“How I Conjugate Life” The Sunday Whirl #200

The scar on my forehead conjugates when
I speak of you and
semaphore’s a bird perched with
discernment when it visits.

Can you hand me a passing, breathing day in
a ship that’s uncut?
A wave’s key says so much.

In cadence of hopeless dreams
I type like a cat fishing foil mice,
I’m upright and silent, ready to pounce.

Then you appear with smiles, so charming,
leaving me bare in a restaurant holding an umbrella
that says “Look at the scars on my wrist,
they’re my mother.”

To the in and out,
thoughtlessness doesn’t please,
nor does it say;
“Let’s go eat and be merry.”

We locked our nest
to be we
without God,
nothing of thickness in
the world,
just us.

In the golden area
it’s quiet. The river rustles
speaking of you and
everything falls into blue petals.

Five Hundred and Twenty Meters The Sunday Whirl #198

The delicate Cinnamon Rose leans against a sturdy Aloe plant.
Every time I act, I learn how to take an action even better.
This world emits hope, though it bursts with wounds,
I don’t want to worry through tumbles and sound,
I know I no longer live
five hundred and twenty meters
from Brooklyn.

“Burning Black Silence” The Sunday Whirl #196

All fruit at sunset is fire
and air above the ground,
I walk the darkness of a tree
falling asleep with aqua words.

I drift in a black silence with the burning,
scorched and spelt in spirit.
Momentary silence,
the perpetual smoke.

I listen to the chimes; clinking
like promises,
and existence throughout the course of the winter.

The Same Words in Nakedness The Sunday Whirl #195

Scrub calmly please and call my sister:
I’m in no hurry, but do not give details
so she won’t worry this time.

It’s not the knife that I’ve been blinded by
as my eyes stopped time; day and night.
It is always winter and there’s a pure silence of the right eye,
black is ennui leaving me to restore some vision to the left.

I wouldn’t have believed in angels and
I won’t condemn the crowd,
a bandaid telling me it’s a miracle.

The priest is silenced by music,
a clutter accommodating.
Discontent is the voice walking
the same words in nakedness.

Halfway opening my eyelids,
my hands wither into waste,
raining off the instant burning,
leaving bodies in my wake.

I’m a quivering tremor
a promise of silent demonstration.

Face-down in the Mud The Sunday Whirl #194

Life’s revolution pushes me and I can’t
see myself because I am
falling into the abyss.
Pieces of me torn in each event,
every challenge an offering for me to grow,
to enlarge my soul.
I can take this and become more, or
I can shrink back, shy away.

Even though I’ve fallen face-down in the mud,
which I hadn’t even noticed,
I hang my head
and cry.

And I’m still wandering through my lives
wondering how this could be.
But life has always been like that.
It never seems to change.

As I walk through my fourth dimension,
I sense you somewhere behind me.
Will we meet again in another time?
The fate of lightning; mine and yours are intertwined —
that’s clear.

The little bird is still sitting on the ledge.
Outside his family cries
for him to fly away
I look out,
taking my eyes off the bird.
He sings and sings and wakes me up
when I try to go to sleep.

Process notes: Yes, this may seem rather sad. I thought most definitely that 2015 was going to a “much” better year, but then on New Year’s Day, my little parrot Chochu, whom I had for over 11 years–died. I cannot even begin to tell you how much this loss hurt me. Too many losses in such a short amount of time. Yet, I am still breathing and putting one foot in front of the other. I have to remain optimistic or else I will fade away.

The Walk The Sunday Whirl #193

He was my favourite writer, except for Zola, of course.
I loved the way he sang so sweet about Texas, graffiti and Fogtown.
I could feel the frost upon him as he sang about Anchorage.
And I swear I’d have married him,
yet I strayed,

I wanted to kiss the concrete he walked on.

When I painted my toenails under a tree,
He’d climb it, to play a mandolin,
pale chords lost to me,
and I can tell you this: I began to envy him,
so I gave him my death kiss.

There wasn’t a reason except I was jealous — reason enough for me.
And in my holiness, I dug a hole
in my basement, and sang of Italy.

Now, multi-coloured lights send a sigh
through me, soul’s sadness — a scar.
Days are smiles: a circular dance that laughs.
Nights are tears: diamonds that glisten.
In rearview silence I look back.

“To Be Stalwart” The Sunday Whirl #188

Seems unfair to let the fledgling
try to fly when wounded,
But it might be what I need.

In my own defeat.
Is it a blessing or a curse?

I don’t like letting go,
even if I know it’s harming me,

I’m an atheist flutter when
I think of you,
the child that pirouettes
across the floor — helpless — cloudy.

How does the miserable sun
shine without enough rest?
When I look at my world
I am resolute it’s been
neglected.

Each stain ingrained
with helplessness.

Process notes: some of this piece came from my end of a conversation I had with fellow poet, Elizabeth Crawford Katch.

“The Crumbled Crocus” The Sunday Whirl #186

Fervor in a radiant night crowned
by the sweet pink jasmine queen
where the bustle of thorns thread crossroads,
dogs jump the ceded latched bar,
and the first men burst into the room
believing they’re dreaming.

They see an angel crowned with roses
supported in her arms is an old dying man,
her white dress is soaked red and shining,
but she does not reach piety for a second look
because drunken violence is never enervated.

The woman says to the men;
“Put serene hands on clean air without tears
and at once return to my tumbled-down house
to look for something to cover him.”

They take a spool of twine
and leave for the road to pick up the pieces.

“Vessels and Vision” The Sunday Whirl #184

The day is no longer audible and strange,
in the distance our skin contains the fabric that covers us,
where I dwell I love your surface; poppies
and porosity moving gradually,
it makes me want to drink the substance.

An attitude before the breaking doorway,
a thoughtful deal, not frivolous,
it’s a rising light in fatigue.
Immense celebration’s field,
a woman’s double smile’s literary,
known and continuous,
such nonviolence obeyed with longer flows from
these gnarled vessels is an open dark night —
then everything turns blue and
perfectly rooted,
an epilogue.

“Steeled Prisoner” The Sunday Whirl #183

She had been a quiet girl,
wrapping herself in a guise of diamonds,
playing childhood games of mystery
chasing secrets from her pillowed-nooks,
looking for shadows in light only to find them
hidden in darkness.

Today as the troops gather; their laughter shines.
I sense excitement and enthusiasm.
She reads the speech aloud,
they listen with intent
to engrave it in their memories.
Such passionate creatures
betrayed by torrid dreams of:
martyrs and seers.

Tonight she spends time unnoticed
among ordinary furniture
and her mother’s faded curtains,
while a melancholy cat
lies upon the floor.
She writes the words to verses in my wrists,
I’m soundless, a stranger,
when the roof begins to turn
with a rusted iron hiss.