The scent of dirt, unearthed and wet.
There’s little comfort in its dampness on a night like this:
You were causal when inheriting fate’s condition,
inhabited blue and serene,
spoke of gardenias and roses,
with traces of clarity,
shrouded in sacraments and beings.
Let me understand why you went away.
There was such a warm write in your eyes,
an inward ascending light, many pages left to be read.
It’s immense when sensing you near,
I wake up knowing my night’s been spent
in a sensitive pulsation of arms
open as the sea, like my love of summer’s light.
We were seagulls flying
point to point, toward ceilings,
memories and landscapes,
time and asteroids.
bridging ourselves within a sanctuary.
Now I’m left with sorrow’s shadow,
when tomorrow’s edge arrives,
swift as a swallow swoops in
to recapture my soul,
so I’m not devoid.
Twice — I pray for light to reach me.
My wrists bound by Saint Benedict,
spirit of balance and moderation,
amethyst beads hold me in this limbo.
Silver medal moonlit night through
the open door, I wonder what lies
on the other side. I would alienate
the wind for one more yesterday.
Ribbons float over the book
wedged between razors for shaving
away our rough patches and cotton balls for
removing grim and crime from our skin.
The staring book, its ribbons waving,
a radio is playing a song about shaking your booty,
so unimportant and not unique.
While the book screams at me, I want to
silence it, shake it, and smudge its letters away,
It reads: “Tengo Cancer, ¿y ahora que?”
Process notes: I have missed six days of writing, nothing came to me until yesterday evening, when I saw this in the pharmacy. There was a poster and the book was just staring at me, while I was waiting for the young lady to help me. Yes, the music was blaring and unsettling.
My parrot sings through the open door, I’ve
allowed sunny salsa music in, he swings yellow,
and green with peachy cheeks,
his song’s a comfort.
I threw away roses today, their wilting petals
creased and quiet, begging me to release them.
I sit and watch the clothes swaying on the line,
a breeze kisses me, the wind chimes clink,
the taste of lavender and white on a Sunday morning.
My eyes run along
statues on lost paths,
near a tilting tower
that raises swords while it claims celebration,
time and smoke — the white pillows
at night; create fire, descending, restarting,
and reclining when dawn grows insuperable,
pressing a memory.
With transparent hands,
I reach for fantasy between the hours
of prowess cry and resurrection from the wet land,
facts hidden in the second movement are
the perpetual present with two words from my lips;
You said the earliest fouling was wide,
a machine’s song and an enchanting drink,
though this never made you bitter.
Yet, it was callous on the exterior
like the tease of a whale
encrusted by passing ships.
You liked me and the water,
I was weightless,
and soluble made you smile.
Then your skin became a colourless
carnival where the midway’s pulsating
lights burnt out, one by one.
Who knew you’d pull chalk from
your pocket marking a gap, a perfect place,
a space where no-one was allowed.
While your eyes drummed deep on me
as I tried to collect coins, to put them in
the magic machine to erase those hours,
and my knucklebones turned a white
hymn off the thimbled-wheels.
I remember the kiss you took from me
when I looked away.
In the evenings,
my cat likes sitting in my lap,
I give him snacks and affection.
At night he purrs while resting
on my bed, I’m beginning to learn his language.
Our cat Back, was never my cat, he was Michael’s. Since Michael’s passing, he and I are bonding beautifully. I remember only six months ago when he wouldn’t even allow me to pet him, always shunning me. I even said to Michael one evening, “Back doesn’t like me,” and Michael replied, “Don’t be silly, he loves you.” Back has turned out to be a great comfort for me, he’s gentle and quite loving.
Back in 2012
owls bereave her breast,
in heartless year-long yardsticks
or a painted stick hung ever forward
merciless in subjection depressed.
She looks over the wall
she never sees,
what silvers in silence
dethroned in this lee.
Matriarchs dare where the wind stops to play
in a shelterless moray of trifled mêlée
as I stand by her subtly
She sings of my future;
oblique and demure.
I am also posting this @
Gone points to what I crave,
and what of the latest comedy
on my birthday?
Bewildering that I remember some peace,
because my self-study doesn’t work.
I accept there are no easy plans
where time remains empty.
And trying to unthink only takes me to an older ache
of why you were easier to love
until the final days, when I was evicted
into an impending end,
left to heal — alone.
I made the call:
What does one keep, when a person becomes unlisted?
Who’d insist on grief’s rendition or explanation?
I talk on the phone,
yet my exchanges seem simplistic,
a child dancing on the rooftops.
My conversation starts with,
“I have a scar I can talk about.”