november

Sometimes,
I don't understand.

Sometimes,
I sit there thinking
with a squished grimace,
asking myself
Why?
Eyebrows raised upwards,
creating an arrow pointing to the sky...
Looking perhaps to the lightbulb
above my head
that forgets to light up.

Sometimes,
I'd rather break than bend.

And sometimes,
I try it. I try to break with almost all of my might;
to convince myself to crumble.
But there's a piece of
Something that holds me back,

so here I am...
waiting for Something to show up,

waiting for Sometimes to forget the way to my house.

sleeping at last

This world is so ginormous. It's overwhelming. When I put music on and jump on the wondrous site StumbleUpon, I almost go into panic attack mode... there's the sudden and short-lasting realization of how little I am in the world. The millions upon millions of sites on the internet is unromantically comparable to the stars in the sky; when does it end? It's hard to put into words, but it comes with such an empty, stale emotion. A single person seems so immeasurable and unimportant and purpose almost gets drown out in a sea of fear; I get scared. Because it's a scary thing, right? It's like the moment you finally wrap your mind around Inception and then in a snap, the understanding gets whipped out of reach. For that split second, knowledge and understanding grabbed ahold of us and we thought we understood! But, it took us away from the peace of wonder and brought us into a flurry of fear because we're alone in that knowledge. Lucky for us, there's no way to find complete understanding in the world. No matter how hard we try or what lengths we go to reach it, we can never find it. We might get glimpses or hitchhike a ride along a path we may think will bring us to understanding, but it's all a waste. We can't have understanding and peace; it's almost a contradiction in itself. It's the acceptance of beauty and wonder in this ginormous world that makes it worthwhile and a true feat; understanding that God's beauty placed on this world can't be drawn out on a map with a key for the symbols alongside it. The key will keep changing and we get to have a place in that blind journey. It doesn't get much more exciting than that!

The Bride (SLAM)

Grandfather doesn't wait
for his hands to catch up
with his fate
it's a shame
those hands keep twisting
and turning
and churning
with fears
and sneers
with tears
and years
wasting away with sheer -
obedience.

These dry bones cry
and wonder why
there's no amount of water
to quench the thirst of the "father"
each man so calls himself
with certainty,
and pride,
but what he doesn't know is he already died.
But not to himself, to the world
in a whirl
of empty emotions
and daily devotions
to the lukewarm bath
he never leaves.
These dry bones cry.

They weep in echoes
that all will hear
and jeer
with mere
ignorance -
like deer not even listening
to the shears
of the oracles
hunched over,
volunteers who are
light years
away.

It seems so cavalier
to listen to the auctioneer
sell his soul
to the ones he so
desperately knows
will soon take it straight
to the black marketeer.

So remember you insincere,
the ones who interfere
in only one ear,
far and near,
that this is the time
for the holy year.

This is the time
for the "father" to become the bride,
to attend the world premiere
of the only Father who ignores
each political sphere,
sabbatical spear,
that pierces the life
of the ones who don't hear
His river rushing,
His sons and daughters musting
for His love He so abundantly gives
for us to give away to those who are gushing
with blood and tears
and sweat and veneers,
with beers
and pap smears,
with swears
that wither and wear
and tear down the very walls
we work so hard to build up,

He is here.

War Zone (villanelle)

"Don't plant a garden without light"

She said. "For, we all know that

without it, there could be a fight

between the tulips and the daisies in flight.

And the technicolor bugs that accompany it

won't hold back their might

of dissonance and discord like white

paint splattering the black canvas in combat

with the cover of the night.

Soon the tulips will align with the hydrangeas with spite

for the daisies, who attack

alongside the sunflowers' height.

And together they tumble through clouds in plight,

screeching for they soldiers lost to the slab

of cement, wishing there was some red knight

that would save them and rewite

their allergies to bone fat.

She said, "Don't plant a garden without light,

without it, there will be a fight."

Redemption (sonnet)

Without the invention of spies
Bred by beady rats and uptight mice
We would not see the cries
Of the cocooned butterfly; enticing
And nesting quietly with beauty
Concealing itself, it's naked self -
From the moody
World outside that shelf
Of the proverbial sunset
And the stomping rain,
Of the inhabitants that let
Each day pass in vain.
For the cries of the hidden
Can now be forgiven.

Repelling Opposites

Come follow to the place where the nectar is bitter
Where the petals taste sweet
And the leaves crawl and might jitter.
Where the bees do not sting and the roosters don't crow;
The owls' gaze droops wide;
Life reaped, but not sowed.

If your eyes could talk, they'd say not a word
Til the last dying breeze
Weeps quietly with allure.
Trailing behind with secrets so gentle,
The glint of the light reflects blindness; like metal.

Trudging unsteadily, head hung to the floor,
The darkness will cease, I will find you once more
Where the moon rises high and the sun waivers low,
The only goodbye is a kiss of heavy glow.
The fish blink coyly, their lashes magnified,
Come find me here, let our colours be dyed.

Bubble Distortion

Pupils scratch
at my eyelids -
restless,
impatient,
harmless.
So
my eyes flutter
open
like a Cyclopi-eyed camera;
staring blankly back
at the
only pair of eyes that won't blink until I do.

One
rise two
rinse three
rinse
four.
The pearly soap tries to help -
a grandmother writing a check for five dollars, signed proudly.
But it only helps for a minute
until the check crumples up and finds its way
down my throat.
There's only so much soap
I can take
before floating
away.

There's No I in Eyes

Wheezing eyes

shoot laser beams above

the fluffy blankets

laden with bored

silkworms.

Pleasing eyes

scream "LOOK AT ME!"

in the antsy crowd - 

to anyone who will listen,

or at least notice their sign written in blood.

Appeasing eyes whisper sweet-nothings

in each ear that passes by their dark corner - 

turning on only the already hot street lamps.

Musing eyes

glaze over like the

patient dead

who've been sitting in the silent

waiting room

for far too long.

And blind eyes are the only ones left 

grinning.

Tiptoeing Time (minute poem)

Without the sound of minutes, we
can't see them flee -
colors disperse
action perverse

baby sitting in spaghetti
like confetti
we clean
the scene

of imperfections, they scream with
the dish -
a joke
clock spoke.

haiku
Sail flapping in wind
Hull kisses its companion
Made for each other.


naani (1)
Beauty hates the beast
Until she cries and he's there,
Grizzly hands keep her warm
Just like that - she has fallen.


naani (2)
Wake up, wake up!
Not tears, but secrets
Poor down to the ground,
Creating perspectives in flashes.

Stained

The rain didn't
fall
down gently, it -          spat
like a bitter old man
chewing gritty
old
tobacco.

Was it You? (sestina)

Was it you who crept into my room
in the dark, wild mystery
of snores like grandeur symphonies?
Remind me if it will be you again -
my memory complains of lack of personal space
and who am I to overwork the poor dear.

Wringing her hands on a ratty dish towel, she repeats "oh dear, oh dear, oh dear"
in the damp, velvet room,
her eyes wide with white space;
letting the words escape through exhales, as if that would disband the mystery -
to repeat them over and over again.
Methodically picking at the violin strings, she plays a furthering symphony.

"Is that a heartbeat? Or is it the timpani sounding the start of the symphony?"
Or perhaps it is my conscious saying, 'You need a breath mint, dear.'
Perhaps it is instead the incessant words bubbling out again,
seeping into the corners of the room
lit with the same mystery
as white noise in a blank space.

But what is it anyway? Space -
that is. And again she plays her symphony
sputtering "Where did it all go - the fallen mystery?"
She's only claiming one dear;
the one who crept into my room,
the one who was thieving once again.

Again and again and again
like crawling through molding space
was a hobby that didn't want to make room
for a new symphony.
"Oh dear.
Where did all the mystery

go?" Her mystery
refuses to remember again
how the felt shoes crept in singing "don't you forget, dear";
prancing around the quiet space
making their own symphony
illuminate my room.

That's why I don't make her remember, and make room
for the stale symphony
in the forgotten space letting myself ask, "where did all the mystery go?"

Only Once

Did your lips quiver
                                               or shiver?
           like a star hanging dry?
                                               or like sopping fabric
                                                              hanging from the clothes line.

Did your wings clip the trees
                                               or the breeze?
           like a red balloon?
Or a fleeting steel plane
           boarding too soon.


           Which reservations are formed?
           By you?
                       or your parents.


            And why aren't the kids' menus on the table?
            next to the blue ketchup and sugar cubes?


If nothing else is forgotten,
leave the homemade tent
in the bedroom,

that'll be the only innocence not missed.

I Am From

I am from over the top fur hats and over characterized jewelry,
 from guitar strings and rhinestoned yoga pants screaming, "look at me!"
I am from a vine-ridden and camouflaged rambler peeking out from under the trees,
 from the smell of damp open windows during lightning storms and overgrown grass tipped with dew,
 from burning candles and vintage furniture concocting into its own incense.
I am from lavender and baby blue hydrangeas and vibrantly dyed tulips and feathers,
          the giant weeping willow across the pond and the pink budding tree outside my
          window,
          whose long gone limbs and secrets I remember
          as if they were my own.
I'm from constant sing-song sound and cackling laughter like a joyful witch read about in
          pleasant kid stories,
 from Frank Sinatra and cliche obnoxious top 40 radio,
 from electric vibrations and drum beats in the living room as a wake-up alarm on
          Saturday mornings
          along with routine brunch in the trendy parts of town.
I'm from roller coaster emotions dictating dynamics, whippy and sudden,
          and from stubbornness like honey grasping the countertop; in which scrubbing away with a wet
          cloth does no good.

I'm from "God is good" and "God is great"
          and "little bunny foo-foo hopping through the forest."
I'm from homemade hand-cut noodles, the original Grinch, and being swept up to place the angel
          atop the Christmas tree.
I'm from Minneapolis and the Scandinavian mutts,
          red-vine Twizzlers and almonds my mom can never seem to remember that I hate,
 from Anna falling in the green-layered
          mucky pond in the backyard,
          frizzy curls, big blue eyes,
          making forgiveness the only option,
          Betty Boop, Popeye and Olive, and old Bug's Bunny cartoons,
 traveling the county and making it across the world,
 only to end up again back in the same nook.

Letters to someone who can't read (1)

Why weren't you born with sight? And why am I stuck
   with it? You smell with your eyes and hear with your lips and speak with your ears,
   but you still never see.
What happened to you? What went wrong
   with me? Somewhere your configuration went right to end you
   up all mixed around. Jinxed around.
Your head is in your chest and your heart has floated up to take your brain's place;
   dangling idle as a limp balloon on a string laced with splinters. Maybe that's why
   I wish the splinters wouldn't be so stingy. I would've preferred feathers.

At least when they came in unannounced they'd be gentle.

So much

depends upon leaving white -
on the wake
of hibernation.

Too much depends upon the frost,
yet
not enough
upon the blurs of red that
float
down
first.

An Afterthought (an ode)

Your staunch, upright figure -
                                                it's captivating.
Your voice it whispers -
                                                        winking like fireflies playing hide and go -
seek.
The one and only in my thoughts
when my fingers                                         touch yours,
melting like fiery leaves;
first resisting the air with half effort
and then giving in -                 to rest
until disappearing,
seeping,
into the moist abode of the worms.