"sestina" poems
It was early morning when she descended the steps
to the porch side, teacup in hand, dressed in her nightgown.
Steam billowed from her cup, and with a swallow
she examined her garden of weeds and unexpected peonies.
It was early for blooming peonies; frost, like glass,
still settled on the lawn, reflecting sunrise light of tangerine.
The radiant glow of tangerine
cast amber trails across steps
covered in an icy coating of glass.
Between her fingers she tucked her nightgown
and gingerly treaded the garden of peonies
that melted the frost in one great flower swallow.
The barn swallow,
perched not far from the path of tangerine,
must have also taken notice of the peonies
as he took the first steps
to nest-building. She imagined that his lady bird, also in her nightgown,
would enjoy the flowerbed of glass
that he chose for their home. Sipping her glass
of tea, she admired the familiar swallow
lover as she folded into her nightgown
bouquets of peonies that glistened in the tangerine
sunlight. She took the steps
back to the house, recalling her own swallow’s peonies:
Peonies
placed in vases of glass,
peonies lining the porch steps,
peonies presented over morning tea. With a swallow,
she carefully, methodically lined the tangerine
trail with the peonies from her nightgown.
Her nightgown,
stained with the rouge petals of peonies,
dragged along the tangerine
terrace of glass,
blood red with the memory of her swallow
lover’s peony-petaled steps.
The steps to the house creaked beneath her nightgown.
The barn swallow, quieted by the rouge of the peonies,
shut his glass eyes to the skies of tangerine.
Feb 16, 2010
Feb 16, 2010 at 4:49 PM UTC
I asked my mother for a glass kaleidoscope,
but instead she handed me three shots of wine
and a field guide to running galactic bases,
which I guess is her way of selling dreams
at low prices. I have yet to understand a coffee shop's symmetry,
so I embrace the scrupulous company of a dragon-riding-a-butterfly.
One spin around the Milky Way leaves the butterfly
with holey wings and the dragon vomiting in my make-shift kaleidoscope.
The apple tree in the corner of the living room ruins the symmetry
of the space and I have to chug another glass of wine
to make up for the peach tree I couldn't dream
about and another wrong note sung by the basses.
The song's in too low of a key, which is the basis
behind the evil chinchilla's plan to mass-produce butterfly
farms as part of a larger goal to pillage the dreams
of dreamers. Luckily, we all have a handy-dandy kaleidoscope
and a bag (or two) of bitter-tasting wine
stolen from their boxes -- too much symmetry.
My brother put a block on local news; the symmetry
of our county's border was too much for me to bear. He bases
his action (when mother asks) on the wine
he didn't drink, so I throw the broken butterfly
out the window where it lands on my nephew's spinning kaleidoscope.
He doesn't know it yet, but that drum he's banging will envelop his dreams.
A hike to the top of the cliff (a leap) re-energizes my dreams
and I still can't relate to the maple leaves and their symmetry,
but at least I can look through a lampshade at the kaleidoscope
of trees dancing below me. There are seven thousand bases
yet to run and they still haven't caught the butterfly,
so a boy yells, "Drink!" and I take another sip of wine.
The dragon and chinchilla are tipsy from the wine
at this point and discuss the difference between dreams
and electricity while my mother sautés the butterfly
in ice cream and abstract ideas. The symmetry
of my right ankle is still a bother, so I tell the basses
to sing a quarter tone flat while I collide a scope.
Off goes dragon-with-butterfly (once again) and I finish the wine.
I make my nephew a chinchilla-skin kaleidoscope and rinse the rocks stained with dreams.
My mother comments on the apple tree's symmetry while the trees below keep running bases.
Apr 23, 2012
Apr 23, 2012 at 9:27 AM UTC
They will tell you there is a right way.
They will hand you a torch and call it the sun.
They will roll their words in raw linen and whisper:
"This is what poetry is meant to be."
And you will nod.
Because they have made it so that not nodding feels like blasphemy.
But listen—
the ink does not check your credentials.
The meter does not ask if your suffering is organic.
A line does not collapse because it was crafted instead of bled.
They will tell you a poem must be naked, barefoot, aching—
as if there is no beauty in a well-cut suit.
They will decry the temple and build a pulpit in its ruins,
preaching freedom in a voice that allows no dissent.
Good poets are cult leaders,
and the first rule of the cult
is that they are not one.
So write the sonnet, carve the sestina,
sculpt the page in iambic steel.
Or break it, shatter it, scatter its bones—
but let no one call your wreckage untrue.
And if they do,
smile.
Because poetry does not kneel to priests.
Feb 18, 2025
Feb 18, 2025 at 2:11 AM UTC
Funny little thing is she,
She laughs at lightning in the storm.
And what most would see as torture,
She inflicts with pride and is not scared.
Her skin is sharp like broken glass,
And through her lover’s skin she tore.
Through her safest home she tore.
Stupid little girl is she.
They try to mend her broken glass
But the edges cause destruction of a storm.
Please don’t run, don’t be scared,
Don’t be a part of her torture.
Running love is her only torture,
Not pain that through her heart tore.
Distance leaves her crying scared,
Unable to control the fear in her.
Maybe she is the rain in the storm,
Shattering passing window glass.
Maybe she doesn’t mind the glass,
She doesn’t think this is torture.
And maybe it’s not a storm,
But a hurricane she tore
Out of her skin. She
Is no longer scared.
The distance does not make her scared.
Her skin is no longer broken glass.
Alive little girl is she.
Nothing more will be her torture.
She doesn’t need the lover she tore.
No longer does she hide from the storm.
Not sunny skies, but no more storm.
Not yet calm, but at least not scared.
Not yet healed, but not torn.
Maybe cracked, but not broken glass.
Some discomfort, but it doesn’t feel like torture.
Strong little girl is she.
Screaming insanely she tore herself out of this storm.
No one will say “she’s gonna lose it”. Because she somehow she is not scared.
It’s a mystery how she fixed her glass, or how she can still tolerate the torture.
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 11:02 PM UTC
Are you sound of mind?
Addicted to dandelions
like the ocean is to ice.
Wait outside the blood bank,
learn how to write dialogue
and make saccharin spines.
My journal is a tangle of spines,
keep an open mind
help me box up my ****** dialogue.
I’ve always been a fan of dandelions
etching paths along the river bank,
streams within the winter ice.
Buckets of camphor ice
relax the notches in spines
as we wait in line at the food bank.
Thoughts of jawbones on my mind,
the taste of dandelions
and organized pre-scripted dialogue.
Backhanded blue dialogue,
counting the vanilla crystals of ice
blowing the smell of cinnamon into floating dandelions.
My hands handle happiness spines
with the peace of mind
of money in the piggy bank.
Let's rob a bank
shooting quiet malleable dialogue
through an altered state of mind.
Your ribs are two sheets of ice
ivy wrapping around our intertwined spines
crumbly blowing breaths of dandelions.
Second hand dandelions
build up in the river bank
muddy trenches around spines
whisper outspoken blue green dialogue.
Three pounds of dry ice,
warm water vapour at the back of my mind
Store buy your dandelions, bear in mind
that the West Bank is covered in ice
and that spines speak their own muted dialogue.
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 1:08 AM UTC
the backyard is home to a field of flowers
amidst the roots the family dog discovers skeletons
the petals stick to themselves; the weeds spread
it's found that the flower-bed holds its secrets
with curiosity and wandering eyes comes a child
in innocence, he opens his arms only to receive pain
he drops to the earth, writhing in pain
his light form crushing the weeds and flowers
the dog barks at the screaming child
and tries to release him from the skeletons
the strength of their grasp is that of their secrets
you see the effects spread
across the child's skin they spread
his face warping under the pain
opening his mouth, he began releasing his secrets
telling only the ears of the crushed flowers
and the arms around him, those of the skeletons
look at the helpless child
the bones are engulfing the child
grabbing and pulling, faster they spread
the boy becomes one with the skeletons
he becomes one with his pain
his body sinks further down into the flowers
and the flowers promise to keep his secrets
the weeds overheard his secrets
the boy looks less and less of a child
as he settles in with the flowers
making room for him, the flowers spread
the suffering subsides, decreasing pain
he's almost as the skeletons
his body unites with the skeletons
the ***** age keeps his secrets
no longer is there pain
no longer is there a child
into the ground, his limbs spread
into the roots of the flowers
the pain no longer is in the child
because the skeletons stole his secrets
his bones spread among the flowers
Apr 18, 2011
Apr 18, 2011 at 1:59 PM UTC
how many paths, how many loves
living and changing and ever climbing
learning and growing and springing over
like purple sunsets entering red mountains
each experience reopening your eyes, gaining
wisdom and freedom, ever increasing strength
Atlas holding Gaia, never ending strength
becoming charged and overcome with love
encircled with history and caring, gaining
a repertoire of eternal connections, climbing
into dream fields surrounded by mountains
will this serenity ever be over?
though hopefully the uncertainty will be over
and that we will have strength
to conquer all the encountered mountains
created by each newly attained love
embrace avenues crossed and obstacles climbed
to have pleasure and confidence gained
though will paradise ever be gained
allowing forgetfulness of pain we're over
while still remembering friendships we climbed
every node you pass gives strength
for the next stage of love
giving elemental power to move mountains
our past shadows creating fresh mountains
to relive, to adore; understanding gained
so many different forms of love
meaningfully distinct, passed but never over,
each one providing new wonderful strength
to allow us unique nirvanas climbed
always strive for larger heights climbed
those hopes will be worth mountains
don't fear any loss of strength,
weakness endured is often willpower gained
hate and sorrow should never over-
come the treasureful bliss of love
*Don't be afraid of the climb to the top of the mountain
unbelievable strength will be gained,
all the adventures that are over will become unforgettable love*
Aug 29, 2012
Aug 29, 2012 at 7:47 PM UTC
I think about her all the time
The look in her eyes and the way she smiles, and I wish
That someday, somehow I could be her star
To hold her close and keep her warm when it rains
But for now, all I could do is wait
For her to notice me, a girl I call Jane.
She was the first girl I noticed, this girl I call Jane
After a year full of misery and wasted time.
Like a pretty rainbow after the rain,
She came into my life~breathtaking yet so unreachable like a star
So I tried to hide how I felt and made myself wish
That she was never worth the wait.
I try hard each day to avoid looking at her eyes, like stars
They shine so brightly even when it rains
And it never gets easier every time
To just sit around and hope and wait
For her to notice me, that girl I call Jane
But I can dream, can't I? I can dream, and I can wish.
The moment finally came when I could no longer wait
For the girl forever, the girl I call Jane
So I sent her a message~a secret wish
That I'd be worthy for a minute of her time
And one fateful night when everything went right, we talked about the stars
As the seconds turned into hours while I stood there in the rain.
But the sun has permanently set in my life, and permanently it rains
Permanently I'm left with nothing but to permanently dream and to permanently wait
On a bed of nails without her, without Jane
And every night as I close my eyes, I'd wish
For another chance to be with her~another time
But I'm not the one that she wants; I'm not her star.
And if God could grant me just one wish,
May she crash into me like a shooting star
Because my heart's gone cold from all this wait
From all these thoughts concerning Jane
But if this love is a thunder, then bring on the rain
To help me drown her out for the last time.
Tonight I'll look up at the sky and make a wish upon a star
But until the day it comes true, I'd wait here forever patiently in vain under the rain
For time to find me a place in the diary of Jane.
Sep 3, 2012
Sep 3, 2012 at 5:18 AM UTC
The deep sighs of fall
send chills across the daisies.
My compass is sick
and there’s a sense of urgency in my eyelashes,
feeling around for the blisters on my skin
searching for a bed to sleep.
Facets of sleep
encourage the rain to fall,
cold weather raising capillaries under my skin.
I wrote the history of the Holocene era on daisies,
microscope lenses tickling my eyelashes;
dim lighting makes me home sick.
My mind is sick,
I dream of oceans in my sleep,
medicine labels printed on my eyelashes
pill bottles coloured like fall.
Tattoos of purple fringed daisies
cover my shoulders like skin.
Teeth full of apple skin;
asking God how not to be sick,
wondering if a sacrifice of daisies
will get my blood to sleep.
My hair is like the leaves during fall;
I hope I get to keep my eyelashes.
There’s snow in my eyelashes,
landscapes of frost form on skin
the cold air begins to fall,
I decide to call in sick
preferring to hide in a hot sleep
until my breaths sprout purple daisies.
How to grow Gerber daisies,
without losing my eyelashes?
My fingernails are full of sleep,
hot tea grasps at my paper skin.
The panacea for the sick
is a perfect concentration of wool sweaters and fall.
You eat daisies in the fever of fall.
Through my eyelashes I am morally sick,
but yesterday I finally let sleep settle into my skin.
Feb 16, 2014
Feb 16, 2014 at 11:45 PM UTC
Sleep is timed to the minute,
my breaths let out lazy smoke
icicles make goose bumps into paragraphs
books written on my arms through yellow mist
bare feet in the morning on my rooftops
counting international planes in the sky.
My migrant bones take to the sky,
each moderate minute
that passes by on my rooftops,
increases the rawness of smoke
like lung-fulls of lemon mist
spewing a nebula of paragraphs.
In the murk of paragraphs
red papery ashes explode into the sky
leaving a cloud of syllable mist.
The last fragile minute
reduces my shivers to smoke,
a winter shell of shoulders on rooftops.
Double exposed film across rooftops
turn silhouettes into paragraphs,
a congregation of vapours and smoke
speaking soliloquies into the sky.
I am minute,
dissipating into canary mist.
Billows of ocean mist
make my fingers melancholy on rooftops
where a tidal minute
freezes salty foam paragraphs
a vacation from the sky,
my mossy perch and violet smoke.
Heliotropic smoke
spirals against dense mist;
fine rain blinding the sky
soaking lemonade rooftops.
My bed of paragraphs
curls into an illegible minute.
The lilac smoke in my eyes is almost minute.
A mustard mist wrinkles the paragraphs,
like the purple sky dropping over the rooftops.
Feb 16, 2014
Feb 16, 2014 at 11:46 PM UTC
Like burning marshmallow,
the clouds this Monday.
Thumb over the phone
& the words to you pop
& sway like gin pink
with bitters. Lily lady,
O my lily lady,
kiss me marshmallow -
sticky and tinted pink
with lip on a rainy Monday.
Green window pops
arrive on my phone,
this sweet black phone
that brings you, my lady,
over Atlantic's salt pop
& volted marshmallow.
So on this Monday
when the sky draws pink,
& clouds too are toasted pink,
I take this thin phone
and find you. On this Monday,
my Dublin lady,
under a melting marshmallow
sky, I seek out your hot pop,
that flame that's popping
in the twilight, red and pink.
Sweet as marshmallow,
you burn through my phone,
my smiling lily lady,
even on a Monday.
& so this Monday
like a soap bubble pops.
I'm inspired, my lady,
by the silken pink
thing. On your phone,
a swan's wing of marshmallow.
Yes - Monday's poem comes pink,
& pops with phone messages
from my lady, soft as marshmallows.
Jun 10, 2019
Jun 10, 2019 at 1:40 PM UTC
This morning, out in lightly falling snow, I heard geese
as flights of them flew overhead. Like a shot
I was ten again, Grammy and I at the lake. I’d sit in the bow
of my canoe, pulled awkwardly ashore, neck craned back to watch the sky.
I was always sad to see them go; their calls so many cold goodbyes.
Ice encrusted water slushed against the dock in slow motion waves.
It was time to seek new horizons, where waves
of Floridian waters would embrace the geese.
My grandmother said that every new adventure started with goodbyes
to one thing or another. If I were ever to have a shot
at following my dreams, there’d be farewells as I reached for the sky.
Instinct would lead me onward to my accomplished bow.
One year Momma and Poppa Goose stayed behind, a nest in the bow
of my boat. The wintery sky turned black with departing waves.
They would call out as the flying ones filled the sky.
Wounded wing grounded Poppa. (Canada geese
mate for life.) Momma would not leave her mate, recently shot
during hunting season. She would not yet say her goodbyes.
This, then, was the winter of no cold goodbyes.
Before school, pony tailed hair with ribboned bow,
blowing in the stiff breeze, I’d take a shot
at keeping ice from the edge of the lake, waves
arrowing out as they swam. The geese,
with an itch in their wings, anxious for a return to their sky.
That summer Poppa introduced his flock to the sky,
practiced formational takeoffs leading to goodbyes.
Clouds overhead gathered gray with unfallen snow as the geese
took flight. My two watching for a moment, dipping heads in an elegant bow,
before joining in the aerial ballet of strong winged waves.
Grammy’s strong hand gripped my shoulder, then-- the parting shot.
Grammy joined the geese beyond the horizon. No miracle shot
or endless love could keep her with me. Heaven was in the sky.
I knew she was watching although there’d been no time for final waves.
Her new adventure started without time for goodbyes.
Outside, snow blanketed as I cried myself to sleep. Her final bow
had been silent, but she’d been telling me, as had the geese.
Overhead the geese are shaftless arrows shot
from an instinctual bow piercing the morning sky
with their raucous goodbyes. Time waves.
Oct 23, 2011
Oct 23, 2011 at 6:16 PM UTC
Juliet, your Juliet.
I grew out of her.
She was all dreamy, and fabled.
She was brave enough to love you.
She was brave enough to be crumpled to shreds yet fake a smile flawlessly.
She grew on you.
Juliet, your Juliet.
I grew out of her.
She was graceful and too kind to be true.
She was the daisy of your garden, where flowers weren't just a few.
She loved sunshine as much as the misty moon.
She was ravishingly rhythmic. Forming melodies out of those midnight stars,
adding beats and verses to your mundane mornings.
Your Juliet, your Daisy, your sanguine Sestina
all of them. Yet, nothing better than a reverie.
Juliet, your Juliet.
I grew out of her.
She was all chirpy and consoling.
Solace was what made her.
Her love was fire, worth burning for.
At times, her eyes form glaciers,
arctic and numb.
At times, she feels worn out and ready to drop.
But, Juliet's audacious to hold on tight yet, taken down by you. Remember, she grew on you.
Juliet, your Juliet.
I grew out of her.
She was delicate but humorous.
Compassion knit her soul together.
You tell her, she is all you ever wanted and is grateful for.
But, the woman lying next to you hears the same.
She was a writer and left you one.
Juliet, your Juliet.
Not anymore.
Jun 5, 2018
Jun 5, 2018 at 5:57 AM UTC
The blackberry bush had one new bloom
Its light fragrance was so delicate and sweet
I closed my eyes to breathe in deep its beauty
And felt as if I were floating on a leaf
Traveling down a quiet meandering mountain stream
Touching down on a sandy beach
The soft sand of the creek beach
Was outlined by brambles in full bloom
I thought of the blackberries to come, how sweet!
And gave a moment to consider the beauty
Of one thorny leaf
Plucked it and tossed it into the stream
I considering taking a dip in the stream
And I took my shoes off on the beach
I could see on the shore an algae bloom
And wondered if that would taste sweet
Before the plunge I looked at the crystal clear beauty
And cast myself in the water as I had the leaf
When I broke the surface on my face was a leaf
Floating unaware down the little stream
Seeking only a place to land, like a nice beach
To be amongst the other blooms
And create a berry so sweet
That, would be the truest beauty….
I was caught up by the beauty
Of a twisting maple leaf
Falling down, down to the babbling stream
Bypassing the sandy beach
And casting no glances to the opening bloom
Giving no thought to their future sweet
I swam to the shore thinking about berries so sweet
Sunlight dancing on the water created such beauty
That I stepped on a sticker leaf
And fell backwards into the stream
Filling my shorts with sand from the beach
And giving my *** cheek a nice rosy bloom
I sat on the beach right next to a mountain stream
Watched a leaf float by in all its beauty
From a sweet blackberry bush in full bloom
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 6:05 PM UTC
I apoligize for not reading your posts. I have been battling my depression and have not been online . I have written a poem about it (of course lol). I hope you enjoy and I hope to be online tomorrow.
My Dark Tale (A Sestina)
It is a lovely time of day for tea
As I sit curled up to the song of rain
Memories arise of a deep dark pain
Storm clouds gather within my heart, darkly
Dimly, I am aware of rainbow’s hope
Wanting dreams infused with Rosemary and Thyme
Out of work, I suffer from too much time
Overeating and drinking too much tea
Depression worsens, stealing all my hope
And all my dreams shatter in the cold rain
Leaving me empty in the bitter dark
As I stare out of the broken windowpane
How I long to conquer my bitter pain
If only I would organize my time
I know then, I would rise above the dark
Instead, I get caught in cookies and tea
And sink deeper; chaos supremely reigns
I flounder once again, losing my hope
I am tired of losing precious hope
Letting despair and worthless bitter pain
To take control and determinedly reign
Structure! Will that allow me to use time
Positively? Cutting back on black tea
Getting needed sleep to fight back the dark
Rested, I can push back the hated dark
Strive to capture peace and beautiful hope
Learning once again to enjoy my tea
And not as a crutch that causes me pain
While I mourn the loss of wasted sweet time
Instead, I would see rainbows in the rain
I yearn to topple depression’s long reign,
To walk in the sun’s light, not the cold dark
Eager to greet the day and enjoy time
Pursue my dreams, infusing life with hope
Do away with doldrums and bitter pain
Relaxing and enjoying Earl Gray Tea
Envoi
To sum up, I yearn to enjoy my tea
Overcome my darkness and pain; to feel hope
While I take time to enjoy the sweet rain
Kelly Rose
© January 5, 2017
Jan 5, 2017
Jan 5, 2017 at 5:17 PM UTC
The first pair of shoes you wore were black,
velcro straps sat atop your pair of dollies
to make it easier to put them on for the park.
They were meant to be smart, but you laughed
as you wore them against the ground so free
as dad slung the swings, smiling at his child.
Our mum told me I was a creative child:
I didn't like to wear anything black. Red
suited me in how I stood in puddles, free
in indifference to how brown my wellies
became. If I was asked why, I'd shout,
“I'm pretending we're all at the seaside.”
From there we made our way to beaches,
where the wind was crisp and the children
we could see around us acclaimed screams
of emphatic joy at how the sea was so blue
and big. We had to wear pairs of sandals
when we went, but being barefoot felt free.
All that time we had at being young and free
soon went with the summer ending in school,
the arrival of my freshly polished black boots
was identical to almost every other child's-
a lather of paint dripping over in mud yellows
proved who I was with a mother's groan,
and this wasn't the only time she wailed.
As we grew older and wanted to be free,
my sister started to experiment with pink
highlights in her hair as I visited clubs
with fake ID. We were adults with childish
personalities in how I wore my Docs
like a religion for feet, my sibling in high heels
that you could hear in Sunday morning claps.
The arguments broke out: she wanted a child,
mother saying was too young, needed to free
herself from lazy culture and find a workplace.
I'd never seen both their faces so gushed red,
just like the red richness of those wellies
I had worn in the park. I pipe up and say,
“The best freedom is our time as children.”
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 3:09 PM UTC
I asked you if God saw a reflection
and you told me she was simply confused.
What more could be learned from two eyes alone?
I struggled with the thought before it died
and found the answer deep within your breath;
a subtle reach and clasp would stay empty.
I had questioned if your words were empty
as a ghost gazing at its reflection;
you stare at me as though with lack of breath
and pretend that I was always confused
by words that might as well have died
or just preferred to have been left alone.
And so I had spent many nights alone
with only my thoughts that would prove empty.
In longing for those eyes I could have died
or sought to find light in the reflection
of the sun on darkened craters, confused
but drawn back as though of gasping for breath.
I thought that I should wait to feel your breath
again, to avoid being so alone
would leave us out of reach or too confused
to extend our hands or feel for empty
air, I prayed to see your warm reflection
from a window before it withered and died.
I wished you’d take my soul before it died
or remained as it took its final breath;
and that thought returned in quiet reflection
from a place that must have been so alone,
like expecting treasure to be empty
or to discover you were just confused.
I thought that maybe I should stay confused
and in that same fashion I would have died,
in a room so void of light and empty.
I need to know the feeling of your breath,
even if it means I will stay alone
until God interprets my reflection.
It died with Patience, and ceased reflection.
Never alone, but harmonious breath.
Always confused, but never empty.
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 11:37 AM UTC
Maybe I’d be drifting, slowly at first;
Approaching specks of light in the distance;
Once there, now here, free of space and not time;
Perhaps an error in the equations
Would have me lost in the empty darkness
Or free to run along amongst the light.
And you would stand alone in the Sun’s light,
Telling everyone that you were there first
And that you would stay until the darkness
To watch as I traveled in the distance.
Your hand guided mine through the equations
And reminded me to account for time.
You were wrong, of course, to tell me that time
Would stand idle until the morning light
Of my return, and those sad equations
Would stare back into my eyes, quiet first
But then screaming, filling the dead distance
And echoing through the void of darkness.
I hope when your eyes are filled with darkness
And you listen to the passing of time,
Or your hands reach through the empty distance
That you get up and walk outside; the light
You see from the stars passed by my eyes first.
Find peace in that, not from the equations.
I will obsess over these equations
Until my mind is filled by the darkness;
Insanity, if not from silence first
Then by the harrowed tick and tock of time…
Or maybe I’d stand in the fading light
And pay no mind to the growing distance.
So thus we wait and hope for the distance
To honor the truth of the equations.
Seconds pass slowly at the speed of light;
Leaving it behind leaves only darkness;
Perfect silence in the absence of time.
I question whether my heart will stop first.
Maybe I’ll forget the equations first.
Time grows slower, the distance grows larger.
But the darkness fades. Only light remains.
Jul 14, 2015
Jul 14, 2015 at 7:12 PM UTC
Your brittle calcium coated voice
slides down my throat like water,
little blue gods of poetry.
Nothing to do but **** and fight.
There’s a run on sentence in my veins
whole flowers framing my bruises.
My bone quiet bruises
wait five miles from your medical voice,
english coastline of veins
covering my anatomy like large bodies of water.
**** yesterday’s fist fight
you left your apologies in poetry.
My alcoholic poetry
a blood orange coated in bruises
a history of last night’s pillow fight
catching religion in your voice.
The swallows splash in water
quiet in my dessicate veins.
Fields of goldenrod veins
make my honorary poetry
a theory of cursive water.
Leave aching vegetarian bruises
on my calloused voice
from tearing open the sun to fight.
A polaroid water fight
rolls around in my open veins
a punctuation of your raspy voice,
hospitalized my skin in poetry.
A reckless consumption of bruises
with a mint leaf in a glass water.
Soft echoes burn across the water
silver scissors in a domestic fight
running away from bruises
and mountains of veins.
My second language is poetry
giving my fingertips a muffled voice.
Empty water pleads with your broken voice,
makes me fight against pleated poetry
and pomegranate bruises tighten in my veins.
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 12:17 AM UTC
I have come, alas, to the great circle of shadow,
to the short day and to the whitening hills,
when the colour is all lost from the grass,
though my desire will not lose its green,
so rooted is it in this hardest stone,
that speaks and feels as though it were a woman.
And likewise this heaven-born woman
stays frozen, like the snow in shadow,
and is unmoved, or moved like a stone,
by the sweet season that warms all the hills,
and makes them alter from pure white to green,
so as to clothe them with the flowers and grass.
When her head wears a crown of grass
she draws the mind from any other woman,
because she blends her gold hair with the green
so well that Amor lingers in their shadow,
he who fastens me in these low hills,
more certainly than lime fastens stone.
Her beauty has more virtue than rare stone.
The wound she gives cannot be healed with grass,
since I have travelled, through the plains and hills,
to find my release from such a woman,
yet from her light had never a shadow
thrown on me, by hill, wall, or leaves’ green.
I have seen her walk all dressed in green,
so formed she would have sparked love in a stone,
that love I bear for her very shadow,
so that I wished her, in those fields of grass,
as much in love as ever yet was woman,
closed around by all the highest hills.
The rivers will flow upwards to the hills
before this wood, that is so soft and green,
takes fire, as might ever lovely woman,
for me, who would choose to sleep on stone,
all my life, and go eating grass,
only to gaze at where her clothes cast shadow.
Whenever the hills cast blackest shadow,
with her sweet green, the lovely woman
hides it, as a man hides stone in grass.
3.1k
Beams directing traffic on Belmont
Paintings of St.Mary in each house
A blessing is in the home of Sanchez
Yelling at the top of my lungs, Alexandria!
Her lips the color of a summer rose
She might meet my girlfriend
Tired of the flat girlfriend
I ride the 70 down Belmont
In a garden I pluck a rose
And wait outside her house
Oh how I love the name Alexandria
The finest gem from Mrs. Sanchez
I love the sound of an Sanchez
It brings shame to my girlfriend
That fiery accent calls me to Alexandria
No matter the distance between me and Belmont
She can look in front of her house
Im on her sidewalk, holding a rose
I will always hand her roses
Predjuice eyes from a concern Sanchez
Oh if they ever found me in that house
So she walks to my girlfriend's
Away from the curious eyes on Belmont
They've ask where is my Alexandria?
Don't worry my Alexandria
Soft like the pedal of a rose
Let me kiss you outside of Belmont
Where nobody is named Sanchez
Show you where I lay next to my girlfriend
We can make love all over this house
Just get comfortable in this house
Spray that majestic spirit, Alexandria
Maybe I pass this flavor to my girlfriend
If willing, she can even get a rose
Call it the night she tasted a Sanchez
What we can share with the Latina on Belmont,
A girlfriend is snow on a dying rose
Warm in a house with a gem called Alexandria
Kissing the skin of an Sanchez, on Belmont
Feb 26, 2013
Feb 26, 2013 at 3:03 AM UTC
I should have kissed you before you ****** on your smoke,
Before the fluorescent elevator lights illuminated the flaws
That danced and drifted along your skin.
The thick smoke mingled with your shadow,
A shadow of a man; no face, only a cigarette.
You breathed in smoke, but your lips were positioned for a kiss.
I don’t look like the other girls, the ones you used to kiss.
I can still picture your eyes, reddened by smoke,
And your lips as ashy as your cigarette.
And I hoped you, too, could forgive my flaws.
Like how my body casts too wide of a shadow,
And the sallowness of my ordinary skin.
Things that really shouldn’t remind me of your skin,
like old leather books with burnt paper that I bet taste like your kiss.
Such books I read in the shadow,
And hide, like the way you hid behind your smoke.
Because, like the way I love a bad book and its flaws,
I could love you and your cigarette.
I’ve held your hand, the one that holds your cigarette,
And I felt the sandpaper of your skin.
I smelt the airy cologne you use to cover the flaws.
It smelled light; you used just a kiss.
Now, I smell only smoke,
And the memory of your touch is a shadow.
In the hospital you were no longer a shadow,
But a body, surrounded by walls as white as your cigarettes.
Your voice cracked from the smoke,
While needles pulsed life into your skin.
Your lips were cracked with only blood to kiss.
I saw you naked, and I saw your flaws.
Your favorite vice was your fatal flaw,
And the black fire of death became your shadow.
It followed you around, and it saw our first kiss,
Which was our last, because you chose your cigarette.
So a charcoaled monster brooded beneath your skin,
And your flesh succumbed to the white ghosts of smoke.
You died in smoke, from your flaws.
Your skin’s now dust, roaming with the shadows.
So I’ll smoke a cigarette, ‘cause it tastes just like your kiss.
Mar 18, 2017
Mar 18, 2017 at 3:46 PM UTC
there’s a hole in your sheet
just large enough for my arm
to tuck away under the cotton
& above the swollen, wet mattress.
you smell of *** and confidence;
the lamplight glistens on your skin.
tracing the scars on your skin
until they’re white as a sheet,
i gently kiss each one, confident
that you will return them. armed
with love you leave the mattress,
our fortress of white billowy cotton.
as you reach for your cotton
boxers, i marvel at your skin.
left alone on the lumpy mattress,
i cover myself with the sheets,
exposing just my face and arms.
i love watching you walk; confidence
seeps out of your pores. confidence
i can touch under the cotton
when i’m wrapped inside your arms,
flesh to flesh skin to skin
together for hours under the sheets,
our own world on this mattress.
i feel secure on this mattress
knowing i can always confide in
you. rain’s coming down in sheets,
soaking the plants hidden by cotton.
you return with shiny drenched skin,
soaked roses bundled in your arms.
wiping my tears with my arm,
i leap up from the mattress,
the thorns have pierced your skin.
i pull them out with confidence
and lead you to the cotton
where we’ll play under the sheets.
on this mattress we’re both confident.
my arm tucks away beneath the cotton
skin to skin under the sheets.
Jun 17, 2010
Jun 17, 2010 at 1:36 PM UTC
What the Tide Knows
—a Sestina of one night shared with our sister moon
Night’s first blush leans low against the tide
that licks the sand; moonlight unhooks the darker seams of our skin.
The air stings sweet, crystalline breath of salt.
A feral moon, she leans close—silent, luminous, wet.
Her ******* dip the water; the water dips us—oh…slow pull
after slow pull—silk unraveling into constellations—we are, at last, bare
bare-foot, bare-hearted, bare-assed—every hush of fear laid bare;
satin chill a caress, sliding up shins, over knees, exploring the secret tide.
Between us, dampness trembles—a harp-chord plucked across our skin;
notes of brine flare and fade in the hush of moonlit salt
Desire itself echoes each pull she tightens—loosens—tightens again in the moon’s slow, intimate pull.
Night after night we bend to nature’s lust—its intimate pull
a deep, slow kiss—honey for dreams, our spirits once more bare
on a starlit shore that forgets and remembers the faithful tide
that knows each breast, each soft fold of skin
until our footprints shimmer, then vanish in a tidal pool of salt
while water’s slow tempo keeps time beneath our same bare-breasted, sister moon
Brine prisms drip between our thighs—soft, shimmering salt
as we sink into sand—breasts and breath—utterly bare;
above us, the hush of waves keeps time with the tide
while our sister, the ****** moon, unbuttons herself—O luminous moon,
her silver hand wandering, circling, stroking her own pale skin,
her gasps spilling down to embrace us oh so tight into one, shuddering, pull
Dawn’s silk-white wraps moon-bruised ******* gathering the last flecks of salt
that cling to lips—a hush of spent sighs riding every slow pull
of breath. Ocean-wet, sunrise-warmed, we rise wholly bare
beneath a sky tinted with our spent, satisfied sister moon,
and wade until cries of ecstasy between waves swell, matching the tide
washing footprints, sand, and shy shimmers from our glistening skin.
We become as one, a shared pulse—wave after wave pressing into skin,
A sousing of honey and ocean on lips—sweet with salt,
as night’s last breaker swells, arches, cups—one unquenchable pull
before it raptures. We bloom wide, throats singing, utterly bare
of nothing but vision of her white-hot spasm, our sister moon,
dragging us under—flinging us back—gasping—embraced by the heaving tide
O sister moon,
embrace our last slow tide,
your gentle hand forever filling our dreams, forever caressing our skin
Sep 1, 2025
Sep 1, 2025 at 6:01 PM UTC
You live on the canal,
by the little swan
that whittles the sun.
A sudden rush of clouds,
a clatter of sandals -
caprice of Dublin.
I knew of Dublin
and its grand canal
from old books tan as sandals.
I read Yeats for a swan,
Joyce for castle clouds
that yielded little sun.
But you, you were the sun!
You lit green Dublin
from within. Clouds
fled from the canals
of your eye. "Swansies."
And summer's far sandals
were today's sandals:
time shifted in the sun,
took flight like the night swan
through ancient Dublin.
You sent letters from the canal,
letters that divided clouds,
only to calve new clouds.
I've never worn sandals,
not ever, but when the canal
danced in my dreams, the sun
pierced my foot in Dublin.
You were my swan,
my elegant swansie,
killer of cloud,
conquistador of Dublin
in gladiatorial sandal,
herald and avatar of sun,
romantic of the grand canal.
Let me taste unclouded sun -
let sandals upend the canal -
send swans by the dozen into Dublin.
Jun 11, 2019
Jun 11, 2019 at 10:19 PM UTC