"whiter" poems
it is at moments after i have dreamed
of the rare entertainment of your eyes,
when(being fool to fancy)i have deemed
with your peculiar mouth my heart made wise;
at moments when the glassy darkness holds
the genuine apparition of your smile
(it was through tears always)and silence moulds
such strangeness as was mine a little while;
moments when my once more illustrious arms
are filled with fascination, when my breast
wears the intolerant brightness of your charms:
one pierced moment whiter than the rest
—turning from the tremendous lie of sleep
i watch the roses of the day grow deep.
88.4k
have you ever believed
in something so blindly
so genuinely
that the moment you realize
it isn't true, something inside you
changes forever?
i wanna tell you a story, see
seldom do i ever
go swimming in drinks
deep enough to drown in
but when i do
i speak in tongues
about things that none
of my memories
are allowed to talk about
like that christmas
at the isthmus
where my girlfriend
plucked a conch shell
whiter than gods teeth
out of the sand
held it to her ear
and stopped time
that day she was a shade of blue
the could've made the ocean sick
see, she loved to play jokes
when she held
the sea shell to her ear
she gasped, called my name
and said "i want you to hear this"
i said "yeah, right, everybody knows it's just the same old sea"
she replied "no. not this one. this one is special. listen. theres music in this one"
she handed me the shell
like a promise she couldn't keep
and i held it to my ear
with all the potential
of seeing shore
after being stranded
at sea for years
only to hear
a tired dirge of silence
spill from its emptiness
i guess she didn't know
how desperately
i wanted to hear it too
because ever since
something inside me snapped
now sand pours out
of every post card i open
i hear seagulls
in telephone static
sometimes i have dreams
where i bury my hands
in every beach
i've ever been on
and exhume this graveyard of noise
every time i try to sleep
i spit up fishhooks
and i guess i'm obsessed
but maybe
if i hold my ear
to enough vacant things
then i could have back
the time stolen from me
since it happened
maybe they would get it
if they knew what i wanted
when i blow out birthday candles
maybe they'll find me
face down in a wishing well
i watch eternal sunshine
of the spotless mind every day
pretending i can forget too
because this sea sickness
has followed me for years
because yesterday
i walked into a music shop
and all the pianos broke
but the only thing
i can think to say is
*do you know how bad
a memory has to be
that you fantasize
about forgetting it?*
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 1:03 PM UTC
In Spanish, VIVIR means To Live, the proper conjugation of which to when you say something as improper as “I live” would simply be translated to “Yo Vivo”.
I live, as a Colombian-American.
I live, as “You don’t look Hispanic”
I live, “Woah! You and your brother look nothing alike. You’re so… white.”
I live, “My mom came home once and talked about a man who simply replied with a horribly pronounced “Me gusta” when my mom said she was Hispanic.”
I live, “My dad condones abusive behavior because he thinks Latina aggression is ****
I live, my mom asking me “Would you rather celebrate the Sweet Sixteen or have a quinceanera party?”
I live, as the white boy sitting across the room in Spanish class asking “When will I need this in real life?”
I live, as the “Yes I DO have a friend with a skin complexion similar to mine, and yes, he is Hispanic.”
I live, most of my friends are beautiful people of color.
I live, when will you open up the tab in Google and search some Hispanic History to fill your mind instead of “Latina ****
I live, the messages on the Internet saying “You’re Hispanic? I bet you’re great in bed.”
I live, there are NO gender neutral nouns in Spanish
I live, yes I DO love coffee
I live, no it did NOT stunt my growth
I live, one kiss per cheek at family meet-ups
I live, “Eskimo” nose rubs
I live, "if you’re hispanic, why aren’t your ears pierced?"
I live, being expected to remember Spanish just because it was my first language, but growing up with an American dad made me whiter than fresh bed-sheets sold in America, made in South America, Hecha en Peru.
I live, my mom breaking into tears as she is so proud that I can sing in Spanish
I live, my mom used to be so embarrassed, when I replied “un poco” to her friends asking “Tu Hablas Espanol?”
I live, "if you’re Hispanic, is your mom an Alien?"
I live, "But your dad looks so white!"
I live, being subject to racism hidden in a joke, hidden in a remark about how pale I am, hidden behind a judgmental look, hidden behind a scoff, a laugh, a pity shrug, a fetishized assumption.
I live the bulletproof clothing and horrible crimes I am warned about when I say I wanna go to Colombia I wanna go to my mom’s home.
I live, as a Colombian-American.
I live.
Yo vivo.
Dec 28, 2015
Dec 28, 2015 at 8:19 PM UTC
Papers, Papers, Papers
Whiter than aching teeth,
Whiter than whites of tilted eyes,
Whiter than funeral wreaths.
My hands shake as I write this,
Filed away myths; Stolen lined sheets
My index finger chained by red tapes,
words mix and ground breaks,
I'm the one the world forsakes
Yellow maize, littered leaves,
all twisted into
black ink and clean sharp white paper blades.
-------"I am in a bit of daze," I tell myself, "look at those flaccid bits;
there lay the logs who use to be the jungle of my childhood dreams."
------"Don't be amazed," I replied, "these leafless branches and twigs are for
your Papier-Mâché degrees."
So I listen to my second self once,
the more logical cynical satirical one,
Treading on the plot of their paper works,
playing crosswords as anxiety uncork
my thoughts turn to the bankable orcs,
just as my career forks
Maybe I should be like my mother,
Marking numbers on a deck of cards-- waltzing with Chance.
Maybe I should be like my father,
Toiling for some rich men's grandson-- seething in Trance.
Maybe I should be like the Other,
Going along with the system-- thanking myself
beneath a cap, a diploma, a piece of paper.
I wore these books like bank notes tuxedoes,
I was promised the world by the credits I borrowed.
Must I go along with the mechanism of their game,
or should I rise up against all odds
Opposing, debating, rebelling against
this bundle, this trouble, funneling me into no-tomorrows
Or must I write it all down,
in my prayers against their lawyers, who need no reminds
Or must I shred, smear, and tear the papers with my own bare hands
But what will I ever be to them, friends?
A papercut, perhaps.
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 9:33 PM UTC
The blue necklace...
The sun
is laughing and shining
Oh God,
Why are you so powerless ?
I implant the fish in the sea
The whales implant the trees in the oceans
My golden earrings were lost
His eyes were not blue
My blue necklace is beautiful
My mother's eyes are more beautiful
for knowing Gandhi as a good leader
And ****** as a bad one
and I'm just scared of fame
The poet stacks on the words
in such a way
that even he himself
doesn't know what is he saying
The society is always colorful
But my eyes are black and white
I was praying for the death of
my mom,
my sister
or me ''Jasmine''
Mom!
Are The Clouds whiter up there in the sky?!
گردنبند آبی
خورشید
می خندد و می درخشد
...خدایا
تو چرا هیچ قدرتی نداری!؟
من ماهی ها را در دریا می کارم
نهنگ ها در اقیانوس درخت می کارند
گوشواره های طلایی من گم شد
چشمان او آبی نبود
گردنبند آبی من زیباست
چشم های مادر من زیبا تر است
که گاندی را
رهبری خوب می دانند
و هیتلر را بد
و من فقط از شهرت می ترسم
شاعر
آنقدر کلمات را
روی هم می چیند
که حتی خودش هم نمی داند چی می گوید
جامعه همیشه رنگارنگ است
و چشم های من سیاه و سفید
دعا می کردم
کاش مادرم مرده بود
یا خواهرم
خودم
''یاسمن''
!مامان
اون بالا
تو آسمون
ابرها سفید تراند!؟
Jan 11, 2018
Jan 11, 2018 at 10:05 AM UTC
Come on doggies we can play
The Giver is gone now we have our say
Do what we want without a trick
(You are green but so unclean)
Come on doggies we can play
Sit back smoke me free (Freedom! Freedom!)
Sit back smoke me free (Freedom! Freedom!)
Sit back smoke me free (Freedom! Freedom!)
Sit back smoke me free (Freedom! Freedom!)
Sit back smoke me free (Freedom! Freedom!)
Sit back smoke me free (Freedom! Freedom!)
Sit back smoke me free (Freedom! Freedom!)
Come on doggies we can play
The Giver is gone now we have our say
Do what we want without a trick
(You are green but so unclean)
Come on doggies we can play
Sit back smoke me free (Freedom! Freedom!)
Sit back smoke me free (Freedom! Freedom!)
Sit back smoke me free (Freedom! Freedom!)
Sit back smoke me free (Freedom! Freedom!)
Sit back smoke me free (Freedom! Freedom!)
Sit back smoke me free (Freedom! Freedom!)
Sit back smoke me free (Freedom! Freedom!)
Fire the drums straight to my lungs
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 12:27 PM UTC
Something about the woven leather
Reminds me of sandals you once wore,
In the garden enjoying the sun.
Your shorts and that old cotton vest
the one that was probably once white,
but Nanny wasn't around to do your whites anymore,
and so it grew greyer as your hair grew whiter.
The sun's rays danced through the waves of your hair
and into the garden,
Filling it with light, shining down upon plastic flowers planted among coloured stones.
Smells of stale cakes from bargain stalls and the sugar from flat lemonade in murky cups wafted out the back door and clashed with that overpowering cooking smell as you sat in your sun lounger and baked yourself in vegetable oil, cooking your Irish skin to a crisp!
The flower patterns of your walls in the garden and cast iron patio furniture,
The plastic mat that covered the carpet and always managed to trip us,
The halogen heater in the parlour and blanket on your knees,
The clumps of bullseye sweets in your locker and Quality Street tin of empty wrappers,
The damp and stale smells of the kitchen in your care,
The holy pictures and moving Jesus on the stairs,
The bath marbles we loved to play with and how they'd smash upon collision,
And the pink, silk quilt that enveloped your bed,
They're all pieces in the mosaic that illustrates your memory now and they'll never be broken.
I've glued them so tightly together it's as strong as your jaw!
Your jaw, always known to make eyes water when you'd turn during a goodbye kiss on your cheek and crush our noses! Even when we tried to approach with caution! But oh what anyone of us wouldn't give to feel that again, just to say goodbye and think we'd be over to the Bluebell to see you again.
So now I sit and look at the woven leather on my sandals and remember all the details, all the memories that are woven together to make you. Sometimes I wish I could click the heels together.
Bluebell
Bluebell
Bluebell
And be back in that garden, once more.
Sep 20, 2016
Sep 20, 2016 at 5:41 AM UTC
Give me a golden pen, and let me lean
On heaped-up flowers, in regions clear, and far;
Bring me a tablet whiter than a star,
Or hand of hymning angel, when 'tis seen
The silver strings of heavenly harp atween:
And let there glide by many a pearly car
Pink robes, and wavy hair, and diamond jar,
And half-discovered wings, and glances keen.
The while let music wander round my ears,
And as it reaches each delicious ending,
Let me write down a line of glorious tone,
And full of many wonders of the spheres:
For what a height my spirit is contending!
'Tis not content so soon to be alone.
5.9k
Your smell particles,
the
air
I breathe
The drug I need,
the endorphin I need...
Simply missing your presence,...
--how you said you loved me,
your warmth,
your gentleness,...
-- and the consciousness that you're there, ...
... Even though not in person ...
As I spread my arms for your voice...
Silence answered me, ...
Nothingness whispered he's here...
--a sole hero walking against the desert scorching sun...
Now the roses you gave me had withered and died...--
As how you felt towards me...
Nurtured, then cut off to whiter and dry ...
Unspoken words behind your tightly clasped lips,
the embers in your eyes betrayed you, dear ...
Cold
As
snow,
Not as pure
Murky as ridden by dirt...
You are another trinket,...
I close the chest of your shadow...
I'd never cut your wings,
so there, off you go,... --off with the stream,...
... cascading into nothingness ...
***
Sep 28, 2017
Sep 28, 2017 at 2:01 PM UTC
Once as I travelled through a quiet evening,
I saw a pool, jet-black and mirror-still.
Beyond, the slender paperbarks stood crowding;
each on its own white image looked its fill,
and nothing moved but thirty egrets wading -
thirty egrets in a quiet evening.
Once in a lifetime, lovely past believing,
your lucky eyes may light on such a pool.
As though for many years I had been waiting,
I watched in silence, till my heart was full
of clear dark water, and white trees unmoving,
and, whiter yet, those thirty egrets wading.
5.6k
summer day breeze
whispers ancient secrets of childhood upon your silky skin
caresses your backless yellow dress with billowing life
summer day sneeze
spins you round in white sneakers
wielding even whiter smile
summer day licks
so luscious and pink
summer day thrills
just for kicks
bare feet,
reckless running
defy gravity
like when we were kids and built
that time-machine from cardboard boxes
remember
when we fed baby butterflies with our first adventurous kiss
soul shattering tides
my fortress of solitude can no longer resist
it's still just made of tiny fluffy pillows
but now they're all grown up
i still remember
when you said
"i love you"
but we were just kids back then
and i didn't say it back
so i became an underwater knight after your love faded
and i wandered the deep dark sea all alone,
could no longer breathe the air above water
i stayed in darkness
slayed all the monsters
most of them my own
but never really found me a home
you sank earning your very own scars
and every single one is a tale of fire and caution:
"she's slippery when wet"
but that's okay, my love
i'm an underwater knight
in search of Atlantis
and the familiar in your smile disarms me like
childish imagination breathes wonder
and selfless love to life
this time i say it back
and we've both
finally found
our home.
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 4:11 PM UTC
A lion’s mane would’ve been permed,
zebra would be all white,
spotted leopard would’ve been spotless,
an orangutan would have blonde hair,
an elephant’s tusk would’ve been whiter,
rhinoceros would’ve had smooth skin,
hippos would’ve been skinny,
raccoons wouldn’t have had dark circles.
Need I go on?
Nov 26, 2019
Nov 26, 2019 at 6:08 PM UTC
Elegant mistress of the lake how
you dance with beauty. You spread
your wings outwards too show those
why you wear the crown, you feathers
always whiter than the clouds.
You are the queen that others do
follow, pure in colour and aggressive
in sound. If others do not show you
the respect, the queen of the
lake earns. Sentenced to the shore
never to swim in the deep, only shallow
waters as long as the queen is around.
Elegant queen of the lake always
dressed in your white gown. Those who
respect you always beaks lowered,
for you show your wings feathers
stretched out, to show all around
the majesty that is the swan. The lake,
queen in her pure white gown.
Mar 15, 2014
Mar 15, 2014 at 2:49 PM UTC
1722
Her face was in a bed of hair,
Like flowers in a plot—
Her hand was whiter than the *****
That feeds the sacred light.
Her tongue more tender than the tune
That totters in the leaves—
Who hears may be incredulous,
Who witnesses, believes.
4.5k
When I was young,
The grass was greener
The sky was bluer
The clouds were whiter
But now that I'm older,
The bills are greener
The bruises are bluer
And the faces are whiter
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 6:30 AM UTC
membranes bleed in classic fashion
seep into my brain with passion
pump my heart with fuel and tension
feeling like a villains henchman
blow me baby, how did i know?
one more chance to powder my nose
i see whiter than the snow
and i dont know how far i can go
mr rogers asks for entry
everything gets past the sentry
powdered sugar makes me antsy
for whatever suits my fancy
im too focused for my brain
all the colours look the same
bow to gods that i dont need
if it'll cause my nose to bleed
blow me baby, how did i know?
one more chance to powder my nose
i see whiter than the snow
and i dont know how far i can go
blow me baby, how did i know?
one more chance to powder my nose
i dont know how you could appose
i'll just lay here taking several blows
i need you cause i want you bad
the sweetest girl i've ever had
is whiter than the winter's snow
i love it when she's in my nose
oh, i've been told to get in line
that my whole lifes a waste of time
but i've got everything i need
as long as i can do the deed
blow me baby, how did i know?
one more chance to powder my nose
i see whiter than the snow
and i dont know how far i can go
blow me baby, how did i know?
one more chance to powder my nose
hardly straight, no arrows bow
an early start for whole new lows
Tonsils set aflame
I can't complain
I've only got myself to blame
Apr 17, 2017
Apr 17, 2017 at 12:05 PM UTC
Back in those days
when I was young and strong.
Pristine, Noble,
as pure as you'd long.
White as a dove,
handsome as a king.
I'm a token of love,
far greater than a ring.
My making contained
both good and bad.
My maker being
a hot headed lad.
Blood as blue
as the skies and seas,
I stood along the riverside
enjoying the occasional breeze.
My history is both
wonderful and morbid.
My beauty-spoken of,
I'm known by each kid.
Lovers cherish me,
write songs of my presence.
create tales of their own,
activate every sense.
And now when I speak,
when I look at my current state
I'm sad, deeply sorry
at my distressing fate.
Handcrafted marble
whiter than milk.
Quality as such,
smoother than silk.
Today has eroded,
decayed and died.
It matters not
how much I've cried.
For it all falls on deaf ears
while factory noises expose my fears.
My white is no more,
I'm a deepening gray.
I see pity in the eyes
where once admiration lay.
The pride of India,
its biggest glory.
The life of Agra,
this is my story.
Being the crown of the nation,
the jewel of its eye.
A wonder of the world,
I feel like a lie.
For what I am today
isn't me at all.
I've lived at great heights
survived a great fall.
It is my request
sincere and deep.
Give me no reason
to further weep.
Awaken. Arise.
the time is here.
Preserve your glory,
keep the pride near.
I am none other,
than your beloved Taj Mahal.
this is my story,
one I ought to tell.
Now my life
is in your hands.
the choice is yours
as are the lands.
Choose wisely,
The devils or me?
Perish with them
or rejoice with me?
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 6:45 AM UTC
Along the banks of Lake Shelbyville
That’s what I think of when it’s your birthday
A camp fire burning on a cool April night
We two drinking hot mauled cider
Or better yet “Hornsby’s Draft Cider”
Talking and laughing
Making up parodies
Parodies of Zeppelin and Floyd songs
Listening to the nightingales and the crickets
And watching fire light
That almost appears to be living
Watching slow rolling clouds, and feeling the whispering wind
Rolling in and out and over and under
The engaging light of the moon and stars
And maybe some of our friends were there
And maybe it was only us
Brother and sister
Best friends forever
Retelling stories of our past
Creating memories for our future
Waxing religion and philosophy
Such philistines, think my parents
And your parents don’t get it
And yes we have separate parents
And yes we have the same parents
(Adoption is a funny thing you see)
You are my funny BIG, BIG, BIG brother
Santa Claus, Sasquatch, Cave Man, and Viking
And I am your little crazy sister
Flower Child and Sacagawea
And it is your birthday
And I love you always
Love, Sarah Jane Gillian Tiffany Michelle Whispering Wind Grider Minks Summers Jonathan George Washington Francis Fleming Greenlee Whiter Liston Hall
Aka Awesome Pagan Goddess
Apr 28, 2012
Apr 28, 2012 at 1:36 PM UTC
--To C. M.
Fountains that frisk and sprinkle
The moss they overspill;
Pools that the breezes crinkle;
The wheel beside the mill,
With its wet, weedy frill;
Wind-shadows in the wheat;
A water-cart in the street;
The fringe of foam that girds
An islet's ferneries;
A green sky's minor thirds--
To live, I think of these!
Of ice and glass the ******
Pellucid, silver-shrill;
Peaches without a wrinkle;
Cherries and snow at will,
From china bowls that fill
The senses with a sweet
Incuriousness of heat;
A melon's dripping sherds;
Cream-clotted strawberries;
Dusk dairies set with curds--
To live, I think of these!
Vale-lily and periwinkle;
Wet stone-crop on the sill;
The look of leaves a-twinkle
With windlets clear and still;
The feel of a forest rill
That wimples fresh and fleet
About one's naked feet;
The muzzles of drinking herds;
Lush flags and bulrushes;
The chirp of rain-bound birds--
To live, I think of these!
Envoy
Dark aisles, new packs of cards,
Mermaidens' tails, cool swards,
Dawn dews and starlit seas,
White marbles, whiter words--
To live, I think of these!
3.9k
On Monday, November 14th
She wore her favorite dress.
Blue with grace.
Lace that covered her shoulders.
Lace that teased all the men that walked by.
Falling to her knees.
Barely brushing the scabs and scars that sat there.
Hugging her hips like the night hugs the moon.
On Monday, November 14th
She smiled.
Cherry lipgloss smeared quickly across her thin lips.
White teeth peaking out.
Her lips perfectly outlined.
The corners tucked up beautifully.
On Monday, November 14th,
She stood.
Pride in her perfect posture.
Proud of her lean body.
Her body perfectly aligned.
Not a flaw.
On Monday, November 14th
Her arms were pale.
A gold bracelet hugged her wrist.
You could see each blue stream, happily working.
Dusted with freckles.
Soft and pure.
On Tuesday, November 15th
She did not wear her favorite dress.
She wore a different one.
Black with sorrow.
No lace.
Falling to her ankles.
Encasing scabbed knees.
Hugging her in all the wrong places.
On Tuesday, November 15th
She frowned.
Blood red lipstick stained her thin lips.
Her teeth hid inside her blooded lips.
The corners fell, drooped.
On Tuesday, November 15th,
She sat.
Too exhausted to stand.
She let go of her posture.
She was cautious of her appearance.
Aware of her flaws.
On Tuesday, November 15th,
Her arms were whiter than before.
Each vein slashed.
Red.
The gold bracelet still hung there.
Her freckles throbbed with pain.
No longer soft, or pure.
On Tuesday, November 15th
He died.
Early in the morning.
With him, he took her strength, her smile, her pride.
He left her bare.
On Wednesday, November 16th
She missed him.
She missed him a little too much.
Her heart couldn't take it.
Her eyes red and swollen.
She was there, but gone.
On Thursday, November 17th
She joined him, quietly.
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 9:53 AM UTC
it is like the many nights
sleepless
intone of light
on the tiled floor
and surreptitiously
under the
influence
wringing out poems
while looking
at
8th and 7th street
fondling darkness
like virgins on
the absolute
a mutiny of
dead cigar butts on the
corner as "kuya Louie"
passes by with a wrench
half-drunk with "Emperador"
half-mad with ars poetica.
other sense of self
somewhere brash and brazen
awash with modern
sensibilities
as this night deepens
whiter like the color
of new bones
to fledgling movements,
just like any other night.
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 1:48 AM UTC
Evening was in the wood, louring with storm.
A time of drought had ****** the weedy pool
And baked the channels; birds had done with song.
Thirst was a dream of fountains in the moon,
Or willow-music blown across the water
Leisurely sliding on by weir and mill.
Uneasy was the man who wandered, brooding,
His face a little whiter than the dusk.
A drone of sultry wings flicker'd in his head.
The end of sunset burning thro' the boughs
Died in a smear of red; exhausted hours
Cumber'd, and ugly sorrows hemmed him in.
He thought: 'Somewhere there's thunder,' as he strove
To shake off dread; he dared not look behind him,
But stood, the sweat of horror on his face.
He blunder'd down a path, trampling on thistles,
In sudden race to leave the ghostly trees.
And: 'Soon I'll be in open fields,' he thought,
And half remembered starlight on the meadows,
Scent of mown grass and voices of tired men,
Fading along the field-paths; home and sleep
And cool-swept upland spaces, whispering leaves,
And far off the long churring night-jar's note.
But something in the wood, trying to daunt him,
Led him confused in circles through the thicket.
He was forgetting his old wretched folly,
And freedom was his need; his throat was choking.
Barbed brambles gripped and clawed him round his legs,
And he floundered over snags and hidden stumps.
Mumbling: 'I will get out! I must get out!'
Butting and thrusting up the baffling gloom,
Pausing to listen in a space 'twixt thorns,
He peers around with peering, frantic eyes.
An evil creature in the twilight looping,
Flapped blindly in his face. Beating it off,
He screeched in terror, and straightway something clambered
Heavily from an oak, and dropped, bent double,
To shamble at him zigzag, squat and *******
Headlong he charges down the wood, and falls
With roaring brain--agony--the snap't spark--
And blots of green and purple in his eyes.
Then the slow fingers groping on his neck,
And at his heart the strangling clasp of death.
3.6k
I am bound to her by blood,
this madwoman of a city
with eyes that see
a comatose heart, with no feeling.
One, two, three hundred,
a thousand —
we are all carbon copies
of her silicone ******* collagen cheeks
teeth bleached whiter
than the pearls we adorn ourselves with.
I was a child
when I left this madwoman,
mother of my younger years.
I left her drinking cuba libres,
stirring ice with her finger,
her nails crimson red.
I said, “Goodbye, I am leaving you.”
She turned her face back to the barrio
and said, “Adios, Muchacha.”
Years later, I look back on my youth.
I remember her as the mother I lost
the sister I never had
the woman I was afraid to become.
If only she knew
how easy she was to leave
how difficult she was to forget.
Jul 19, 2016
Jul 19, 2016 at 9:09 AM UTC
Drowned piano, plunging through the depths,
Bubbling out its dark mahogany breaths;
Drowned piano, songs played by the tide
And the harp strings shivering inside.
Drowned piano, the sea's become your hymn,
All about you schools of fishes swim;
Upon your legs, the coral will make a home,
And clams will envy your keys of whiter bone.
Drowned piano, answers a mermaid's prayer;
Startles sea-urchins, with a sight so rare;
Drowned piano, so many miles from shore-
Beloved fingers caress you never more.
Sep 21, 2010
Sep 21, 2010 at 8:03 AM UTC
*This is a poem for Rachel Corrie. I am not religious, and a far cry from spiritual, but I refuse to imagine Rachel Corrie insentient and six feet under, slowly amalgamating with the soil encasing her. Before her death, Rachel Corrie said “I still really want to dance around to Pat Benatar and have boyfriends and make comics for my co-workers. But I also want this to stop.” In the words of contemporary Palestinian poet Suheir Hammad “God has a better imagination than all of us combined” in either God's words or my own, I will not imagine in/on the same ground in/on which I maybe soon will be and more words from Suheir “What do I tell young people about non-violence when they can see for themselves how even orange bright and megaphone loud and cameras and US citizenship will not stop your ****** what do I tell young people/anyone even myself about “non-violence” when every single thing I've seen presenting itself/perhaps even masquerading as “non-violence” has been in my face and /rude/harsh/unavoidable and most of all, violent? I do not believe in God and humanity is pushing it's luck, but I believe in Rachel Corrie. This is for Rachel;*
I should study a she-wolf's prose
she wanted to write about death
but life would frequently
weasel and wheedle it's way in
there’s an overhanging image
a smaller
yet
infinitely larger
organism
continuously broached
by each word
I only want to study
a caterpillar’s motion
backward/forward /onward
across arms/legs
of this deer/dear
[her] surname/
[my] given name/
separated by [semi/totally] circular VOWels
***** blond hair
dirtied by dust /
rubble /
rhyme /reason/
whatever/ in compliance
with a rep/RESENT/ative democracy
several shades lighter
literally
figuratively
whiter
than she
need no permission
pat benatar
would/should croon
to your moves
every
boy and girl friend
i will/may/have/had
should be yours
entomo/insecto/[social] phobias
I never would’ve said so
I never
would’ve/
could’ve
told the caterpillar
to go
Nov 28, 2011
Nov 28, 2011 at 8:41 PM UTC