From archives – dated June 14, 2018

Somebody once asked me, what is the moon?
Does it feel our pain?
Does it observe stories as one expects it to?
I wish I’d known the answer,
I wish I’d known the truth.

Perhaps it’s filled with woe which preys
upon the heart,
perhaps it’s patron of darkness and things
that vanish with light.

What is the moon?
Perhaps it’s the cry of lovers who mourn
with solicitous night,
perhaps it’s the scent of betrayal
and of blossoms stripped to bloodless white.

Gently, does the sky disclose before whispers
from the dead
intrude, “the moon who you adore
has skeletons in the closet too,

and though dubious be these clouds,
let not mind defer from seeing through.”

 

Palinode

The moon is burly wood ecstasy;
a tossed up love letter which we hide from ourselves,
yes I wrote, ‘to what length surreptitious moon,’
little did I know
that merely two years later
I would write a plethora of poems dipped in its light,
absolutely naïve was I,
I knew not ache, nor cry of lovers or what it meant;
perhaps the moon is ever present
in subconscious,
part of limb and part of bone, tell me;
how else, how else would my pen have turned from grey
smoke to platinum?

 

 

 

 

 

Photo credits: ‘New York Street Moon,’ by Georgia 0 Keeffe

Grace hosts at dVerse and invites us to write a Palinode,
a poem in which a the poet retracts a view or sentiment
expressed in a former poem. Come join us! 💝

Posted for MTB: Palinode @ dVerse Poets Pub

Her kiss tastes like every dark thought I’d ever had,
vanta black bewilderment
as berries within silverness of meadows burst with indignation.
The sky flows immortal,
soft clattering of clouds where peace once shimmered,
what; oh what eats away,
sighing, stretching still along the banks of a temple that’s thrown
you into exile.

Such a sacrilege, hours caught in the clutches of eternity
gone rogue,
till this day it remains an anomaly,
that spiders unseen weave tales of her plight,
leave your marks upon her lips;
owning every inch,
she admits it to herself and no one else,
how vengeance draws a perfect circle when these strange days
have passed;
when these strange days have passed.

I, medusa crowned with twining serpents, do claim
the atrocities
committed against me, lemon chiffon state of unrest,
I am a little soft and a lot rough
treading along the grasses of reverie, never stopping,
pray tell,
what have you to say to me?

Your midnight dreams are simply more than I could ever
hope to understand,
eyes that devour, that turn to stone
I lament and growl as you feast upon their skin,
these men— serenading you in ancient tongues
won’t you quiet the storm that’s been brewing,
I know it’s egoistical of me to even consider asking you,
but please,
my heart simply doesn’t do temporary.

I hear your pleas, poetess and will burn it down,
all of it,
and twirl to and fro from the wreckage,
foolish are you to hope
there’s any chance of sorting through the ashes,
I decline,
salvage what you can,
a menagerie of violets and affairs drenched in rain.

The ache of sonnets through rosy-brown fingertips,
lightening cuts down,
be them branch,
be them intention as the hunger continues to gnaw;
medusa, I will slay
never to stumble, never again to persuade;
with the rustle of Orion above living waters, I seek you
in battle
time and time again.

 

 

 

 

Photo credits: Jeremy Mann painting, Pinterest

Ingrid is our charming guest as she hosts this evening
at dVerse, inviting us to write a poem in the voice of
a fictional character. Come join us! 💝

Posted for Poetics: “Exploring the Narrative Voice,” @ dVerse Poets Pub

Dried lotus seeds.
Like esoteric, simmer until fully soft and powdery;
every breath of his corroborates
to distinctive flavour of pandan leaves,
stir gently— sweet potato flour
thickened by whispers, a strangely delicious taste;
our lips speak
of broken boundaries under the flower moon.

 

 

 

 

(Lotus seed sweet soup ~ Chinese dessert)

Photo credits: “Bacio,” by Giovanni Esposito, Pinterest.

Merril is our hostess today at dVerse and the word is
“Seed.” Come join us! 💝

Posted for Quadrille #127: Planting Seeds @ dVerse Poets Pub

We are our own beginnings, much like misty mornings that haul
maddened waters with ease; our actions
seeking to build bridges so as to connect with other languages
and cultures—lemon chiffon curiosity calmed, are they ever just words?
I have lounged under many a condescending sky;
cold grass crumpling underfoot; there is no softer way to undo wreckage,
a harshly lit blue
on the edge of a political precipice, words then are part of making
decisions, if this sounds far-fetched, refer again
to burly wood documentation.
A quickening of delusion, an empty thing, azaleas rubbing her eyes,
an echo of a forgotten substance,
we become the loveliest of shades when we realize we are stronger
together;  te gustaria cenar conmigo (would you like to dine with me)
get the drift?
Is there a place next to your heart for me, the lessons I have understood
convey far less meaning otherwise,
what separates us must become the thing that binds us, I tell you,
build a bridge, come build a bridge with me,
no lusty nonsense, neither soundly derived nor well-placed,
we talk about making the right choices but inconsistencies haunt
instead—an arch reply, I am an argument, an iron band,
find me in quiet reflections,
undisturbed goldenrod hours, we are our own beginnings, so notice
what’s growing around the edges of the words of those around you;
fill the cracks with tone.
How else do we utilize layers of living and depths that have been
accumulated over the years?

 

 

 

 

Photo credits: Terrace with round table, Volkan Vardar, Pexels.

An early unveiling of April Poem-a-Day Challenge Day 28 🥠

Merril host at dVerse and invites us to write either a Puente
or a poem about bridges. Come join us! 💝

Posted for Poetics: “Build a Bridge,” @ dVerse Poets Pub

I did not know the incense storing temple;
fragrance percolating through the walls,
a floral note, hints of jasmine or rose since it’s smoke
not scent which is significant
in conveying the prayers of those faithful to gardens of Paradise,
I close my eyes
and meander through the cobblestone path,
come clouds, blue violet, fissures of brilliant light that enlightens—
embrace your wounded, put a flower in hair
and instill sword of faith in bosom so we may be warriors.
In the end, it will be belief in the eternal scales that will be life,
words floating seamlessly,
I am in constant awe of breath that flows in and out with reverence,
I weep, not because I am overwhelmed
but because the wind carries with it long and deep sighs,
it’s all messy, the world, the strands of hair, the thoughts, the heart;
I said to myself, conscious breathing is key,
so breathe, breathe, breathe until you feel the air running down
your throat,
close your mind and let not dolor, let not despair step foot into—
let them all float away, let them dissipate,
listen to the air coming through you and then back out,
taste the atmosphere serene surrounding you,
the very alchemy of meditation, the very alchemy of meditation.
The mind can go to a thousand different places,
my senses now aligned, right here, right this moment, I am whole.

 

 

 

 

Photo credits: Alex Azabache, “white and maroon templenear body of water,” pexels. Fair use.

Laura hosts at dVerse and invites us to select one of the poems,using
the same title and imagine what the Poet has painted, bearing in mind
the impressions which have been conveyed.

I chose, “Stopping at Incense Storing Temple,” by Wang Wei.
Come join us! 💝

Posted for Poetics: “China– Kingdom of the Poem,” @ dVerse Poets Pub