"diminishes" poems
I like immigrants, immigration. Legal immigration,
Jane passionately corrects. Actually my goal is a borderless world.
Gathering the neighborhood like family.
The men discuss sterilizing welfare mothers. I say You're working
around the edges,
humanity has exceeded the carrying capacity of the planet,
even those with jobs. And spouses. And houses.
Yet it's an idyll of an early summer evening, new cut grass,
two baseball teams of children playing in it. Safe from Pakistan.
News photos of Muslim refugees, women in blue robes, biblically
carrying children away from holocaust. The fundamentalist army
not far behind, beheading sinners, sure in its righteousness
as the Holy Roman Empire.
Somehow Joel Osteen the evangelist comes up
while talking about how the Catholic Church is irrelevant in North
America,
even Latin America and Africa are going evangelical.
Izzi likes Osteen, awesome extemporaneous speaker, no teleprompter,
up from bootstraps message. My wife says he's probably Jewish.
Fortunately no one claims the Holocaust never happened or slavery
was voluntary.
What is the carrying capacity of the planet?
In China is it each couple or each adult that gets one offspring?
As life expectancy and standards rise,
family size diminishes. We draw together into greener, tighter cities.
The children of three monotheistic religions, atheists and agnostics
play in city streets, work farm fields, explore forests, deserts,
grasslands, space.
Two ancient female poets: Enheduanna and Sappho
are a revelation. The clarity of their complaints:
lost lover, lost city.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 10:48 AM UTC
For Al, who left us
With each passing poem,
The degree of difficulty of diving ever higher,
Bar incrementally niched, inched, raised,
Domain, the association of words, ever lesser,
Repetition verboten, crime against pride.
Al,
You ask me when the words come:
With each passing year,
In the wee hours of
Ever diminishing time snatches,
The hours between midnight and rising,
Shrinkage, once six, now four hours,
Meant for body restoration,
Transpositional for poetic creation,
Only one body notes the new mark,
The digital, numerical clock of
Trillion hour sleep deficit, most taxing.
Al, you ask me from where do the words come:
Each of the five senses compete,
Pick me, Pick me, they shout,
The eyes see the tall grasses
Framing the ferry's to and fro life.
Waving bye bye to the
End of day harbor activities,
Putting your babies to sleep.
The ears hear the boat horns
Deep voiced, demanding pay attention,
I am now docking, I am important,
The sound lingers, long after
They are no longer important.
The tongue tastes the cooling
Italian prosecco merging victoriously
With its ally, the modestly warming rays
Of a September setting sun,
finally declaring, without stuttering,
Peace on Earth.
The odoriferous bay breezes,
A new for that second only smell,
But yet, very old bartender's recipe,
Salt, cooking oil, barbecue sauce, gasoline
And the winning new ingredient, freshly minted,
Stacked in ascending circumference order, onion rings.
These four senses all recombinant,
On the cheek, on the tongue,
Wafting, tickling, blasting, visioning
Merging into a single touch
That my pointer finger, by force majeure,
Declares, here,
poem aborning!
Contract with this moment,
now satisfied!
Al, what you did not ask was this:
With each passing poem,
I am lessened within, expurgated,
In a sense part of me, expunged,
Part of me, passing too,
Every poems birth diminishes me.
_________________________________
(this poem more than most,
for its birth celebrates
my loss, your loss,
which cannot be exonerated 8/7/18)
_________________________________
written at 4:38 AM
September 8th, 2012
Greenport Harbor, Long Island
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 7:07 AM UTC
I peruse exhibits through the modern art museum
Nails hammered into wood
And trash strewn on the floor
I couldn't help thinking
What the **** is this ****
These can't be the champions of modern art
Moonlight and Arrival morphed my empathy and perspective
The theater is fine
Music is there for those inclined to discover it
So what about visual art?
I know a few things for certain
Nails hammered into wood never changed my perspective
Nor does seeing a garbage can in a museum affect my empathy
Trash is not art
Trash is trash
Waste meant to be thrown in the proper receptacles
So as not to obstruct our view of true beauty
I will concede that
Beauty can be found in everything
Depending on analyzation variation
But those that live an examined life
Constantly see silver linings and sour grapes
Experiencing comfort in tundras to the point of banality
Those visions are much more interesting
in their organic state anyway
As opposed to an interpersonal expression of the seemingly obvious
So what to hang in an art gallery?
I have my own opinions
At this point in time
No visuals elicit more emotions
Than dank memes
When I'm consuming art
Questions are innate in my consumption
Is this a vessel for empathy?
Is this examining the human condition?
Dank memes meet those criteria
Satirizing the powerful
Highlighting emotions and virtues in ourselves
That we're either proud or ashamed of
Memes share a common thread with poetry
In the sense that everybody can create memes
Or be a poet
I get the impression that
Universality of art diminishes it's importance
In the minds of patrons
There's an element of truth to that
But what makes art special is quality
And what makes art truly special is high quality
And that's what belongs in museums
Jun 14, 2017
Jun 14, 2017 at 11:23 PM UTC
He died ages ago,
She was depressed,
Waiting for her body to be taken away,
He left behind only memories,
Every night she sleeps in his bed,
She can smell his scent in his pillow,
The clothes she wears,
All bear his scent,
He may have left nothing but vague memories,
But his scent diminishes his absence.
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 3:22 AM UTC
***What if I say, I am not like the others?
Are you afraid of seeing my bloodshot eyes?
It ain’t a delusion of your vision
It ain’t a theory of your hostile mind
Its just an authority to reveal high
As you ****** up in the midnight.
What if I declare, I like to be a pothead?
It ain’t a crime of your filthy society
It ain’t a ****** of your hypersexual beauty
Its just a power to absorb black hole
As you get dissolved in the infinity.
What if we believe, we are united peace?
Our intoxication could never be slayer as your humanity diminishes
Our immune could never be a flame as your democracy fire burns
Our dealing could never be an acrid as your judgments villainous
Our indignation could never be a pretender as your sensibility veiled
Our lonesome shadow could never be a congress of love as your realization mortifies
And our congregation of morality must have been psychedelic painkiller.
What if we deny, we are insignificant existence?
So, who are you crippling our bloodshot eyes, A Social featherbrain?
Who are you to stop having "dopetherone" in the town, A godly crusader?
Who are you to proclaim the rule against your mind, A phrenetic lawyer?
What if we deny, we are insignificant existence?
What if we believe, we are united peace?
We will keep walking with our head held high.***
April' 2015
Mar 25, 2017
Mar 25, 2017 at 2:07 PM UTC
Where nowhere to go,
But somewhere to be !
My heart seeks for you,
As a bird searches its tree !
Around you I could be me,
As you felt like my home!
You made me a wanderer,
With the courage to roam !
All the pain,
That my heart holds!
Suddenly diminishes,
As your love for me, unfolds!
As I walk with you,
And stand by your side!
I promise to be your half,
Through the storm and the tide!
Shine like a star,
For my vulnerable sky!
As I show you,
How my love gets you high !
Together then we will see,
What feels like a FOREVER!
As you tight my hand,
And I leave you, NEVER
Oct 3, 2017
Oct 3, 2017 at 5:21 AM UTC
If you were granted the gift of temporary flight...
Would you ascend...
Just so you could feast your eyes
on the horizon,
beyond the confines of weather-worn tiles
set upon unsuspecting rooftops.
Would you take soar...
Just so you could briefly leave the ground
below.
And as the land beneath you diminishes,
all that's you tethered to your earth
almost instantly would turn into nothing
but specks of insignificance.
Would you fly free...
Just so your heart could entertain the possibility
of being ensnared by the breathtaking
view of the sun,
as it rests its pompous girth upon its bed of
clouds;
Like a bratty king sprawled over lavish sheets.
Would you burst through the boundary...
That separates heaven and earth.
Just so you could be bewitched by the full blown
moon,
be enthralled by the siren calls of the stars,
and be a part of the spectacle that is the
universe...
If you were granted the gift of momentary flight...
Would you still ascend?
Knowing full well that soon gravity would claim
you with less than no pity nor remorse.
And all that you had complacently forsaken...
Will greet you with the harshest of punishments.
I would.
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 11:18 AM UTC
A scar fading
It’s really like an old scar
No at all a threat,
Which tingles on occasion,
When I’m cold or sick or wet,
It causes no real pain,
It’s loss is not enduring,
But like an old scar,
The memory still clinging,
which only time diminishes,
And two events finishes.
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 12:23 PM UTC
No man is an island,
Entire of itself.
Each is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less.
As well as if a promontory were.
As well as if a manner of thine own
Or of thine friend’s were.
Each man’s death diminishes me,
For I am involved in mankind.
Therefore, send not to know
For whom the bell tolls,
It tolls for thee.
3.4k
And our brother, too, the metal shaman
Reaches up, plucks knowledge from the stars
We chant, guttural grunts, primal urges
And fierce grinding teeth clenching and screeching
The shaman dances and
Reaches up, plucks knowledge from the stars
And we SCREAM shrill
Bare our necks and bring the knife across, ****
A sacrifice to the metal beast
The shaman stares straight up,
Plucks knowledge from the stars
And the blood leaves us
Hair turns grey
Daily exploits lost in deepening wrinkles
The macabre ritual culminates...
The Shaman, unappeased
Laughs like Hyena, cackling
REACHES UP AND PLUCKS KNOWLEDGE FROM THE STARS!
The existential cacophony diminishes
Din dimming
Beast is empty
Bits flow like blood
Ones and zeros in a jumbled pool
The shaman delivers
The family sits around the glowing box
A tribe in an ancient ritual
Flip the switch, change the channel
The children plucking out their eyes
Little blind Oedipus
Smashing faces through the tube
To the life on the other side
Celebrities, products, and reality shows
Forget thought
Present your mind
To the beast
A cinematic ****
Send Damsels to appease the Minotaur
Change the channel
Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 4:03 PM UTC
Which Is Greater?
I break a vow.
A serious vow.
In a place, in this site,
Where the fluid pain
Is the water of the world,
The element that is crux,
The amniotic liquor of creative flux,
The morning juice,
The afternoon caffe,
The first beer of the day,
The liquid that we rinse and spit out our every day,
I will write about pain,
Arrogantly, as if there is any unused combination of
Letters, vowels and consonants left unspoken, *****
Having sworn not to, for pain is cumulative.
Asking myself,
Which is greater?
The pain of creation, inception, origination and birth,
The pain of wreck and ruin, destruction and death.
Homework Self-Assignment: Compare and Contrast
Suddenly, I am expert.
Creating a poem a day is very painful.
A poem that is the sum of
Reflection, research, and purging.
Once I wrote:
*The poem is the afterbirth,
A conflicts resolution, an outcome,
Battlefield debris, the residue of
An exacting vision, a sentiment surging,
And your army of words, inadequate to the task,
Fighting to capture that insight flashed,
Each word a soldier, disheveled,
Crying, let me live, let me be saved,
Let me make a poem,
Let it be inscribed upon my victorious flag.
The poem is the sweat left upon the brow,
Having exercised the five senses,
The salt of struggle and debate,
It's completion, each word,
Both a victory and a defeat.*
Suddenly, I am expert.
My mother is dying.
It is a process. Days pass,
She neither eats or drinks,
Yet she lives on.
I watch each labored exhalation,
A subtraction, a countdown,
It is as if she was returning each singular day,
Every word e're spoke, every dream dreamt,
she ever possessed to the atmosphere,
One breath at a time.
Is that painful?
It is for me.
Now you complain. They're different, not to be compared, et cetera.
Pain is pain,
Whether it is in the service of creation, or
Creative destruction.
Once I wrote:
*With each passing poem,
I am lessened within, expurgated,
In a sense part of me, expunged,
Part of me, passing too,
Every poem's birth diminishes me.*
So, one and the same?
Nope. Yes. But. Cannot one be the greater?
Yes, one is greater.
When I lay on my deathbed,
I will exhale the answer
Into the atmosphere
For your retrieval.
Jul 19, 2013
Jul 19, 2013 at 7:06 PM UTC
Before sleeves fight off chills, leaves begin to pour
Onto the raw ground, outside the window, as if they were tears
That belonged to the trees. Inside the glum house, their star
Is placed on the fridge with a glitter border to catch every eye,
But their own. They try turning away from her making the winning shot
At the basketball game, last season. Below the urn, the firewood burns
To thaw the bitter home, as the light providing candles burn
Out from exhaustion. The mother tip-toes to the kitchen to pour
Away her independence—maybe she’ll come back after the next shot,
Then I’ll stop—into a glass. Since the disaster last winter, silent tears
Can be heard only within oneself, but can be seen in their eyes
By those throughout the town. Not even a wish on a shooting star
Can bring her back now. The father only peeks up at the stars
When he goes for his evening strolls, his faithfulness has burnt
Away since she’s been gone, and everyday gets harder for his eyes
To process his vacant house. The town looks on and prays for the poor
Family, as they drag their feet to church; their son permanently in tears;
Forcing his memory to destroy the images. He ignores everything, but the shot
Echoing in his ears. He saw the blood embracing her after the shot;
Her body sprawled out on the red snow. Their basketball star,
Gone in an instant. This is all he sees—he tries to save her, but the tears
In his mother’s eyes tell him she’s already gone—as he stares into the burning
Fire. He hears his mother clink the bottle to the glass as she pours
Herself another round. He can hear her ask herself, “Why wasn’t it I
Who got struck by that bullet? Why would God even consider the i-
Dea that is was her turn? God, why didn’t you give her another shot?”
The mother takes the last gulp; she reaches for the bottle to pour
Another, but her eyes land on the photo of her fallen star.
She looks away and begins to cry. The fire continues to burn,
Keeping the house warm, as the son stares into the flames and tears
Continue to roll off his warm cheeks. The mother stands there, tears
Run down her face, her husband begins to hug her. In the corner of his eye,
The son sees his parents embracing, as the fire slowly stops burning;
He joins them. They all embrace each other and the echoing shot
Diminishes in the son’s ears. The struggle is not over, and her star
Is not forgotten, but that midnight drink was the last that she would pour.
Years go by, but that night stays burnt in their memories. Not so many tears
Are falling from the trees or eyes, this time of year; only the rain pours,
And at night all that can be spotted is the shot of a shooting star.
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 1:25 PM UTC
The mask of vengeance is not to be confused
with the seepage of hurt and confusion.
Something to blame, to get in the way
of a blazing fire providing.
Kindle it with substance and truth,
but instead with damp lies and gritty sand.
An effort of competence in place
of the evading truth that sometimes
the idea of affinity diminishes
in the hole of bewitching fruits.
A spell to take hold of the clean,
turning ***** in morality. Excuses
to remain pure at heart, blame to never
feel the pain of rejection.
Darkness.
Pain.
Loneliness.
Desperation.
Anointing the headless children without
a thought of the purpose. Watering a rootless
tree, attempting to make it grow.
Mar 20, 2012
Mar 20, 2012 at 7:39 AM UTC
the theory of entropy
A doctrine of inevitable social decline and degeneration.
or
A single toss of a fair coin has an entropy of one bit. A series of two fair coin tosses has an entropy of two bits. The number of fair coin tosses is its entropy in bits. This random selection between two outcomes in a sequence over time, whether the outcomes are equally probable or not, is often referred to as a Bernoulli process. The entropy of such a process is given by the binary entropy function. The entropy rate for a fair coin toss is one bit per toss. However, if the coin is not fair, then the uncertainty, and hence the entropy rate, is lower. This is because, if asked to predict the next outcome, we could choose the most frequent result and be right more often than wrong. The difference between what we know, or predict, and the information that the unfair coin toss reveals to us is less than one heads-or-tails "message",
or bit, per toss.[5]
~~~~~
**one bit per toss
one love per life
over time we entropy,
degrade our physic,
even our heart~need,
tho ever burning,
gives off less heat,
as the candle aged-consumed,
the eighth day canister of love oil,
the sole remainder,
slow level diminishes.
we keep on tossing the coin,
and with every failed love,
the need, entropies, declines,
the coin is worn down,
making tails-you-lose
the greater probability.
but then all it probably takes,
just another toss,
and bit you are
by the coin of the realm
that-once-discovered,
from her, this realm,
this woman,
you will never leave,
nor coin-toss ever again*
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 10:55 AM UTC
"Pain turns hope into scars that burn" ~~ Rose
Painfully aware
Of things I see
And I do not dare
Touch what I believe
One single caress
And hope diminishes
What you're left with
Is empty promises
And unfulfilled wishes
The remnants of faith
Are simply ugly markings
Left upon your body
Causing a fire of darkness
And smoke rising
Made of sadness
That disappears
Into the atmosphere
Until you're left with...
Absolutely nothing
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 4:09 AM UTC
Black candles burn in the same manner as the wick of life diminishes in certain uncertainty.
Pursue what is considered to be attainment whilst geological mockery echoes her laughter in the canyons of inevitability.
We are on the precipice of conception. Do you believe it?
Intellectual supremacy bows her head in humble acknowledgement of eternal principalities.
Give gratitude to the universe, because there is simplicity in what you consider to be complexity. Stop fighting destiny and embrace nirvana.
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 3:47 PM UTC
Don't expect more than the last downfall which first and foremost
made your heart skip a beat at what you thought would be most worth it.
Pick yourself up to sky high heights and wait for falls which must come quickly after what you built this all up to be.
And if you're already falling, then forget you were ever up so high, because an ending to a story is what completes and diminishes all that previously occurred and broke hearts.
The clouds with which you fall through are the haze with which you saw through, and blow hard baby doll, they'll float away behind your plane crash tracks, and you wont hurt so deeply.
The sun is far away and reaching it isn't the greatness you're waiting for, wherein the point you realize is that your fall back to earth is much nicer than reaching your idea of heaven.
Because if you've really touched it, nothing compares...
believe it or not you'll live.
Even after a fall from such a great high.
Subconsciously you'll find yourself up there again and don't take it too seriously, because you'll find yourself plummeting once again.
Just watch your step.
Glass of peace of mind breaks easy love.
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 3:03 PM UTC
Somewhere in the forest
There is a paradise
Hidden in a circus tent
Blocked by a bramble thicket
There are ways we want to live
And ways we must live
But a spectrum is discovered
When the way we must live
Diminishes the way we want to live
And the way we want to live
Dictates the way we must live
We eat and then ****
Life tastes adequate when we're dining
So we keep feeding
Our appetite becomes insatiable
We devour what opportunity grants us
Ignoring the rumbling in our stomachs
Until we must face the unpleasantness of our waste
Even when we're wise enough to know the effects of eating
We continue eating
Learning minor methods of mitigating damage to digestion
It becomes hard to swallow
That this is all it takes to be human
As humanity's power becomes planetary
Meals turn to feasts
And **** piles up
As the rancid fumes plague us with mental monsters
We yearn for a simpler time
When rations were the size of a sunflower seed
And excrement exited as ethereal gas
An age that never existed
The way I wanted to live became the way I had to live
But now that I'm living the way I have to
I can't tell the difference between what I want and what I need
I guess that could be a good thing
Because the space between what I want and what I got
Is where fulfillment is found
Jun 23, 2017
Jun 23, 2017 at 5:10 AM UTC
He looks at her lying there sleeping with a smile on his face
He shuts his eyes
Opens them and sees her beckoning to him
He goes to her
Takes her in his arms and murmurs sweet nothings till she is asleep again
He shuts his eyes
Opens them again and he's still standing there watching her sleep
He watches her as she speaks so animatedly
The light from the harsh fluorescent bulb hardly diminishes the angles, the planes, the beauty of her face
He watched the pleasure in her face turns to sorrow as she recounts her troubles
And as he wished with all his might that he could take her in his arms to comfort her
He shuts his eyes
And opens them
He goes to her
Takes her in his arms
Comforts her as she cries out her anguish
He shuts his eyes
Opens them again
And he's still sitting in his seat
Watching her pour her soul out
He's standing by the door
As she bids him goodbye
She saunters over to him
Hugs him goodbye
As she walked away
He shuts his eyes
Opens them
And hurries over to her
With a whisper as soft as butterfly wings
He says "I'm in love with you"
He shuts his eyes
And opens them again
He's still standing by the door
As she hurried away to her ride
With the words still unspoken
He lay down in his bed
Thinking about the day
As he closes his eyes
He goes back to dreaming about her
Mar 17, 2016
Mar 17, 2016 at 1:46 PM UTC
Music is blaring in my ears and my breathing is becoming staggered
You're invading my mind and I need to run
But I can't run from what's inside of me
And I can't run from what I feel
So I listen to the rhythm of my feet on the pavement
Steady, now.
And I match my breathing to every other step
Even though my mind is racing 100 paces ahead
I know it will eventually lose stamina
And begin retreating
But my thoughts have no intention of stopping
No desire to cooperate
And off they go again.
I'm feeling too much
I'm running in a straight line
But going in circles trying to catch myself
Steady, now.
I can only mask my insanity for so long
I can only run for so long before my pace diminishes
Along with my drive to cap my thoughts
I'm being taken over by my own self
Engulfed in an ocean of emotions
That won't stop trying to drown me
I listen once again to my feet on the pavement
And the tempo of my breathing
Ears picking up the echo of my heartbeat
My heart feels so much
But it still beats its rhythmic cadence in my chest
I want my mind to adapt to that same stability
I am running, but from what?
Steady, now.
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 5:04 PM UTC
5 W's Of The Desert Walker.
WHAT does a man in the heat dream of?
Maybe he dreams of the sweet taste of the rain
What amenities does he seek in a bare sky with only the sun?
He is given an audience with his delusions.
He is granted a moment of peace under his imaginary palm.
He can swim in the dry waters of the oasis till the sand shreds his skin.
WHEN does his vagrant breath retreat?
Maybe as the expired adventure turns to torture?
In a blink his shade diminishes
His view of the horizon brings drought to his tongue
As his fatigue pays homage to the expanding desert.
WHERE does a lost traveler turn when every direction leads nowhere?
Does he look up for divinity?
A panicked man, with his hands to the skies, calls for relief.
But its not the cool he's expecting, its mercy for his soul when his time comes.
WHO does he hear when his eyes begin to fail?
Family, a child, maybe a lover with soft flesh?
Face down in the dunes he can taste the salty blend of the earth.
The voice of his cherished love echoes in his fading consciousness.
A great comfort in his last request.
WHY do we fall down?
Because we're weak and unbalanced.
So we can get back up?
No sometimes we are just not as big as our ego would have us believe.
The road to triumph can be hard to traverse unprepared.
But the value of the experience can be as priceless as the outcome.
-Alexis J. Meighan-
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 8:10 PM UTC
Sleepless nights
moon beams loveless
empty ache within
lost im realms unseen
Softly it kills
swiftly it finishes
consistent and nightly
sweet dreams diminishes
Clouds of shadows
hide the sparkle in my eyes
dilated pupils in the dark
silently eaten apart
Admired but unaccepted
too much yet never enough
wanted but unworthy
embraced yet soon given up
No rest and no restlessness
breathing the darkness numb
these are my consequences
my scars, my secret wars
Sleepless beauty
damsel in distress
bound upon a tower
my heart and I
both longing for slumber
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 6:34 AM UTC
I want to learn everything; everything comprises of everything,
be it the knowledge of the nature or the horizons of the cosmos
I want to canvas over the universe, multiverses;
to paint my reality with a brush of joy.
But, it's tough for me, because I'm dementic
If I decline it while inclining towards a book
Dyslexia obliterates my desires and hurt me badly
If I ignore all this, ADHD comes forward to poke me
with a stick of astounds and pains of eventide
If I cut down the roots of ADHD, S.A.D greets me
and enter to my dark world and enhance its darkness
I'm confused, shattered; directionless in a myopic way
Highly myopic, no direction, but I do have vision
I want to crisscross my myopia to an extent
where it diminishes.
Meningitis, shut up, you *******
Please have mercy on me, I don't deserve U at least,
But do I really need someone to have mercy on me?
I guess no, I can build my own world where
Dementia strengthens my spirits by saying,
Why just Embryology, what secrets do you want to find
Ova is not dependent on a ****** *****
it is a complete YOU.
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 7:06 PM UTC
A dazzling silver light radiates from above
Cryptic little diamonds glimmer in the sky
Fire blazing around me
As I am engulfed in a calming flame.
My heart fills with wonder
There, a glowing hand awaits me
I reach out barely touching it
Stillness overwhelms me.
I open an eye
The fire diminishes,
The hand vanishes,
As my dream slips through my fingertips.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 1:07 AM UTC
I stepped out,
finally, a terrestrial in Istanbul.
My leveled shoulders carried
an empty satchel of undone buckles
To let every fresh sip of raw experience
tumble inside,
my adventures impatiently plucked
from the closest branch
of a banyan tree bearing
a crisscross of endless tales.
I rescued my lungs with air,
thick with resentment while
swallowing astringent flavored symphonies
and ballads of orchestrated ruckus as
women deflated their lungs
blowing out antipathy, through high pitched whistles -
A forgotten kettle blowing off steam.
Adorned in scorn, sardonic welcoming mats lined the airport.
Women pushed at their car horns as if the dragging sound,
like a severing saw can cut through
the tenacity of the ones with innate ear plugs.
They have become obsolete traffic signals -
First, their green light diminishes - like their wages
Then, their red light is dimmed -
it stops too many people in their footsteps.
And thus the world just races past them,
And they are left only with yellow -
Telling them to slow down.
They said it was an act of love.
That their plumped crimson lips,
Glossily complimented with nails
that matched the tails,
of the so-called mile high club
was just too much to handle.
Priming for work meant neglecting their love
for the perfect shade of watermelon lipstick,
No more sweet ketchup fingertips
Showing you the emergency exits. No more,
lipstick stained glasses
of a self made woman.
These cumulating lip kissed glasses
stack up like trophies,
that sway in the heavy panting
of the ones who can’t keep up with this generation.
So the women gracefully conducted the orchestra
and through lipstick stained whistles,
They tried to drown out the dogmatic policies
And with unrelenting strife,
they passed on some advide
stop shattering our liberties
And underminining our abilities for
Endless possibilities.
Because we are the ones
Who fly high and soar
And we will always
look fabulous
while doing it.
Aug 5, 2013
Aug 5, 2013 at 7:45 AM UTC