i.
if i could have back
everything you took from me
i wouldn't want it.

ii.
childhood wounds
entangled,
the little boy
who loves
the little girl.
the silly child
within me
who thought
you could
revive her-
willing to
believe
anything.

iii.
you did all
you could to
sink your teeth
into my
rotting skull,
to brand your
fingertips
on my skin.

iv.
you are poisonous
to all you touch,
your hands rough
with abuse,
tongue laced
with venom-
every word
another lie.

v.
i would rather die than carry your child.

vi.
there are now
no living ties
to my old life.
i am not alone-
i am free.

vii.
my new love
holds my heart
with utmost
gentleness-
hands as delicate
as rain.
he untangles
us,
strokes my hair
cooks me breakfast
wipes my tears

viii.
the little girl
who you spit on
lied to
beat
*****
silenced-
she dances in the kitchen
jumps on the bed
paints a picture
of a life
unknown.

Anxiously awaiting atomic assimilation
Basing me on belligerent and boorish bastardization
Capsizing cargo with careful consideration as to
Deciding which day is decay's destination
Everyone embrace the elevated expiration
Forget my face and follow fabrication
Go to the gallows with grace and gravitation
He will hold you and hinder alienation

I, however, hold insignificance in interest
Justifiable jackhammers jacking fighter jets
Killing Californians who are kissing canvases
Lying without laughing and lighting cigarettes
My master makes me move my mundane mind
Never knowing next to nothing with nothing else inside
Overly offering operating override
Practicing patiently pulling peoples' pride

Quickly questioning quizzical quietness
Rationalizing raging reinventions ridiculous
Stapling this summer to my (still) sick subconscious
Traveling tunnelers trading tides for tiredness
Under the umbrella my undertow untangles
Violently vibrating like varying violin angles
Waiting with wandering whispers under the table
Xylophonist x-rays, excruciating fables

You yellow youngling, you who screams in my dreams
Zebras zoom by every single night, it seems
Let's chant my enchantments, the alliteration song!
And untie your tongue
So you don't take it wrong.

When she touches me, I feel her touching
Herself, though she circles my shape into
Oneness, I sometimes feel— detached
Within those arms.  
                                   In her startled-fall
To sleep, imperceptibly, she gathers
The room from her haunting childhood.  
Drawing the air and curling in waves—
Her hair, as if she were weaving some kind
Of shelter.

When I touch her, it is with desire.
My reach untangles the very dream
Which took thirty five years of dull
Existence to unmuddle— to imagine,
My soul's other.

                         Ten fingers envelop her body
Like splits of lightning— rippling skyward
From wholly, bone-dun-desert, floor and there,
In that rose-journey of unbridled touch,
The shock of thunder makes a mother
Of the sky.  
                     When she breaks her water
The blighted earth that was sung— given
My name, becomes her light, awakening
Child.

The Shijing or **** Jing or Shih-Ching (“Book of Songs” or “Book of Odes”) is the oldest Chinese poetry collection, with the poems included believed to date from around 1200 BC to 600 BC. According to tradition the poems were selected and edited by Confucius himself. Since most ancient poetry did not rhyme, these may be the world’s oldest extant rhyming poems.

Shijing Ode #4: “JIU MU”
ancient Chinese rhyming poem circa (1200 BC - 600 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

In the South, beneath trees with drooping branches
thick with vines that make them shady,
we find our lovely princely lady:
May she repose in happiness!

In the South, beneath trees with drooping branches
whose clinging vines make hot days shady,
we wish love’s embrace for our lovely lady:
May she repose in happiness!

In the South, beneath trees with drooping branches
whose vines, entwining, make them shady,
we wish true love for our lovely lady:
May she repose in happiness!


Shijing Ode #6: “TAO YAO”
ancient Chinese rhyming poem circa (1200 BC - 600 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The peach tree is elegant and tender;
its flowers are fragrant, and bright.
A young lady now enters her future home
and will manage it well, day and night.

The peach tree is elegant and tender;
its fruits are abundant, and sweet.
A young lady now enters her future home
and will make it welcome to everyone she greets.

The peach tree is elegant and tender;
it shelters with bough, leaf and flower.
A young lady now enters her future home
and will make it her family’s bower.


Shijing Ode #9: “HAN GUANG”
ancient Chinese rhyming poem circa (1200 BC - 600 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

In the South tall trees without branches
offer men no shelter.
By the Han the girls loiter,
but it’s vain to entice them.
For the breadth of the Han
cannot be swum
and the length of the Jiang
requires more than a raft.

When cords of firewood are needed,
I would cut down tall thorns to bring them more.
Those girls on their way to their future homes?
I would feed their horses.
But the breadth of the Han
cannot be swum
and the length of the Jiang
requires more than a raft.

When cords of firewood are needed,
I would cut down tall trees to bring them more.
Those girls on their way to their future homes?
I would feed their colts.
But the breadth of the Han
cannot be swum
and the length of the Jiang
requires more than a raft.


Shijing Ode #10: “RU FEN”
ancient Chinese rhyming poem circa (1200 BC - 600 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

By raised banks of the Ru,
I cut down branches in the brake.
Not seeing my lord
caused me heartache.

By raised banks of the Ru,
I cut down branches by the tide.
When I saw my lord at last,
he did not cast me aside.

The bream flashes its red tail;
the royal court’s a blazing fire.
Though it blazes afar,
still his loved ones are near ...

It was apparently believed that the bream’s tail turned red when it was in danger. Here the term “lord” does not necessarily mean the man in question was a royal himself. Chinese women of that era often called their husbands “lord.” Take, for instance, Ezra Pound’s famous loose translation “The River Merchant’s Wife.” Speaking of Pound, I borrowed the word “brake” from his translation of this poem, although I worked primarily from more accurate translations. In the final line, it may be that the wife or lover is suggesting that no matter what happens, the man in question will have a place to go, or perhaps she is urging him to return regardless. The original poem had “mother and father” rather than “family” or “loved ones,” but in those days young married couples often lived with the husband’s parents. So a suggestion to return to his parents could be a suggestion to return to his wife as well.


Shijing Ode #12: “QUE CHAO”
ancient Chinese rhyming poem circa (1200 BC - 600 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The nest is the magpie's
but the dove occupies it.
A young lady’s soon heading to her future home;
a hundred carriages will attend her.

The nest is the magpie's
but the dove takes it over.
A young lady’s soon heading to her future home;
a hundred carriages will escort her.

The nest is the magpie's
but the dove possesses it.
A young lady’s soon heading to her future home;
a hundred carriages complete her procession.


Shijing Ode #26: “BO ZHOU” from “The Odes of Bei”
ancient Chinese rhyming poem circa (1200 BC - 600 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This cypress-wood boat floats about,
meandering with the current.
Meanwhile, I am distraught and sleepless,
as if inflicted with a painful wound.
Not because I have no wine,
and can’t wander aimlessly about!

But my mind is not a mirror
able to echo all impressions.
Yes, I have brothers,
but they are undependable.
I meet their anger with silence.

My mind is not a stone
to be easily cast aside.
My mind is not a mat
to be conveniently rolled up.
My conduct so far has been exemplary,
with nothing to criticize.

Yet my anxious heart hesitates
because I’m hated by the herd,
inflicted with many distresses,
heaped with insults, not a few.
Silently I consider my case,
until, startled, as if from sleep, I clutch my breast.

Consider the sun and the moon:
how did the latter exceed the former?
Now sorrow clings to my heart
like an unwashed dress.
Silently I consider my options,
but lack the wings to fly away.






The Song of Magpies
Lady ** (circa 300 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The magpies nest on the Southern hill.
You set your nets on the Northern hill.
The magpies escape, soar free.
What good are your nets?

When magpies fly free, in pairs,
why should they envy phoenixes?
Although I’m a lowly woman,
why should I envy the Duke of Sung?



A Song of White Hair
by Chuo Wen-chun (2nd century BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

My love is pure, as my hair is pure.
White, like the mountain snow.
White, like the moon among clouds.
But I lately discovered you are double-minded.
Thus, we must sever.
Today we pledged our love over a goblet of wine.
Tomorrow, I’ll walk alone
beside the dismal moat,
watching the frigid water
flow east, and west,
dismal myself in the bitter weather.
Should love bring only tears?
All I wanted was a man
with a single heart and mind,
for then we would have lived together
as our hair turned white.
Not someone who wriggled fish
with his big bamboo pole!
A loyal man
Is better than rubies.



Spring Song
by Meng Chu (3rd century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

One sunny spring, either March or April,
when the water and grass were the same color,
I met a young man loitering in the road.
How I wish that I’d met him sooner!

Now each sunny spring, whether March or April,
when the water and grass are the same color,
I reach up to pluck flowers from the vines;
their perfume reminds me of my lover’s breath.

Four years, now five, I have awaited you,
as my vigil turned love into grief.
How I wish we could meet in that same lonely place
where I would have surrendered my body
completely to your embraces!



A Song of Hsi-Ling Lake
by Su Hsiao-hsiao (5th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I ride in red carriage.
You canter by on dappled blue stallion.
Where shall we tie our hearts
into a binding love knot?
Beside Hsi-ling Lake beneath the cypress trees.



A Greeting for Lu Hung-Chien
by Li Yeh (8th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The last time you left
the moon shone white over winter frosts.
Now you have returned through a dismal fog
to visit me, still lying here ill.
When I struggle to speak, the tears start.
You urge me to drink T’ao Chien’s wine
while I chant Hsieh Ling-yun’s words of welcome.
It’s good to get drunk now and then:
what else can an invalid do?



Creamy *******
by Chao Luan-Luan
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Scented with talcum, moist with perspiration,
like pegs of jade inlaid in a harp,
aroused by desire, yet soft as cream,
fertile amid a warm mist
after my bath, as my lover perfumes them,
cups them and plays with them,
cool as melons and purple grapes.



Life in the Palace
by Lady Hua Jui
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

At the first of the month
money to buy flowers
for several thousand waiting women
was awarded to the palaces.
But when my name was called,
I was not there
because I was occupied
lasciviously posing
before the emperor’s bed.



The End of Spring
by Li Ch’ing-Chao
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The wind ceases,
now nothing is left of Spring but fragrant pollen.
Although it’s late in the day,
I’ve been too exhausted to comb my hair.
The furniture remains the same
but he no longer exists

leaving me unable to move.
When I try to speak, tears choke me.
I hear that Spring is still beautiful
at Two Rivers
and I had hoped to take a boat there,
but now I’m afraid that my little boat
will never reach Two Rivers,
so laden with heavy sorrow.



Sung to the tune of “I Paint My Lips Red”
by an anonymous courtesan or Li Ch’ing-Chao
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

After swinging and kicking lasciviously,
I get off to rouge my palms.
Like dew on a delicate flower,
perspiration soaks my thin dress.
A new guest enters
and my stockings flop,
my hairpins fall out.
Pretending embarrassment, I flee,
then lean flirtatiously against the door,
******* a green plum.



Spring Night, to the tune of “Panning Gold”
by Chu Shu-Chen
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

My jade body
remains as lovely as that long-ago evening
when, for the first time,
you turned me away from the lamplight
to unfasten the belt of my embroidered skirt.
Now our sheets and pillows have grown cold
and that evening’s incense has faded.
Beyond the shuttered courtyard
even Spring seems silent, forlorn.
Flowers wilt with the rain these long evenings.
Agony enters my dreams,
making me all the more helpless
and hopeless.



The Day Nears
by Huang O
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The day nears
when I will once again
share the sheets and pillows
I have stored away.
When once more I will shyly
allow you to undress me,
then gently
expose my sealed jewel.
How can I ever describe
the ten thousand beautiful,
sensual ways you always fill me?



Sung to the tune of “Soaring Clouds”
by Huang O
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

You held my lotus blossom
between your lips
and nibbled the pistil.
One piece of magic rhinoceros horn
and we were up all night.
All night the ****’s magnificent crest
stood *****.
All night the bee fumbled
with the flower’s stamens.
O, my delicate perfumed jewel!
Only my lord may possess my
sacred lotus pond,
for only he can make my flower
blossom with fire.



Sung to the tune of “Red Embroidered Shoes”
by Huang O
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

If you don’t know what you’re doing, why pretend?
Perhaps you can fool foolish girls,
but not Ecstasy itself!
I hoped you’d play with the lotus blossom beneath my green kimono,
like a ****** with a courtesan,
but it turns out all you can do is fumble and mumble.
You made me slick wet,
but no matter how “hard” you try,
nothing results.
So give up,
find someone else to leave
unsatisfied.



The Letter
by Shao Fei-fei (17th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I trim the wick, then, weeping by lamplight,
write this letter, to be sealed, then sent ten thousand miles,
telling you how wretched I am,
and begging you to free my aching body.
Dear mother, what has become of my bride price?




Chixiao (“The Owl”)
by Duke Zhou (c. 1100-1000 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Owl!
You've stolen my offspring,
Don't shatter my nest!
When with labors of love
I nurtured my fledglings.

Before the skies darkened
And the dark rains fell,
I gathered mulberry twigs
To thatch my nest,
Yet scoundrels now dare
Impugn my enterprise.

With fingers chafed rough
By the reeds I plucked
And the straw I threshed,
I now write these words,
Too hoarse to speak:
I am homeless!

My wings are withered,
My tail torn away,
My home toppled
And tossed into the rain,
My cry a distressed peep.

The Duke of Zhou (circa 1100-1000 BC), a member of the Zhou Dynasty also known as Ji Dan, played a major role in Chinese history and culture. He has been called “probably the first real person to step over the threshold of myth into Chinese history” and he may be the first Chinese poet we know by name today, and the spiritual ancestor of Confucius as well.



LAO TZU

For Martin Mc Carthy, who put me up to all but the first translation.

Lao Tzu poems from the Dàodé Jing or Tao-Teh-Ching (“Scripture of the Way”):

An unbending tree
breaks easily.
—Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Nothing is weaker or gentler than water,
yet nothing can prevail against it.
—Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

That the yielding overcomes the resistant is known by all men
yet utilized by none.
—Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Why does the Sea exceed all streams? Because it does not exalt itself but is the more lowly. Even so, the sage.
—Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The sage wears coarse clothes while concealing jade within his *****.
—Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The sage does not hoard; having bestowed everything on others, he smiles, content.
—Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

When his last scrap has been spent on others, the sage is the richer still.
—Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The sage does not exalt himself; he prefers what is within to what is without.
—Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Heaven’s net is vast but nothing slips through its mesh.
—Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Daring boldness kills; boldness in not daring saves.
—Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

To recognize knowledge as ignorance is a noble insight.
To consider ignorance knowledge, a disease.
Because the sage recognizes flaws, he can be flawless.
—Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Ruling a large state is like broiling a bony fish.
—Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Ruling a large state is like poaching an octopus.
—Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The Way of Heaven is like stringing a bow:
it brings down the high as it elevates the low.
—Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The wise don’t aggrandize their virtue.
—Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The wise don’t vice their virtue.
—Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Be Like Water
by Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The highest virtue resembles water
because water unselfishly benefits all life,
then settles, without contention or needless strife,
in lowly cisterns.

Weep for the Dead
by Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

When seeing mounds of the dead
the virtuous weep for the loss of life.
When one is “victorious”
observe the mourning rites.

Avoid Boasting
by Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Rather than overfilling,
it’s better to stop in time
and avoid overspilling.

Though you hone it to a point,
the edge will soon be blunt.

Though the salesman’s exploits are crowed,
in the end, what real good was his gold?

Reticence, when the day’s work is done,
Is the Way of Heaven.

The Wise
by Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The multitudes satisfy their eyes, tummies and ears, again and again,
while the wise consider them children.

Naming the Nameless
by Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Tao can be discussed, but never the Eternal Tao.
Names can be named, but never the Eternal Name.
There are known paths yet the Way remains uncharted.
The origin of the universe must be forever nameless
unless we call her the Mother of All.
Always the Secret awaits insight.
Thus when seeking the Ever-Hidden, we must consider its inner essence;
when seeking the Always-Manifest, we must consider its outer aspects.
Both flow freely from the same source, despite their different appellations
and both are rightly called mysteries.
The Mystery of mysteries is the Gateway to all Secrets,
the Door to all beginnings.

The Fountainhead
by Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Tao is all-pervasive,
an empty vessel yet fathomless,
the bottomless fountainhead from which everything springs!
It blunts the keen,
untangles the tied,
softens the glare,
harmonizes the light,
redistributes the dust motes more evenly,
resolves all complications.
A profoundly deep pool that is never exhausted,
the unknowable child who fathered the gods.

The Divine Feminine
by Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The Spirit is limitless.
We call it the Divine Feminine,
from whom Heaven and Earth arose
and in whom they remain deeply rooted.
Delicate as gossamer, only dimly seen,
yet infinitely flexible, her strength inexhaustible.

The Valley Spirit
by Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The valley Spirit never runs dry,
the river to whom all waters run:
the Spirit of our Primal Mother.
Deeply rooting Heaven and Earth,
to most eyes a delicate veil dimly seen,
yet a never-failing Fountainhead.

Adhere to the Feminine
by Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Know the masculine
but adhere to the feminine
and be a valley to the sphere.
For if you’re a valley
constant virtue won’t desert you
and you’ll return to the innocence of infancy.
Know the bright
but stick to the shadows
and be an example for the realm.
For if you’re an example for the realm,
constant virtue will accompany you
and you’ll return to the Infinite.
Know the glorious
but adhere to the humble
and be a valley to the Sphere.
For if you’re a valley,
your constant virtue will be complete
and you’ll return to the uncarved block
the great Cutter does not cut away.

The World-Mother
by Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Something formed out of chaos,
born before heaven and earth,
inexpressible and void, is never renewed,
yet continues forever without failing:
the World-Mother.
I don’t know her name,
so I call her the Way.
Earth reflects the heavens;
the heavens reflect the Way;
the Way reflects all that is.

The Wisdom of Contraries
by Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

It’s easy to control something at rest;
easy to handle the undeveloped;
easy to shatter the brittle;
easy to disperse the minute;
easy to deal with things before they get out of hand;
easy to manage affairs before they escalate.
A tree as wide as a man’s arms
sprang from a tiny seed.
A nine-story tower
rose from rock piles.
A journey of ten thousand leagues
begins with a single step.
Whoever meddles begets ruin.
Whoever grasps soon lets go.
The wise understand the advantages of non-action;
They lose nothing by not grasping and clinging,
while foolish people in their enterprises
often fail on the brink of success.
Be mindful from beginning to end
if you want to avoid failure.
The wise desire to be desireless;
they place no value on what is unavailable.
They learn how to live without learning,
yet correct the errors of scholars.
They advise conformity to nature
and avoid rash actions.

The Roots of Turbulence
by Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Heaviness lies at the root of lightness;
stillness begets turbulence.
Thus the nobleman heads his caravan
keeping a constant eye on his possession-laden wagons.
At night he sleeps secure behind high-walled towers,
undaunted and untroubled.
But how can the ruler of ten thousand chariots
discard the people so lightly from his thoughts?
The branch too high above the root is lost;
the aloof ruler is lost through turbulence.
—Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Rills to the Sea
by Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The Way is nameless.
The uncarved block is small,
but who dares claim it?

The world’s relation to the Way
is like rills’
to the Rivers and Seas.

True Greatness is Selfless
by Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Like the broadest River
the Way cannot be rerouted or deterred.
And while myriad creatures depend on it for life,
it imposes no authority
but works tirelessly without acclamation,
feeding its dependants without seeking to rule them.
Free of desires, it may be deemed “small,”
but because myriad creatures depend on it,
it may also be considered “great.”
And because it never claims greatness,
it is capable of greatness.

When the Way Holds Sway
by Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

When the Way holds sway,
farm horses plough fertile fields;
but when it fails to prevail,
war-horses breed on closed borders.
There’s no greater crime
than to pander to needless desires,
no sickness worse
than not knowing what’s enough,
no greater disaster
than covetousness.
But whoever knows what’s enough
will be content with his fate.

The Way
by Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The Way creates and nurtures all creatures,
rears and nourishes them,
sustains and matures them,
feeds and shelters them,
grants them life without possession,
benefits them but asks no thanks,
guides but imposes no authority.
Such is the mysterious virtue.

The Greatest of These Is Compassion
by Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The world calls my Way vast,
says it resembles nothing else.
Precisely! And its vastness is why
my Way resembles nothing else.
For if it resembled anything else,
wouldn’t it then be small?
I have three treasures
that I cling to, and cherish.
First, compassion.
Second, moderation.
Third, not rashly advancing myself.
Being compassionate, I can show courage.
Being moderate, I can be generous.
Not rashly taking the lead, I can command.
Courage without compassion,
Generosity without moderation,
Leading from in front rather than from behind,
are certain to end in catastrophe.
With compassion you will win at war
and be invincible in peace,
for Heaven will protect you
when you act with compassion.

Keywords/Tags: Shijing, ****-Jing, Shih-Ching, translation, book, songs, odes, Confucius, Chinese, ancient, rhyme, rhyming, love, nature

Go where the road untangles and unfurls
by those cliff side views over those blue curls
lit only by those high beams off those white pearls.

Only sense of direction is the road ahead
no going back just only forwards instead
as going prevents drifting to the sea bed.

The white sea foam crashes amongst the shore
those high beams persist only for Salvadore
the light bends around the corner then no more.

When she touches me, I feel her touching
Herself, though she circles my shape into
Oneness, I sometimes feel— detached
Within those arms.  
                                   In her startled-fall
To sleep, imperceptibly, she gathers
The room from her vexing childhood.  
Drawing the air and curling in waves—
My hair, as if she were weaving some kind
Of shelter.

When I touch her, it is with desire.
My reach untangles the very dream
Which took thirty five years of dull
Existence to unmuddle— to imagine,
My soul's other.

                         Ten fingers envelop her body
Like splits of lightning— rippling skyward
From wholly, bone-dun-desert, floor and there,
In that rose-journey of unbridled touch,
The shock of thunder makes a mother
Of the sky.  
                     When she breaks her water
The blighted earth that was sung— given
My name, becomes her light, awakening
Child.

I've seem to have lost my youth, I fear it was never there to begin with.
All the fuel that was riddled on my tongue as an adolescent is rubbing off with time, like a word I don't know anymore.
I keep darting to women on bus stops looking at their knees and wondering if all the lines there are like the rings in a tree, like the creases in flowers rich men buy for their honeys.
All these bodies piled in a room full of smoke, in recollections of other times they were in smoky rooms with strangers but all I taste, remember, is the sun on my forehead while Spanish guitars play nearby and there's a million voices, curling into chatter, into banter I can reconcile.
The night is young, this is the way to die if you're ever going to but the days are permeated under my shoes; I walk into 99 cent bargain stores and don't see plastic like she does, do not see the degradation of objects that never dissipate but easily break. The ***** floors of feet that live in small apartments, that dry-heave for the cheap cigarettes and low cost security cameras for their victim-less crimes. The resilience of things that grow in the only place they know where.
No I see a 25 year old girl stocking the shelves and watching the soul in her hair run for the door, for the foreign on her skin evaporating into the electrical fans, her golden years on the ankles that will one day twist in slippery showers, in greasy paved roads, in the heels she never learned to wear.
I see my generation through glass windows, through transparent doors, in between every beer I sip I don't find myself losing my worries into the inside of my bra for later inspection, under my wallet for when the party goes into the graveyard hours and I'm frozen in an unknown couch. I don't think about the time she left or the time he lied. Not about the knots everyone you meet leaves, or the heartbreak residue in drawers you don't open anymore. No time.
Standing in front of cold deli aisles, there is no resurrection of when my friends would call me by my first name, no remorse for the chances I didn't take when my shyness didn't burn on my face. A father that had a heart attack at the beach and I wasn't sure if the tears were because mortality was there holding my hand or because there was sand in my eyes and would it matter?
The neglect in my stature, the depth that is lost every time my head falls on a new pillow once again. When they talk about the jokes they wrote down on napkins, on fast food places at midnight, when the leather jacket they smooth down but all I see is the thread that is unwinding below their waist, the condiment stain on their napkin and how so very easily beef reminds me of the hospital.
I want to say that yes I am young, I have always been. That nothing has changed since when I was 12, that when everyone picked up their addiction I chose mine as well. That being alone is like a rock you take off the ground and you hold it for so long you start forgetting it's there until your hand untangles, until your jaw unclenches. You look around and you notice everyone is laughing and you try to as well but the second is gone, eyes are blinking, the sun has turned slightly and there is nothing else to do but grab another rock. I'm afraid I've exhausted myself too quickly.
I imagine the exasperated nostalgia of childhood is because there was no past, no better memories to cling to, you can't look back when there isn't anything there. But you begin hanging out in dim places, where the people are grittier than the seats in bars, in subway cars. The gods in your desk start to lose meaning, and the love, all that love, stops defying gravity like the bags under your eyes. The guys with caramel complexions treat you like the rosary on their chest, with reverence only when it's Sunday. The way the sweat glistens in yellow lights.
and if I didn't exist in all of that, then I wouldn't want to.

I don't want pity, no ****** white room, no Judas kiss; just a simpler truth that you wouldn't understand and I wouldn't expect you to.

The rushing wind
grabs her hair

untangles the braids
ribbons whirl away

free to wander

jerks at the leaves
branches unclothed

trees shiver
left to face the

rushing wind alone.

Pay attention
Hear the voices reconnect?
The traffic dies down simultaneously
The summer entwines and untangles
The skies reach out
The dandelions bloom
Feel the subtle changes
Purity is raining

(... she plays with words)

~

like wind she plays with words,
shaped sand upon the beach;
building castles to the sky,
where tide her walls can't breach.

the combinations countless,
she untangles any stumbling lines;
in tapestry-flowing fountains,
her words to us, our sip of wine.

with nary but her hands she crafts,
poetry 'neath the noonday sun;
ceasing not except to watch,
a seabird as it tends its song.

in subtleties she stirs,
her adjectives like riffs;
nuanced dance in every verb,
a song that rises 'cross the drifts.

words that rivet every reader.
lines that wile a way with rhymes;
stanzas frame a photograph,
her free verse plays along in time.

combers rendered speechless,
marvel her poetic ways;
high as terns can fly she reaches,
as with every term she plays.

her muse in song delights
in ev'ry crashing wave she's heard;
her phrasing light takes winged flight,
like wind she plays with words.

on sands that ripple 'long the shore,
like conductor's arms at final score;
crescendo builds... she stands *****,
then fades to black when sun has set.

~

post script.

today she was my morning muse... a delightfully brilliant poet who knows how to play with words in a most riveting way!  i only just found her beautiful.work.  please allow me to introduce you to Chelsea Rae in these lines:  http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1861530/shine-your-love/

Unhinge your jaw and shut your eyes
because the best things in life are simply felt,
and you’ll feel it everywhere if you’re doing it right.
A spark of electricity will ignite where your tongues dance
and it will sizzle through your teeth and down your throat,
lighting fires where you didn’t think could burn.
Curl your toes and knot your fingers into her hair like it is your lifeline.
Weld yourselves together, crawl into each other.
Run your tongue along hers until everything tastes like ‘we’.
Don’t forget to breathe; share the air until it’s gone
and all you have left to survive on is each other’s souls.
And whatever you do, don’t stop kissing her.
If you do, your lips will lose all meaning
because their only purpose now is to taste hers.
Your eyes will open and the world will seem a little grayer
As your soul untangles itself from hers.
Your tongue will become a defibrillator,
trying to revive the moment,
trying to recreate the electricity only you two can make.

the roaring wind whistles a polar me,
opposing freely,
a hushful respite,
inside today,
silent me.

sitting in dreams,
stuck in sleeping bags,
the night before,
before the morning snagged,
my lucid want,
my lucid haunt.

outside, the wind and sun,
blow fiercely through,
the dead dried leaves,
the dusty dung,
brown, unsung,
chaos flying,
above the roof,
around the fence,
at pasture’s hooves,
one last breath spent.

again here lie,
the dreams that drift,
the dreams that die,
sounding out February's cry,
singing her last goodbye.

while the trance settles,
and untangles,
and I, sitting quiet,
witnessing the bendy brambles.

~Lana Maree Haas

You were once that someone
Who always puts a different color to my days,
Who paints a smile on my weary face,
Who revives my soul with your warm touch,
And untangles me from my own knots.

You were once that someone
Who always pulls me for a dance when I just wanted to stare,
Who blossoms in winter when no one would even dare,
Who hums to a sad melody and makes it just right,
And fights my monsters when I would just resort to a flight.

You were once that someone.
Yes, you were once that only one.
But where in the world are you now?
Are you still in my world somehow?
When the only one that saves you
Leaves you battling alone and unarmed,
Will you still try to fight with just a cold bare hand,
Or just let go of it all, up to the very last strand?

You were once that someone.
How I wish you're still that only one.
But what a healing heart could only do now
Is to finally let go of what has come and gone.

When she touches me, I feel her touching
Herself, though she circles my shape into
Oneness, I sometimes feel— detached
Within those arms.  
                                   In her startled-fall
To sleep, imperceptibly, she gathers
The room from her vexing childhood.  
Drawing the air and curling in waves—
My hair, as if she were weaving some kind
Of shelter.

When I touch her, it is with desire.
My reach untangles the very dream
Which took thirty five years of dull
Existence to unmuddle— to imagine,
My soul's other.

                         Ten fingers envelop her body
Like splits of lightning— rippling skyward
From wholly, bone-dun-desert, floor and there,
In that rose-journey of unbridled touch,
The shock of thunder makes a mother
Of the sky.  
                     When she breaks her water
The blighted earth that was sung— given
My name, becomes her light, awakening
Child.

The patter of an early evening rainstorm awakens her
and she untangles her sweaty limbs from those of her lover.
The sun has begun to set;
the thrill of adventure calls to her once more.
He begins to stir, awoken by her chaotic movements;
And lazily admires her beauty as she sifts through mounds of overdue laundry,
still smelling of suntan lotion and chlorine,
in search of the perfect shirt.
She’s late, as always,
She can hear her friends are outside in the car -
blasting throwbacks and spilling drinks
as the laugh and scream for her to hurry.
They fly through the night -
windows open letting the cool breeze filter the air thick of smoke and jubilance
All too eager to reach their destination;
moon children growing restless under the stars.
The ocean calls her home and its salty air clears her mind
as flames shoot out of the fire,
crackling and popping in the midnight sky.
Cheers are heard as bottles are passed;
pulling her head back out of the clouds.
Champagne to welcome the sunrise,
whiskey to bid summer adieu.
Daylight begins to break -
she takes one last drag of her cigarette and turns to go.
He’s still sleeping when she arrives,
this time she’s more careful not to wake him when she leaves.
The morning dew on bare feet remind her it’s time to move on -
the mountains are calling her name and to them she would roam;
it was always temporary,
changing with the seasons.
But to him -  
she tasted like skittles,
and she smelled like summer;
one he would never forget.

When she touches me, I feel her touching
Herself, though she circles my shape into
Oneness, I sometimes feel— detached
Within those arms.  
                                   In her startled-fall
To sleep, imperceptibly, she gathers
The room from her vexing childhood.  
Drawing the air and curling in waves—
My hair, as if she were weaving some kind
Of shelter.

When I touch her, it is with desire.
My reach untangles the very dream
Which took thirty five years of dull
Existence to unmuddle— to imagine,
My soul's other.

                         Ten fingers envelop her body
Like splits of lightning— rippling skyward
From wholly, bone-dun-desert, floor and there,
In that rose-journey of unbridled touch,
The shock of thunder makes a mother
Of the sky.  
                     When she breaks her water
The blighted earth that was sung— given
My name, becomes her light, awakening
Child.

i’ve tangled with a lot of bodies
after we ended.

i’ve knotted myself with different hearts
pretentiously knowing that this pain i’ve felt could be mended.

i’ve scrambled those ties in my hands and how easy it was for me to un-knot them.

one knot comes in, after a few days, weeks, or sometimes but not often, months, slowly it detangles itself and i leave untangled, unbroken, as if nothing went past these lines on my heart, my body, my lips, like it didn’t happen at all.

i thought those messy tangles i put myself into would be as hard as when we had to untangle ourselves — or just me, i guess — from the oh so short but very sweet time we’ve had together.

but, i was wrong.

i wasn’t left untangled,
i wasn’t unbroken.

i still had a little not, tied in between my heart, body, and lips, which i try so hard not to notice by putting myself out there, messing my own lines up till i catch someone who ends up letting go afterwards.

to you,

we’ve already part ways,

to me,

you barely left.

i wish you could untangle this knot you left.
i wish you could mess with mine again, and probably leave a bigger knot — so obvious that i’d give up trying to fix it.
i wish to see how your soft hands would carefully untie, over then under then pull and stretch, this knot and maybe i could finally figure out that it was so easy that i didn’t even need your help.

but you’re gone.

and i have to accept that.

it’ll take time before this untangles by itself so i’ll just let it be for awhile.

and when someone does come not only to tie their heart with mine,
but also untangle what you had left behind,
then i’ll be fine,
and know that now’s my time.

When she touches me, I feel her touching
Herself, though she circles my shape into
Oneness, I sometimes feel— detached
Within those arms.  
                                   In her startled-fall
To sleep, imperceptibly, she gathers
The room from her vexing childhood.  
Drawing the air and curling in waves—
My hair, as if she were weaving some kind
Of shelter.

When I touch her, it is with desire.
My reach untangles the very dream
Which took thirty five years of dull
Existence to unmuddle— to imagine,
My soul's other.

                         Ten fingers envelop her body
Like splits of lightning— rippling skyward
From wholly, bone-dun-desert, floor and there,
In that rose-journey of unbridled touch,
The shock of thunder makes a mother
Of the sky.  
                     When she breaks her water
The blighted earth that was sung— given
My name, becomes her light, awakening
Child.

we have a thing
a living thing
we don’t know what else to call it
it’s unlike any living thing
that life did ever posit

it surfaced on a liquid night
our heads were swimming in the stars
and once back down on solid ground
the thing was sleeping
at our feet

now it tails us everywhere
hides inside a gaze
feeds on time,
heaving hips,
musings on a page

it grows; glows
invisibly
with each ******* sigh
untangles every simple thought
a human could desimplify

we're told the thing is ours to keep
can’t be robbed or gifted
can’t be sheltered, nonetheless
from hungry eyes
from destiny

I woke up this morning.
the thing is nowhere
to be found

She wakes up every day with a telescopic
sweater person staring at her face.
The smoke filled room is foggy and
reminiscent of a dreary London afternoon,
Sunlight slowly filters through a screenless
glass pane that lies behind the dusty wooden
panels that protect her from the blinding light.
The dust dances effortlessly through the streaks
of filtered sun as if they were a couple which
have danced this dance many times before.
With a heavy thump the whimsy of dancing
dust is taken away as the reality of chaos sets in.
In a flurry of blond hair and the ever present
feeling of fleeting time she reluctantly untangles
herself from the rainbow colored cloak that
protects her from the scowling faces that
await beyond the fortress door.
"Five more minutes." she whispered
to herself in an effort to remain within silence.
Entangled in her rainbow she threw her head
back upon her misshapen pillow chasing
the dream she will never be able to finish.
The pleasant ones that whisk her away
from telescopic sweater people
and scowling faces.
She rather dream of dancing dust.

I used to write poems
Who knew how to rhyme
Easy words hung out together
Matching pace, keeping time

But now I like my proses
That don’t have to try so hard
I can write each phrase
Quick as it catches ablaze
No rhythm in it’s ways
Just minding its own business
As it swirls across my page

But I guess it’s not the words themselves
That put in the effort
That craft phrases so pristine
You’d think they’d been conceived by Robert Redford
(Oof)

It’s my latent mind
That no longer lives in the land of
Rhyme
Where AABB and ABA
Just aren’t my preoccupation
They don’t rise me to another station
Of talent and prowess
Of being the very best

I just want to write out how I feel
And not worry how it sounds
That is until I go back
And see how emotions lack
In words that don’t capture me
Don’t rapture me
With their romanceless apathy

I forgot that poetry is poetry because it is an art
That a lion is more a lion for his mane than for his heart.
Would a balding lion still best the other beasts?
Perhaps
But if so,
Wouldn’t you know
That a bald lion is a she
The one who hunts and bears new beasts
The one who bleeds and shares her meat
The one who mangles cub thieves
And I’m sure the one who untangles
Knots in the mane of the he

I digress from this feminist lioness
But I like this point of view
That sometimes beauty is better
And sometimes better is use
But I also already knew that
And if you’re still reading, so did you

My point is that though I am
Smarter now
Older
More mature
With thoughts that vibrate higher
And far less victim overtures
My poetry has suffered
And I enjoy it less
And now to create
Swooning phrases capped in rhythm
I must confess
That I labor

In my old way of feeling I found it easier to create
But in my new way of thinking

Ah
There it is.
In my new way of being I think
I choose when to be swayed by an emotion
Rarely being overtaken
But also rarely feeling forsaken
Accepting calmly an occasion where my intentions are mistaken
No matter,
I remain unshaken

There we go
I’ve got it back
A little rhyme
Picking up the slack
And in the evening I’ll have a snack
Some carbs
Some sugar
And the extra poundage won’t give me anxiety attacks
Cellulite on my thigh
Doesn’t make me want to cry
I’m not so lonely
I am content
I am ambitious
I pay my rent
I don’t overeat
Or undereat
I just want to feel sated
I’m not frustrated
I don’t feel hated
And my gratefulness is never belated
I’m happy
I am not manic
An unanswered text won’t send me into a panic
I moisturize
I don’t have bags under my eyes
I don’t compromise
I won’t lie
And when I care I really try
I love my home
And love my skin
I love my bumpy shins
I don’t feel stressed about my age
Or the passing of time
So I suppose I won’t fret
That my words won’t always rhyme

Morning rises over Philadelphia
and cracks the sky;
untangles legs once intertwined.
Sun beams pierce through the window,
Revealing two bodies withdrawn to distant sides
of the hotel bed,

The night spent chest to chest
will forever be kept in the dark.

Lesson one: give your heart to someone who gives theirs back. And hell she'll give you her heart on her sleeve, with a magic that allows you to conceive, real love, the kind that others dream of, the kind you look above and wish upon a star for, everything you wanted, she'll give you more.
Lesson two: find eyes that embody a maze that you could get lost in for days. And as you gaze at each other, you are no longer dazed by anxieties and caution signs because she reads through the lines and untangles and unwinds knots others have left behind.
Lesson three: lust is not love but when you find both, grab them tight. Because for the first time in your life you'll feel as though you got something right and as you see her in sight and she sets you alight with just one look, take note of the tattered heart she willingly took, the time she gave up to read into and not judge by the cover of your book.
Lesson four: always hold the door but never hold back. Hold the door for opportunity and unity in a way you could never construe existed, because within moments she'll have your eyes misted, your vision twisted, into the future, you see yourselves sharing, and those walls that she's tearing down will form new foundations for you to find your own ground.
Lesson five: tell her everyday how beautiful you think she is. Because with every day that passes, through each lens of her glasses she'll develop a tainted view and this time it's up to you to offer her your eyes, to help her see and realise, her beauty inside. Inside the body you adore, the woman you'd do anything for.
Lesson six: love is meant to last. So run her a bath, fill up her glass, do the dishes, commend her wishes, lay her fears to rest as she curls into your chest, calm the wars in her mind, undo and unwind with the love that you find in a fountain overflowing with her name, show her your game, not now but for forever, that whatever the weather, you will be there, show her you care and if you tried you couldn't care any more, tell her every day what you're grateful for.
Lesson seven: draw a line under the faults your find for she is only human too, let her know you love her through and through.
Lesson eight: show her. Kiss her, hold her, brush your fingers through her hair and stare into her eyes, as they sparkle and shine as the milk and honey on her lips and yours become entwined. For her make time, all the time in the world, because only once, will you find this girl, this lady, the one that you'll say, made you into the person you always wanted to be, who gave you eyes to see, only once will you find this lady, who will set you free, allow you to be all that you can be, and you shall do the same for her too, only once do you find the other half of you.

.
When she touches me, I feel her touching
Herself, though she circles my shape into
Oneness, I sometimes feel— detached
Within those arms.  
                                   In her startled-fall
To sleep, imperceptibly, she gathers
The room from her haunting childhood.  
Drawing the air and curling in waves—
Her hair, as if she were weaving some kind
Of shelter.

When I touch her, it is with desire.
My reach untangles the very dream
Which took thirty five years of dull
Existence to unmuddle— to imagine,
My soul's other.

                         Ten fingers envelop her body
Like splits of lightning— rippling skyward
From wholly, bone-dun-desert, floor and there,
In that rose-journey of unbridled touch,
The shock of thunder makes a mother
Of the sky.  
                     When she breaks her water
The blighted earth that was sung— given
My name, becomes her light, awakening
Child.

Here I am standing outside the door
I look around the sea of faces
Hoping to catch a glimpse of the one I adore
My heart's beating like it had ran a million races

Crossing the threshold with trepidation
I made my way to an empty seat
Scanned the crowd again and sighed with resignation
Maybe I was too late I thought to myself as I slumped with defeat

Raised my hand to signal the waiter
That I would like a pint or several
Maybe drop a few bombs by the name of jaeger
And my heart nearly stopped when I saw that someone special

I caught her eye and she cracks into a smile
A smile that I've sorely missed
A smile that made my trip worthwhile
A smile that I could never resist

With our eyes still locked she weaves through the crowd
My heart beats faster as I kept her in my gaze
Thirsting for her touch as if I've been through a drought
She stops right in front of me and enfolds me in her warm embrace

I inhaled the scent of her
A scent that no one could ever replicate
A scent that could never be dispelled by any zephyr
A scent that I've missed for a decade

The night passed by in a flash
I remember the fleeting touches I made
Telling myself that she is really here in the flesh
Hoping that this feeling will never fade

Then a fight broke me out of my reverie
A fight borne out of an inebriated mind
A fight that gave me a chance to hold you like in a memory
A fight that we tried to unwind

I looked into her eyes, eyes that were full of feelings
Eyes that I could fall forever into helpless
Eyes that never fails to tug at my heartstrings
Eyes that has kept me up sleepless

She apologised for the fight between her sister and her boyfriend
Promised me that we'll meet again
With a last kiss she untangles her fingers from my hand
As she got into the cab I prayed that this night wasn't in vain

I hailed a cab and told the driver my destination
When I suddenly realised that due to my hesitation
I've forgotten to tell you three words that I hope you'll value
Which are I Miss You

.
When she touches me, I feel her touching
Herself, though she circles my shape into
Oneness, I sometimes feel— detached
Within those arms.  
                                   In her startled-fall
To sleep, imperceptibly, she gathers
The room from her haunting childhood.  
Drawing the air and curling in waves—
Her hair, as if she were weaving some kind
Of shelter.

When I touch her, it is with desire.
My reach untangles the very dream
Which took thirty five years of dull
Existence to unmuddle— to imagine,
My soul's other.

                         Ten fingers envelop her body
Like splits of lightning— rippling skyward
From wholly, bone-dun-desert, floor and there,
In that rose-journey of unbridled touch,
The shock of thunder makes a mother
Of the sky.  
                     When she breaks her water
The blighted earth that was sung— given
My name, becomes her light, awakening
Child.
.

Pretty
baubles that dangle,
a Babyliss
that untangles  the
knots in your hair

not a bible anywhere
(unless they're sold under the counter)

and the packaging they wrap things in
if they wrap things up at all
******* in another knot with
string from a giant ball.

I've seen a sight or two or three and
Woolworth's won't be seeing me

sad to say
it had its day
and has gone to that
great mall
in the sky

so I'll head ecumenical
being cynical
but practical
and shop at
the
nearest Temple.

she sighs; sleeping beside you.
your warm, tired, motionless body breathing, not a foot away, radiating heat.
your heart beating slower and slower as you inhale and exhale as the moon shines through your window, forever luminous, like your eyes, that are now tightly ****.
your eyelashes fluttering as she plans her morning escape, contradicting our midnight escapades.
the sun rises as she slowly slips away, just like her, your fingers left mine, once intertwined with me, she untangles herself from you.
her heart left untouched, and me covered in bruises.
your grip tight on her thigh, you break away from me more and more, but the chains get stronger.
you traded our laughs for her screams.
even though the stars smiled down on us when you did.
you twirled my hair as much as you did my tongue. now she just twirls with the door.
your strings still dangling from my eyes, because she runs with scissors and i only own tape that has lost it's hold, since you were out of my grasp.
and falling into her with the lift of a finger, as i fell for you.

she untangles
from around
me,


like a
ball of
cheap

drunken

yarn.


then finds
her way
down our
bedroom
stairs.


upon reaching
the bottom

she throws
away a
glance

in my
general
direction.


much like
a person
waiting on

a bench
for a bus

would do,


when they
see a

car go by

then realize,


there is
no one

in it that
they really
know
or care
about.



it is just

a courtesy



"I think I

might know

you nod."


no need for

I love you's

this morning.


good-bye will

suffice.


and this
evening

when the
bus comes

to bring
her back..


It will
find me
waiting,


like a

wooden

drugs store

indian

at the
bottom

of the
stairs


eager to

meet her
there.


every day

right on

time.


it is not

so much
a game

we play,



as it

it has
become
instead.

a almost

lifeless

existence a


scare crows

ritual we
act..


biding time.
every morning
we awake.



sleep walking

love through

our day.


never
realizing,


our future
never
had anywhere
to go

to begin

with.

He compliments me.
I'm unamused and so is he.
He pulls my hair and untangles it, but I want the mess.
He holds me close I'm not alone I should feel blessed.
He lets go I'm free.
I know he knows I know he feels, but its cold in here
"Its like you wanna be lost," he says.
"I do," I say as my heart drifts away.

He smiles down on his searching children,
laughing in wonder
as they tangle themselves
in the webs of society.

He takes a moment,
smiles and untangles us,
and tells us again,
"I love you. Follow me."

Sometimes we do,
sometimes we wander off.
He is ever patient
and loves us the same.

He pleads with us,
"My child, I wish to show you
the way. Teach you to speak kindness,
teach you to celebrate happiness."

Are you listening?
Or are you lost?
Take a moment to pause.
Let him guide you.

Life will never be the same.