"coruscations" poems
A match strikes not for limbo
But for tepid coruscations to warm a soul.
By assumption she is not her own.
The quintessence of a life when received--
A curio to collect dust and fissure.
What will you do
with a heart that is not your own?
Feb 11, 2012
Feb 11, 2012 at 8:17 PM UTC
here, there is not much to look
at. in this 3 AM tapestry,
the moon cloaking itself
in profound dark, stark and unseen,
stars borrowing their coruscations
from their white mother
in choreographed intermissions.
only a swan-song undelivered
an a dwarf carved in noiseless stone. the bougainvillea casts
its webbed shadow on the concreted canvas. soon, the night will turn
rattling in its black bed, and then clamber back to its resignation
and the identical day of yesterday's inception will revisit
us through interstices of leaves,
forking these illuminations
without allegories nor travails,
just light and its lenient pedagogy.
there is not much to gaze at,
let alone speak to, in this
deepening spectacle. only
this swan-song that remains a secret between i and this indomitable figurine.
the moon stilled in its lulled repose, stars minding their own
saturations, as the day is in close transit, nearly opening the door of this pale fixture, entering with affable demeanor greeting me
through a hundredfold of anonymous eyes heavy with discernments.
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 3:07 PM UTC
/ rivers pulse this house as if activity, predictable.
leave this body just like that.
and heave the emptiness from the thrum
of the streets just like that
the stars delineate an axis tilted by my means
to live under frail coruscations.
take this house, take the rivers
with you, all the more my body
anything other than my blunder.
take even, these tiny and immediate currents
as i hear this is how it is to be delivered from
grace and expanse.
you are what this truancy is trying to undo
as you were by mine before -- this is how
it feels to be moved and sidled again and again
this river that you carry me across and left with details none can supply. there
is resolve in this, even when I am taken aback,
which certain things are left crossed and wronged,
and how you keep the place guarded, possessed
by light -- how it wholly hurts, this invented
life all mine /
1
What is to break if not another word for
impossibility, or another phrase as palliative
for suffering each other
2
What is so sure of it to arrive
in the densest minute, say when if already
out of sight, I implore you to
unlearn my body
3
This and the deep and hollow end of it.
Visage voyeurs as if the past is just next door
sleeping with my woman, laughs and then cuts
open to free itself from a slammed door
and mosey on.
4
As statement to refute my coming into,
I am already accomplished. Turn this day opaque.
Lens to the world my found
imperative of what was given, a knife
to stalk a heart so difficult as if known to me
as a path home, or unearthed bus tickets
from Longos to Tabang. Say when it rains,
forgive me. I remember still.
5
To believe in touch and its memory is
obligation. The way I see this, a palimpsest.
I attempt to discover something, witnessing myself
pass mirrors, body found as if rivers do drift
me to the brink of a high noon wishing
to swing downstream the words I have
no use for, if not documents of haloed hours.
6
I passed by your house.
Silence annuls azure skies.
Balustrades gone. They took everything down
evenly to the last inch of paint,
balmy this oblivion only for me, catatonic is this
peace as my hands lift a piece of the soul
to shred. The day burns like a forest in my hand.
May 15, 2016
May 15, 2016 at 8:18 PM UTC
Impugn shall if not your eyes are meager coruscations. Self-refuting, explanatory of its given berth.
This is the unsolicited onus of addressing it: heart rears static splayed, intercepted by
this question.
Stigmatize this if performance of, merely a concert. There is rigor stiffening the veins when ensanguined
from much gnawing of the uncontrolled sharpness of impressions. I think of ways to mend,
and when unable, means to bend.
Settle this once and for all and here is how. If perhaps an admission of something, let me see clearer
than this makeshift fog. Pave me a railroad somewhere, or house a station.
All of this waiting, all of this silence chastising what noise needs to be freed.
Pretend to be carrying a statue. Curse in a different language. Show what it means to be wronged
when the incompleteness of evidence merits a conjecture – this is your punishment,
to see me in false light and dislimn our quite fate:
it will be long before there is the clearest answer, the apparatus to straighten,
to muffle the sound, and put light into this beating.
May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 11:00 PM UTC
smoke ascends
into a thin streak
hauled by wind's crane.
tacit coruscations peer through
the cityscape without lasso.
revealing
light's snickersnee
and then guts the silence
with it,
pares it back
to an ember's nascent form.
in the womb of death
is i,
lips puckering to blow
a nebula of a new world,
ingesting all its hell
and expires
a circumambulating heaven,
sealing all fates,
a sepulchral nativity.
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 11:29 AM UTC
You are the star
That I seek
Whenever I'm drowning
In the murky depths
Of a dark turbulent sea
When the pale moonlight
Fades between the stormy skies
And Im caught in the undertow
Desperately struggling
To find a way out
That's when I look up for you
With desperate eyes
And there you are
Wearing that same stoical smile
Shining like a diamond
Brighter than the sun
The divinity that you exude
Gives me infinite strength
You illuminate my path
When shadows become bigger than before
With your radiant coruscations
You gently guide me ashore
Apr 17, 2018
Apr 17, 2018 at 9:47 AM UTC