In The Garden

I can taste death
can you?
Playing a part of the bee
bitter, bitter me

how sweet your madness rings,
I taste this in reverse, you,
twirling in what is golden pure

honey,
you can touch
the aftertaste
better than the first
sharp sting of love

the mosquito-wing love
folding into butterfly now

blue as bruise, tumbling
the translucent pink
and florescence of white

in double you’s and emm’s
on your face dancing
together within a wing’s black curve

leaves your eyes spinning.

fragile,
you said,
how fragile

watching
how beautiful it is
in the play of light and shadow
as it catches itself on fire

flapping confusion into your mouth
the bitter honey
its sweet death sings to the tongue
the beautiful wild stutter

of praise and soothing
like your mother gazed down at you
on the quivering lap
you gaze at me and I’m confused,
fragile as a petal, confused
in the garden with you

_____________________

 DVERSEPOETS

I Quit: A Confession of A Late Bloomer

I am too shy to say this. Really, I am embarrassed. Maybe this is how people feel when they’re coming out for the first time. I don’t know the difference at this point; people like me and people like them frequently jump off cliffs, cut their own flesh, bleed to feel sane, or hang themselves to lift their feet off the ground, choking. I don’t do that. I think they misunderstood the definition of ‘walking on air.’ I take things too literally too sometimes.

They lift their feet inches, swinging a few feet off the ground, just so they can be six feet under it. I’ve never heard anyone praise breathing soil but somehow some people are obsessed with it. They think it tastes like chicken. I just wanted to quit my job because I felt like a chicken. With its head cut off. The feet get sore and bloated, red balloons ready to burst, and a head that barely stays still from the whir of nerves.

As We Age

The clock is the wrinkle on the wall, the age that never ticks.
It is merely a frozen fragment of running illusions.
The powerful hand that lowers and raises the dust that grows.

_____________________

 dVersepoets NaPoWriMo
This is a Sijo, a Korean poetic form suggested for this week’s “Form for All” at dversepoets.com

 

Before You Commit

Taste that point of conversation
you’re too afraid to touch. A broken rib.

Just relax your shoulders, throat
and chest; let it come from the shiver.

The opulent wisdom: don’t be afraid
to taste the point of speaking

like a child again. You were there
before, you can do it again. Open

up slowly, let them know your fears,
your desires, your death, untimely.

Let them know you’re Mad. That Freud
was right, the doom is simply anger

turned inward. The point of the gun
aimed at the flesh, biting, and

chewing the bones. The way we’re made,
reversed to decay. Taste that

point of removal from the dance of
rage. The silence that sings strife,

the sound of pain that implodes and
explodes.

_____________________

 dVersepoets NaPoWriMo

The Way of the Monster | And an Earthquake

She was in the belly of the whale
made only for her kind; women.
This is a Fair matter.

A hot, humid, summer
in Calcutta, the elephants dress up
as frequently as women;
in paint, in gold.
Only green wrapped around her waist that morning.

On ground, the whale punched every pebble,
pressed its weight on earth and stone.
Miles, and miles, and miles
shrieking at everything it passed.
She can see his visions: his hot, lethal nose.
She was ahead of everyone.

Thrown over her shoulder, her lips spoke
along her sari peering out.
Face clear of adornment
except for red between her brows.

All clutched tight with her, the women.
Eyes touching congested walls, intestines.
Huffing, sweating.
Stiff muscles balanced the whimsical shifts
of the beast,
swiftly tightening the loose wraps
of length around them.

Never leap before it stops.
Humid and wet inside the body.
I want my children to speak English.
Impatience.
Thick scents. Thick, thick sneeze.
Impatience rules the sex and ruins it.

They wavered in his belly.
The men around the bend, crossing his path.
He’ll cut through the heads. Lightening.
Monsters never wait.

The whale turned and roared.
Dark hair flickered
like black tulips in a wicker basket,
shuffling from the turn, the women.

The beast spit, sharpened teeth,
marched toward the men.
Illusive red painted them. Blaring.
Everything must give way to his mission.

Men leaped in front of the beast
like drunk frogs into the the mouth of a snake.
Ripped skin, crushed bones.
Careless deaths in front of women.
Never should a man-made monster be crossed by a man.

Train purged the women on the ledge.
The woman in green watched the trance.
Time is precious with children.

The seasons await their turn
before hitting the earth with color.
Her feet waited patiently before crossing.

_____________________

 dVersepoets NaPoWriMo

*ADDENDUM*

I wanted to share that the last time I tried to post this, the process was interrupted by a strange rocking of our house. I thought it was the usual dizziness, my head spinning from sleeplessness or hunger. But it was different because I wasn’t the only one feeling it. By the third or fourth second I realized it was an earthquake. I ran out with my family in a panic, and I’m thankful to God that it was only a 3 on the Richter scale (actually, a 4.2 now that I check), a residual shake from the 8 that hit Iran. I’m in Kuwait, among the four Arab gulf countries that were affected from what severely hurt Iran & Pakistan across the gulf from us.

I’m praying for Iran and Pakistan. Please pray for them. Take a moment.

I just find it surreal and fascinating that I mentioned ‘the earth moving’ in my last poem. You don’t always expect what you write to come true for you to that degree and that soon in literal form. Since it’s only been six hours, I’m still vigilant about it even though  it was mild. Whenever something rocks or shifts unexpectedly now, my eyes freeze for a few seconds to decide if it’s happening again. If I should decide to choose which other things to take with me besides the clothes I have on.

I’m letting that go now otherwise I won’t fall asleep tonight. There’s more stability than I think. The spinning, the swimming, the rotating.. it’s all a part of the stability; the balance. Nothing can be balanced without first being vulnerable to chaos.

Everything is balanced. Sometimes I just forget what balance feels like.
I guess this is it.

Remembering The Once Beloved

You found it
crumpled on the floor.

I scrawled it with blank ink, an organized
painting.

I was trying
to see you as the messiness through me.

With your perfected appetite for order,
you screwed like juvenilia.

A string you were in my mind. I traced your
figure in three steps: confusion, desire, regret.

Don’t trust me with your secrets as I do you.
I can lock your words in my ear forever,

resounding, the ease that was lacking from
your tone, the hesitance, the lies you kept.

You found it in black and white,
waiting to be hid.

And it wept.

When you found it there was a twist in the
earth. The sky changed color and I laughed.

Eyebrows flew in the air around you, black
scribbles on your face paced like wires.

I don’t know where this is from,
I said.
the lights were out, it couldn’t have been.

I don’t know what to tell you, darling,
you heard.
I only painted. Only painted.

_____________________

 dVersepoets NaPoWriMo

Sharp Spring

I don’t know
mountains bloom in spring,
dew drops clinging at the edge
of winter.

I can’t stand this,
the borderline of failure;
a slippery slope, the risk,
the blade that threatens me still.

The edge of failure is stark,
I don’t care. I don’t care.
It wants to kill me,
I don’t care, I’m not scared.

Give me the blade,
I’ll do it myself.

I’ll stab the Earth
and it will bloom,
subtly, sharply, boom.

_____________________

 dVersepoets NaPoWriMo

Clean

I washed it, your beautiful body, first on the right,
Tilting it, then, to the left. The body was as bare as the branches;
Reaching out to sky, cold, without ever breathing.
Soon it should be beneath the tree roots, without you.
I have you. I had you. I don’t have you anymore.

I made sure the scars weren’t touched too much.
I didn’t want to disfigure you.

Every time I washed them,
They were naked and I didn’t want to see the faces.
It’s not a public thing to do,
And privately it hurts to see you without speaking.
I washed you from the head down,
From the crown, where the blonde hair sprouts.
Then, the golden shoulders,
The Cleopatra stance left in your genes.
The arms, waist, legs, and feet…

The washing done the way
The rain falls on the mountains.
But I couldn’t get it to stand,
The body shared for so long between us.
You kept slipping;
I almost broke your arm. The marionette surrendered to me; you
Wanted to dance, we couldn’t in the washing.
I had you. I don’t have you anymore.

The memory of you made it easier and harder.
There was your hint of vanilla from the
Body-butter you recently bought.
It kept embracing me, boiling my heart in the water.
And the earrings. The earrings I gave you sparkled. They sparkled.

I know the rain washes sin
And drenches clothes, but I drenched you, dripping.
I dripped everywhere, the sad, salty sea from the clouds.
Averting my eyes from the sacred parts, I covered you.
The sun, so beautiful it blinds. I can’t look, forgetting.

You trusted me the most to hold you, so I held you.
Without you, I still hold you. I want to have you.
I had you. I don’t have you anymore.

Before they wrapped you up I said a prayer for you.
You were so light to carry,
A feather in the dark light of evening.
You wanted to blend with
The moon and leave the sun, melting me.
They buried you swiftly to let you go but I followed you;
The sun following the moon, I follow you, in vain, I follow you.

_____________________

 dVersepoets NaPoWriMo

Sailing on The Field of Surrender

The ones who move us are the ones we wish we spoke to while they were still alive. The ones we regret not telling something to. Either because we connected with them, wronged them, or loved them.

Wait until someone dies. That’s what I seem to be doing. Tongue rolled up, locked behind my lips like a secret, like the wooden box the dead are encased in beneath the earth. Rotting, rotting, unless it has something to say, it rolls around in its own grave. Unless it has something to say.

After writing a letter to Sylvia Plath a month ago, I realized that if she had been alive, I probably wouldn’t have written anything to her at all. It was like moving the heavy curtains away from each other to discover something about myself I didn’t want to see. I saw it, and it was as clear and as horrific as a living nightmare; the fear of living. There’s only one way I could do that and I’ve been doing it so well. I resist death like a steal wall; like a dam shutting water. Is that what I’m doing; shutting life water?

As water to the body, reading is to the mind, yet I never wrote to the authors that really mattered to me. Too afraid. I almost never wrote to people who I care about and miss. But I think of them. Does that count? When you imagine something long enough you either do it or think you’ve done it, isn’t that how it goes? I think of writing to them more than I actually do. Some of them are dead too. I might as well blow them a kiss they’ll never receive. Is that good enough? Does that count?

Because when they die, I’ll write them the longest eulogies. My lips part like Pandora’s box with my tongue released, rolling out goodbyes and apologies. I’ll write them letters and tell them how much I love them. How amazing they are for starting a revolution. Or how angry I am at them for dying too soon.

Like the ever present and ever elusive cloud, some of them have always been inaccessible either by distance or by relationships. It seems the reasons are woven perfectly to excuse me. Then when they die, the dream of ever reaching them dies with them, and my desire to contact them is born. Is this surrender? Is this release? The field of desire and surrender, that’s where the excuses come undone, relinquishing our resistance to weakness. I’m weak now. As long as we’re both alive, we’re still reachable. I can grasp your scent, still, you can touch my presence. Society hints that we’re either the needy narcissists for reaching for one another, or arrogant cowards for resisting our longings.

This is one of those times I prefer the being of needy narcissists, and I want to say thank you. Either way, this is the place and time to say it to every person who has connected with me in real life, on WordPress, on twitter and other social media, in my home, and even those who connected with me in places where imaginary persons and nonhuman beings live, who lead me to do crazy things like write, paint, or sing. You’ve spoken to me and heard me through more than just the vehicle of the voice or body. And I love your letters. Thank you for the letters, especially those lovely ones I didn’t expect.

You can stop reading this now. The rest is just gibberish. Real irrationality fresh out of the womb. Simply said, this is my surrender.

Thank you for your support when I was a depressive, bipolar, borderline, narcissistic, delusional, suicidal nut. Thank you for your encouragement when I was a needy,insecure, directionless starving street cat. When I licked my wounds I mistakenly carved my skin. You showed me how to let them heal with surrender. Thank you for the love you share and still share with me when I’m loving, happy, grateful, creative, lonely, sad, and frustrated all the same.

Thank you for the inspiration you give me when I was running on thoughtless passions sending me into oblivion. Thank you for trusting me when I was trustworthy but had nothing to prove it with but my word. Thank you for cherishing me when I needed to be cherished and didn’t know how to cherish myself. I was naive. Thank you for teaching me how to cherish myself.

Thank you for forgiving me when I was an angry, ungrateful, immature, baby. I didn’t know you had feelings too. Thank you for allowing me to love you first, or love you back when you were brave enough to take the leap first.

Thank you for reading me, sometimes without letting me know you were, being careful of the times I’d probably shut off like a turtle in my shell if I knew you were watching. And thank you for writing me, especially those times I couldn’t write you back, and you did it anyway over and over again because you knew I’d read every word. I never told you but they’re one of the greatest acts of love I’ve ever witnessed.

The Landscape of Change

There’s a reason we’re not written in stone: we can always change.