Deoxygenated blood flows from the body to the right side of the heart through the Vena Cava.
From the Vena Cava to the Right Atrium.
From the Right Atrium through the Tricuspid valves.
Through the Tricuspid valves to the Right Ventricle.
Up the Pulmonary Artery.
Through the semi-luner valves.
Out the pulmonary artery.
To the lungs.
Blood becomes Oxygenated
Oxygenated blood flows from the lungs to the left side of the heart through the Pulmonary Vein.
From the Pulmonary Vein to the Left Atrium.
From the Left Atrium through the Bicuspid valves.
Through the Bicuspid valves to the Left Ventricle.
Up the Aorta.
Through the semi-luner valves.
Out the Aorta.
Oxygenated blood is sent around the body.
Blood becomes Deoxygenated
Deoxygenated blood flows from the body to the right side of the heart through the Vena Cava.............
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 5:39 PM UTC
So here I am.
Within your heartstrings.
I like to think I flow through your mind like blood flowing through your superior vena cava.
Constant;
And non-chalant.
And there you are.
Rolling and rolling and tumbling around the empty train station in my mind.
Like a tumble ****
Where did you come from?
Were you ever really mine?
What is the color of my eyes?
Grey, like the clouds.
At least that's what they tell me.
But you aren't here very often and only sometimes do you come around with your talent of using words to your advantage even though I'm the only person who sees through your fake persona and too long brown lucious hair.
But this one's for you.
Just like the one I wrote when I first started but that was a different story.
That had a different meaning.
A different message.
That one said;
"I love you."
This one says;
"I still do."
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 12:52 AM UTC
*Such a lovely ring, she said.
It even looks good on my ugly hands.
As if those hands were lacking.
As if those hands –
hard working hands –
Bore no beauty of their own.
My mother’s hands,
That held the soap
To scrub my baby toes;
Whose hands were there
To show me how
To blot my runny nose.
Those hands that later
held my hands
And patiently did teach me
How to tie my shoes -
Then held them once again
To coax and guide my own
To write my cursive name
Until the time when I alone
Could do the very same.
My mother’s hands,
That fed me,
And tucked me in at night;
Who touched my fevered brow
And soothed away my fright.
My mother’s hands,
That all my life
Gave comfort, care and hope.
And when my children came to be,
I watched my mother’s hands -
a new grandmother’s hands -
Touch my children, tenderly.
My mother’s hands,
Yes, weathered by their toil,
The fingers wide,
And aged with years –
and just like her,
Still sure and strong
Yet gentle as they ever were.
My mother’s hands –
She looks, and says they’re ugly
But I don’t know what to say.
For when I see
My mother’s hands
It’s the beauty of
The love they gave,
Assuring strength
And constant grace
All held within
My mother’s hands.
Lin Cava©*
Nov 14, 2010
Nov 14, 2010 at 5:51 AM UTC
Discoboli of African poetry has now sparked above aphasia
The aphasic silence today breaks eardrums with cacophony
Of the world audience in the by standing duty of workshop tubes,
Executing poetic experiment on the origin of **** poeticus
To link the archaic baboonish proteins to the black chimpanzee
Cradling African man, the sire of all and their poetry.
That when the Chimpanzee blood we poured
Into the African veins of vena cava and aorta,
Feeding the heart with viscosity of nutrition,
And the Chimpanzee blood fell into deadly
Tomperousness like Shakespearean impetuosity
Once seen in Romeo and Juliet, giving timely Birth
To untimely half the yellow Sun
That juxtaposed planet of poetry
Behind the star of tribe as a priority
Condemning to stark oblivion all the fated,
in full uniform of tribal dimunitions, or mimesis.
Ever predated on when tribes form nations.
A time to try the chimpanzee blood in the veins
Of white humanity, battling cynosure
Historically evinced in Antony and his father,
Or Tybalt and Mercurial of mercutio,
Or Macbeth and counterparts
Or Hamlet the Danish and the inheritors of his mother,
As the white blood cells of the white blood,
Militantly attack the white corpuscles
Of the misfortunate chimpanzee,
Converting the later into
A chewer of misfortune.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 11:55 AM UTC
There's an earthy blood-smell to lavender
It surprises you when the nose gets too close
Once you get past the modest skirted blooms
To find the green blood of torn out flower
Fetid black dirt clings to blood ragged roots
Blue-black blood of returning vena cava
Lavender scented babies and lavender tinted men
Planted for eternity underneath fertile soil
And blood-rise suns bake their tender heads
Blood drenched scent tempts the droning insects wing
Their distilled spirits resurrected in hives
Their earthly blood now ours to imbibe.
Oct 14, 2011
Oct 14, 2011 at 1:18 AM UTC
blood curdles
sour milk in a pale blue carton
pushing out of wiry veins
rotten
.
the vena cava
was never meant to hold
ruined plasma
just like the world was never meant to hold
me.
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 9:58 PM UTC
Before they fought, they had simple lives.
Remember them, their loves and their wives.
Others they served and many came home.
They parted from service but went on alone.
Heroes; the wounded, the brave or the scared
Each one fighting hard, standing tough, as he dared.
Returned to their homes, they remember alarms;
Soldiers they served with, their Brothers In Arms.
Into their minds, memories battle their war.
Now home in safety, miss them once more.
All go into battle, braced for the fight
Remember their Brothers In Arms in the night.
Memorial Day calls them, witness to bear -
Such Brothers In Arms, they will always be there.
Lin Cava©
Oct 18, 2010
Oct 18, 2010 at 5:04 AM UTC
The city falls away, gray, as I rise,
my ladies cozy in the glass lift – to seven.
Ten to four. Spot on. No need to worry.
You’d think it were High Tea – be late; no break.
Between five and six, the blasted thing stops!
Me, stuck in a fog, with the Barrister’s waiting.
Before they moved in, taking up all of seven,
I stayed in the mezz., tipping my ladies to the cups.
The lift jolts, jostling the ladies, rattling their tops.
I move out; cups, cakes and savories in rows, like ducks.
“English Breakfast, Darjeeling, Earle Gray”, I say,
wishing the solicitors away, in court today.
A pinched-face woman, aghast at her clocks, rushes in.
I made inquiries today; for the lease of a storefront next door.
Lin Cava ©
Oct 12, 2010
Oct 12, 2010 at 3:55 PM UTC
Autumn’s snap is in the air
Like the crisp crunch of a ripe apple.
I want to gather them up from
The trees, take them home in bushels
Make apple compote,
Apple strudel,
Apple pie!
I want to stuff them into roast duck
With black walnuts and chestnuts.
I want to poach them with some pears
And sour cherries.
I want to make apple tarts with cranberries.
And feed them all to you.
Flour dust still in my hair,
Powdered sugar on my face
To make love to your appetite
With bits of apple goodies
In the crisp Autumn air - somewhere
On beds of leaves bursting bright
All in the colors of Autumn.
You’ll never think of apples
(or tarts) the same way again.
And Autumn, a little more exotic
A little bit ****** something
To look forward to
When Autumn’s snap is in the air!
© Lin Cava
Oct 21, 2010
Oct 21, 2010 at 7:21 PM UTC
*Quiet night, the darkness illuminated by a silver moon
Punctuates my solitude, exposing thoughts restrained by day.
Tip a toast to all I have loved and lost, much too soon
Closing in upon the time, I too, will slip away.
Silver moon, carry me on a winsome dream,
That a night zephyr might take my heart
take this love I hold inside, delivered as a moonbeam
through distances beyond the plotted chart.
Bring my Love safe passage, held within your song
that he may feel my presence, hearken to my call -
an embrace to touch him, hold him fast and long –
to have his heart think of me, in all he can recall.
Silver moon, these gifts must travel true
they must bear up to last throughout the years
to fulfill a need and share as time comes due
memories to comfort a once lost love’s soft tears.
© Lin Cava*
Oct 19, 2010
Oct 19, 2010 at 4:33 PM UTC
*Dewdrops on silk web
Shiny black spider spinning
A blackbird watches.
Lin Cava*
Oct 23, 2010
Oct 23, 2010 at 3:36 PM UTC
Deep ridge,
deplete elitists.
Gold flows, layers,
Dbridge,
enriched tone, gates golden,
heavenly.
San Francisco, incomplete,
switch robes.
Can't be beat, Klitchschos,
barking up the wrong tree,
rich tones.
Switch flows, risk it,
rich tea, gifted.
Unwritten, no gimmicks,
smooth months,
pale ale Guiness.
Wrap presents,
gift wrapped,
signed sealed delivered.
Dispatched,
Spit fires, spit facts,
die for the art.
Mismatched.
Calamity believe, nose dive.
Kamikaze.
No harder, fuel,
nose powder.
White knight in shing armour.
1688,
Spanish Armada.
Cut sharp like barber,
bananas,
permanent like markers,
malleable like lava,
pop like cava.
Polova.
Inscribe minds,
magna carter.
Magnificent bars,
gold tales told.
Slaves sold, reigns over.
Cold shoulder,
rainbow coloured mistakes,
shoulders shudder,
steer clear brother,
execute rudder.
Destitute,
Scuppered.
Destination under breath muttered.
Spread like wildfire,
butters, blindman, blackout,
blinds again, shutters.
Dunces, run ****
Jump **** loose lips,
loosing grip.
Tip of the iceberg.
Tip of the tongue,
no nice words.
Stigmata.
Godfather,
go harder for our forefathers.
The time is ours.
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 4:35 AM UTC
you played me like a mandolin,
striking notes like broken glass
in the space between your wayward sheets.
your hands were my compass,
your eyes the Adriatic Sea-
and I plunged into the depths
like an albatross,
fawning over wide open spaces
and beautiful colors.
yes, you played me like a symphony,
my body ebbing and flowing
in ghastly syncopation.
notes like honeysuckle and lilac
coursing through my bloodstream-
capillaries to venules to veins to the vena cava
and straight on into my heart.
and you'd be ecstatic to know
that I haven't heard such a haunting refrain
since you went away.
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 11:05 AM UTC
*The Kestrel and the Dove
Friday night
Saturday afternoon
Sunday in the morning
you are quiet
a ghostly wisp;
a gossamer veil:
a scent on the breeze
I recall the doves
cuddled together in their tree
coo-cooing gentle love songs
even as they sleep
and I wonder
Are you coo-cooing once more?
…and is she of the same feather?
…does she sing to you a different song
in the same coo-cooing voice she crooned
before
in your not so long ago past?
Your need is strong
to be turtle-doving,
softly loving
and though your tune
is soft and haunting
in those refrains from long ago
you are different,
forever changed.
You are a kestrel,
set free, at last.
The Kestrel and the Dove
though together for this brief hour
can never again
be bound by love.
Lin Cava
31-August-2013*
Aug 31, 2013
Aug 31, 2013 at 1:13 PM UTC
I hear her call me now; Calliope.
She dances in rooms made all of windows,
In delicate tones her calls reach sweetly
Stands naked amongst cast off silken bows.
So lightly she leaps among the sunbeams
Her gift bestowed, poetic cache replete
A tiny figure, seen only in dreams
On her face, her happiness shines complete.
I hear her laughter, tinkling playful sounds -
In her mischief, she will often refuse
To part with her gift, of which, she abounds
I’m glad you found me again, little muse.
© Lin Cava
Oct 30, 2010
Oct 30, 2010 at 7:53 PM UTC
Intertwine our pulmonaries
Pull tight, tie together our coronaries
My superior vena cava resting near yours
Hear that, the sound of opening ventricle doors
Beautiful looking aortas fixed
Winding together as a double helix
This heart of mine will skip a beat
Just so my arrhythmia and yours might meet
This ticker will only continue to tick
If next to yours it may stick
Not a murmur because of bad health
A murmuring of loves bountiful wealth
Atrium to atrium, heart to heart:
Blood's continual pumping, so long as our valves never part.
Dec 24, 2012
Dec 24, 2012 at 6:44 PM UTC
I have built this wall,
brick by brick.
I’ve mortared it all,
sturdy and thick.
I remember the time
I was washed in forgiveness
my face wet with tears -
my sense of self released
as I lost that heavy load.
I turn, and start another
line of bricks,
heavy with the mortar
until it sticks.
Each year the wall gets thicker
and the light is sometimes thin.
Each week the wall gets higher
so that nothing will get in.
Still, I can remember when
I was stripped of all my woes,
the weight of sin washed clean,
burdens lifted from me
to feel that touch within.
I turn, and start another
line of bricks.
Heavy with the mortar
Until it sticks.
It has been many years
since I began this wall.
I've spilled too many tears
as the bricks built up so tall.
And though the memories
allow the light’s way in,
I know - deep inside of me,
I’ll not break down again.
I have built this wall,
brick by brick.
I’ve mortared it all,
sturdy and thick.
I know that when it’s done,
I've placed the last brick of this room,
that when, at last, I’m through,
it will become my tomb.
Lin Cava©
Oct 30, 2010
Oct 30, 2010 at 8:06 PM UTC
A serene cottage upon a dreary hillside
Where my mind's listless galaxy of neurons
Synapse in the absolute darkness,
Is painted in Victorian hues, cold and haunting.
Dejection rains down from the leeward sky
With nothing harkened save for the ocean's
Stormy roar and a desolate lighthouse,
Beckoning through the fog and memoirs of the past.
The deeper my soul is carved out with sorrow,
The deeper the hollow can be filled with joy.
But alas, I feel nothing of joy but only a void
Left by the dagger of yesterday's darkening tragedies.
I feel the rain soothe my skin and kiss my cheek
Like the sweetest lover on midnight's embrace,
Yet my moth-eaten quilt of memories only seems
Enough to shelter our legs but ne'er our feet.
My heart feels the warmth of an autumn fire,
Kindling in the crisp rain, bleeding beneath
A rose where we burn in the endless torture
Of our own despondence.
I can feel the blood in my veins turning to fire
As I imagine her fingertips unzipping my spine
As though it were full of secrets and mysteries
Unbeknowst to myself...
I can feel the inferno that rages within my aortic arch
Every moment I imagine losing myself within her
Eyes, glimmering like an eclipse over a midnight
Sea...the Sleepless Coventry.
She unlocks my secrets and weaves them in the bouquet
Of tendrils in her hair like ribbons of crimson and light,
Waving in the vehement northerlies with numbing scents
Of argan and spice.
Her body is but a canvas wrapped neatly around a
Paper mache skeleton, the most beautifully tragic
Foundation known to humanity...
She arrives right on the equinox to set fire to my sorrow,
Intoxicating me with her kiss and infecting me with her smile.
And so enters the conflagration of my soul,
An annihilation of light, blackening my coronary
Artery whilst shooting smoke through my cinnamon
Whiskey tainted veins.
'Tis hard to look through such a misconstrued lens
As such, the Vena Cava Kaleidoscope...
Where the flames burn through the galaxy of neurons
Expending the harrowing memories as its fuel.
I can see the magnetic alloy of her Cobalt eyes reflecting
The fire that consumes me from the inside out.
She pulls on me like the moon pulls upon the tide
As she whispers with her soft, enamored sigh.
I burn in my silent knowing, my liquid mind
Awakening in fervor and strange euphoria.
I burn for the Aurora Infinite.
Jul 28, 2015
Jul 28, 2015 at 3:08 PM UTC
Beating of drums and the midnight fires;
heroes and children shed blood in the sand
waging war for political liars.
Do what the situation requires.
through strikes of panic in a foreign land -
beating of drums and the midnight fires.
Desert beauty, a thing that inspires,
won’t save child martyrs, dead by their own hand,
waging war for political liars.
Sacrifice all, for Allah admires
a strong willed martyr to play as they can;
beating of drums and the midnight fires.
Light up the night for wasted desires.
Mother will love you as part of the plan;
waging war for political liars.
Heroes or children, each of them tires -
forfeit of future; all he acquires;
beating of drums and the midnight fires;
waging war for political liars.
Lin Cava©
A Villanelle has some very specific rules for the form. The repetition sets up a cadence; a particular rhythm. This is one of my first of the form.
Oct 25, 2010
Oct 25, 2010 at 4:00 PM UTC
When tenderness turns away,
Hope breathes a final sigh.
Life reverts to shades of grey –
Love, once fluid, turns brittle and dry.
Zephyrs that often piqued an interest
And brought exotic dreams to fore –
Die as doldrums, unimpressed;
To leave one haunted, wanting more.
If Passion is Love's celebration,
The verve and spirit of its vigor -
Then Tenderness is its reflection –
In absentia; brings callousness and rancor.
In the quiet times, when passion sleeps -
Touch me softly in tenderness-
Delicate wonders that Love's company keeps
To remind me again with sweet gentleness.
Alas, when tenderness turns away,
Lost to deaf ears, that final sigh –
Love is loathe to wait or to stay,
Hearts cease to beat and Love does die.
Lin Cava©
Oct 20, 2010
Oct 20, 2010 at 4:35 PM UTC
*To think we might go terraforming;
When we cannot save our own green earth.
Bulldoze, clear, hydrate, land conforming -
Leave behind the trash with carefree mirth
Lost to eyes that have never perceived
Intrinsic beauty within a leaf
The song of nature, gifts we’ve received
Perfumed zephyrs, their aroma brief
A symphony of insects and birds
Trills and whistles, loud winds and soft sighs
Music here that needs no spoken words
Had they noticed how it softly dies?
We’ve pushed beyond a safe redemption
Killed off species never discovered
So much more of which we can mention
Some, much too late to be recovered
And yet, we plan on terraforming
Move on to a new place, start out fresh
Some might see it as bullish storming
With ways unchanged, new worlds we enmesh.
Lin Cava©*
Oct 28, 2010
Oct 28, 2010 at 5:20 PM UTC
Kiss me only with sweet poetry
Dance with me only with your words
I live in a room there
Hidden between the lines
Carry the touch of your heart on wings
Given flight in lyrical symmetry
So your music can play me safely
Where my heart answers back
A taboo – never to be
Examined like lost stones -
Mettle never to be tried
By time or hardship.
The gift, a safe harbor
To immure stubborn affections
For what can never be.
Lin Cava ©
Oct 13, 2010
Oct 13, 2010 at 3:59 PM UTC
*-Remembered-
*
He is gone
has been gone
long before his life-light
blinked out.
In the wake of who he was
is emptiness
a chasm only he could fill -
now barren of his uniqueness
In his lingering
I saw the proof
that life is neither
fair, nor just
We have but one life
and many choices
When it’s through
there is no more
We bear our burdens
of poor choices
bearing witness to our
mistakes, or lack of purpose
And we ponder
near the end
feeling the hard pain
of having wasted time
Never wasteful, he was a man
who did not need to ponder
he took up the cause
of his fellows in life
Life’s circumstances; beyond the control
of the accident of our birth
become our burdens,
and change; our redemption
He filled the many lives he touched
with happiness, support and reason
He helped, when help was needed
and he Served; hard but well
For such a man is a hero
in many ways
and should not pass
through a lingering chasm
But life is not fair, nor just
and mankind has tinged
our natural outcome
by un-natural measures
He is missed, and the emptiness
more pronounced for the living
because of who he was
how he filled their lives and hearts
In memory, we must celebrate
for we all were touched
by a quietly remarkable man
Our lives ever improved for it.
I shall return to his gravesite
And place a stone upon it
For as long as a stone, is a stone -
He will be missed.
©Lin Cava
14th March - 2013*
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 10:59 AM UTC
Etta James, singing “At Last” behind me now,
lights turned low, two fingers of Drambuie on ice
the air carries the aroma of desert roses,
green fern and damp mossy bark; the gift of a posy.
The scent reminds me of the quick light rains
tapping in the afternoon, making love to thirsty
new greens, coaxing them up to reach for more.
My body reacts to the thought, arching up.
Sips of warming golden liquid, the cold ice
a give-and-take of restrained contrast,
until the liquid has all been consumed –
and the ice remains, bearing the spirit upon it.
Contributions to reflections in sensuality,
The ice, captured up quickly from the glass
held in deft fingers, neatly, to paint their
cold upon my lips, sipped within a warm mouth.
The cold, diminished cube, dances on the tongue.
I rise; the glass left behind, and come to you –
Face to face, eye to eye. The kiss shares the cool
as the ice passes between us, to melt in loves flame.
Eyes close, now drinking in another kiss,
I feel myself surrender to the flame that rises up.
Once more I am arching within your arms,
strong, gentle hands contain me, stoking the fire.
I am released, free to feel all that is within –
to bring it to the surface; without question - to share…
The heady scent of longing fills me, fueling passion
The ice, a forgotten prelude to love’s rendezvous.
Lin Cava ©
Oct 19, 2010
Oct 19, 2010 at 4:36 PM UTC
I don't want to write about the cold, the wind,
The rain or these January doldrums.
England at this time of year is desperate and depressing,
And I'm longing for warm breezes, nighttime teases
A pregnant, chuckling moon at midnight. August dances,
Wild advances, stolen, secret, hungry glances.
Magic, confusion, summer scents
BBQ, Samsara, Bacardi and Cava,
And the kind of flowers that try to impregnate you with their scent;
Smell me! they plead, *then kiss as I burst, spilling my pollen,
Blessing the union of your hungry, eager mouths.*
January is barren but August is ripe, heady, ready,
Moist and pulsing, life is in the air,
Flee the doldrums, take me there.
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 2:52 PM UTC