Love’s Death
Choice of words
Choice so obscure
Obscure mind
Obscure line
Line of sight
Line the sky
Sky that fell
Sky of poems
Poems for you
Poems that bled
Bled from soul
Bled for time
Time and laughter
Time well-spent
Spent so freely
Spent with you
You now busy
You now gone
Gone from me
Gone for good
Good things end
Good things die
Die like stars
Die so dark
Dark with despair
Dark falls over
Over my love
Over my spell
Spell is broken
Spell went wrong
Wrong was financed
Wrong plus tax
Tax my patience
Tax my effort
Effort so earnest
Effort was wasted
Wasted rough drafts
Wasted tears
Tears that choke
Tears that stain
Stain the memory
Stain the sheets
Sheets can strangle
Sheets that cover
Cover with soil
Cover a grave
Grave of love
Grave that's haunted
Haunted
Love
The Women in the Trees
Let me tell you the story,
of the women in the trees
A girl,
draws water from a well
the forest, all temperate and windy in the mountains draws back
her rebozo sticks to her arms
clay pot jabs against her waist
things are done differently in the mountains
water-slick hands
dirt and masa beneath her nails
she's only thirteen
that's old enough
A grandmother,
older than the revolution
tucked herself away during the Cristero
old enough to remember when men dangled from the trees,
sits
frowning
kneading at stone
mortar and pestle
push and pull
there was no electricity, yet, not in the mountains
The girl,
her granddaughter
pours the water into the adobe lavadero
splashes her skirt a little
no running water yet either in the mountains
The grandmother,
kneading
cross dangling from her neck
on her knees, penitent flattening masa
tells her
to go get more
everything is done by hand here in the mountains
The girl,
chipped clay pot in hand
twin braids,
the way her mother used to do
does as asked
twisting and pulling
rope stinging her calloused palms
she's only a child
but she's got hands
like she's been working since she was born
A man,
wanders out of the arboles
swaying trees that break apart for him
he calls out to her
a glint in his eye
a friend, he calls himself
The girl,
she hoists up her pot
and her skirts
and tells him that he's gone the wrong way
preparing to run
The man smiles,
and descends upon her
you want this, he says
i want you, he says
it's love at first sight, he says
and wraps his arms around her
she screams
she runs up the hill
fast feet can only do so much
against a man
he catches her
the clay pot shatters
it was a different time, but we knew it was bad even then, in the mountains
he hurts her
simply
angrily
she claws and screams and bites and cries
jagged edges of clay digging into her back
The man,
wild-eyed
blood-hungry
sinks his knife
over and over in her chest
until she is more wound than girl
The grandmother,
runs down the hill
down the ranchero steps
past the chickens
past the trees
flour stuck to her fingers
shrieking the name of her child's child
he stabs her
forty-two times
they only have open-casket funerals in the mountains
her arms
are covered in defensive wounds
grandmother-skin all worn and sagged
sliced open
to the bone
her daughters,
away
what a tragedy, whispers the chismosa
stand quiet
at the viewing
grandmother and granddaughter, abuelita y nieta, laid out like wounded angels
takes two days before the viewing is over
before the Church says it's alright to bury them
their refuge is in heaven now
The man,
flees
before he can be strung up
there are no police in the mountains
The daughters,
hear
whispers,
convocations,
allegations,
of the man who did it
a slip of tongue
a twist of fate
word of mouth
he who hurts is here
this was how we did things in the mountains
braided hair, just like their mother's mother
knives belted to their waists
poised low in the trees
lying in wait
as the man,
walking home
along the dirt road
gnawed on a nectarine
pit and juices jutting against his teeth
daughters,
mother-blood hot and angry
descended upon him
his nectarine, laid in the red dirt, an afterthought
as they drew into him
and cut
covered with the velvet of the night sky
I spread myself like ashes
in the dark
the warmest snow known to men,
these grey and red-colored flakes
made from the remains
of my soul,
( of my shell-shaped heart )
can you see it?
can you feel it?
tell me that you do
tell me it runs through your bloodstream
that it ignites your bones
that it paints crimson threads
between my fingertips
and yours
it's those stars that speak of flame
and dust
that love that exhales peacefully
in the midst of chaos
that sigh of relief
when the last galaxy in you has exploded
that exhale of surrender
bringing you to your knees
( multiple colored reflections
of the universe's song
vibrating inside your core
like a melody long forgotten
but forever present,
the most familiar echo
the sweetest whisper
that primal fire of the first breath
that synergy of all things that has led
me
to you )
I spread myself like ashes
in the dark, my love
the warmest snow known to men ,
I paint my bones with the black dust
from long-gone heartbeats
of Nebula's once golden tears
and the diamond longing
of all the Supernovas that came before me
their ink-dark powder covering my skin
so I can imitate the night sky
and shine
like never-ending clusters
of falling stars ,
so when I jump
into the abyss above
I will find my way to you
I will find my way to my other half of the night sky
I will find you there covered
in the same dust
skin shimmering with the softest embrace
of the cosmos that is now also mine,
I feel you now
you're calling my name
murmurning it so gently
against the loudness
that surrounds me
against the always present buzzing
of the human kind
I hear you
and my legs start running
my feet thud a rhythm against the ground
I jump
I leap
I fall
breathlessly and helplessly
into your sphere
like an unstoppable force never to be tamed
I take your hand
and our fingertips touch
the red thread connecting us
swirling
and twisting
around our wrists
gravity no longer holding it back
( like an underwater current,
so gentle in its caress )
there is no beginning to it
nore end
just a gentle string
moving to an elegant dance
a unique choreography designed
for the hearts beating
under our ribs
like pulsating drums
for the souls breathing between our scars
and hopes
like the softest
breeze of a summer's night
my sky whispers to yours
home is here
home is now
home is with you
He’s Delusional
I loved his whole essence.
The reflection in his bright blue eyes.
Each time I fell deeper and deeper into his trap.
He was captivating. Held a sense of power over me I couldn’t quite shake.
I waited for so long to find someone who knew me in ways others couldn’t
I was there when he when me. But distance when I was the one in pain.
I was planning on leaving him. Planning to escape his pull.
Before I got my chance to run, he surprised me with a ring.
I soon realized this ring was my way out.
Take the money and leave the man. The words I repeated each morning.
Her love was all I needed.
The way she looked at me. Filling my heart with hope.
She made me who I was. Her gentle tone and empathic ways, made me hope for the best.
She was mine, mine to have love. Mine to cherish.
She was the princess in the tower and I was her prince.
Always there for each other. Two souls together in the pain of life.
I planned to marry her. Spend each waking moment by her side.
When it was time, I finally asked. Asked her if she would be my wife.
She was so moved, moved by my love for her. She was obsessed with me.
I will spend the rest of my days loving her. She was mine forever.
On the Freeway
Between the myriad of advertisements
The radio doesn't rhyme
It celebrates, laments, describes,
But not every word is
So clearly designed
To fit together perfectly;
Not every tone aligned
The road blurs
Beneath the car
Like a spinning record
Around around around
Each time a different spot pinned down
By the revolving wheels
Each time a different ground
Wander far over
Unending planes of grey
Scarred by cracks and tar
The crimson-tainted orange hues
Of the receding sun
Piercing through the horizon;
Can’t see where you are
Sickeningly sweet fumes
Drifting like fog
Along the crowded lanes
Filling your lungs
Taking your breath away
Until a rising breeze quiets the dooms
Of idling too long
As the darkness rolls out from
Beyond the distant hills
From between the solemn trees
That stand witness along the red-lit road
The soft-edged neon spots that
Speckle the way for miles blur
And from the from the woods'
Long grass resounds
Cricket trills
Gas station
After gas station
Each more vacant than the last,
Their signs a glowing hand held up
Indifferently over the blackening sky
Not in greeting, but notification
Of fuel pumps and coffee
To whoever is passing by
A meter on your dashboard blinks
You look at the time
1:02 AM
Glowing white numbers
Searing into your aching eyes
You blink
And blink again
Sometime, long ago, you thought
About stopping for the night
About taking a break
But the wheels keep rolling
And you keep going
Along the endless freeway
Into the dark
Leftovers
Spread the banquet
in the darkened hall
and save a seat,
surely I'll be there
sometime maybe
even just
next week
give me
a moment,
to let it all sink
in,
at the vestibule
where the skins
change, aged,
by miracle,
inside, I mean
before the dishes
are categorically
due, again
for scrubbing...
I'll paint the picture
of how the gravy
engraves the edge
of the plate
like a print
escaping the scrape
of the last utensil
in a repas
that was meant
to satiate
the commission
of a familiar portrait
left, unfinished
in pressing
the thing we
most miss, on
riding the camel
of wayward abyss
into undefined
Western set oasis...
and looking back
gilded, we'll God bless,
the garbage disposal
in the drain..!
as we're moving
along
the piped dream
finding that
somehow
the dispenser jaws trap
the tarnished locks
always threatening
with an emergency call
at the plumber's office:
"what's that..!?
a major clog?!,
or minor leak?"
and among the
gray snake coils and foil
they already know
all about it
down the street,
the way
memory fades
with each Macy's
TV parade,
which
if anyone asks
was turned on
(exclusively)
for the Children's sake!
and like with pie...
there's always room
for you out there
after the decimal
for one more
random figure
to pull up and sit
in the cool foyer;
but it's no rumor
the family's getting
bigger,
even as its members
retreat in count
on comfortable
ulteriors,
the porch creaks
with the ghosts
of passing feet
that mark in time
the distance and heat
the ruler, and the rule
failed to keep
where we all
took measure
of the stock,
and the broth
that was made
long, back when...
in a steam
of our bouillon cube,
all was vacuum packed
and carefully wrapped,
from bones picked-clean
2 million odd years ago...
04.06.2024
MPC for April "till we're done" challenge @Prose
Food for Thought
God.
____________
That is my longest poem.
Not for what it doesn't say but for which also goes without saying. That is, "all that's said" that "goes unsaid." I know this is a snarky way to make my entry to the challenge, but I wanted to make a point of how one small word can fill volumes of words in my mind. Disqualify me, certainly. But you'll never be able to memorize the whole thing or set it to music.
Song of a Poet
For what it's worth, I'm no poet,
But it was once put to me a certain way,
That I have a something for metaphor,
And now there is nothing left to say.
Though still, I could stand repeating,
One verse competing,
One tired old drum still beating,
But that, my love, is self defeating.
Failing catastrophe I think,
And for it, I'm grateful, so grateful I'd wager,
Since I don't have much to take from myself,
Being of dull mind and word is safer.
Though still, I could stand repeating,
One verse competing,
One tired old drum still beating,
But that, my love, is self defeating.
And If you've heard a Raven's cry,
And mistook it for a dream or happy lie,
I wonder if you'd ever thought of why
Such dark birds come to you to fly?
Though still, I could stand repeating,
One verse competing,
One tired old drum still beating,
But that, my love, is self defeating.
So life is very long they say,
And in many ways it's true,
But spending life a hollow man,
Can't be good for you.
Break the pattern if that's what you do.
But patterns aren't always full of gloom,
Maybe, if you'd just see it through,
No raving goodnight will loom,
and the light might rage in you.
The Line
Take a certain length
of, let's say
fiber—
of, that which
there is never enough
in the span of human diet
and we fein check
tensile strength
of, pushing, pulling
from index to thumb
right and left,
or taking a tooth
primitive to,
gnaw it
quick like
in a suture
of, temporary
fit—
to be tied off
and dispensed with
like a dangling
preposition
to which proposition
of, we need
only append—
some customary phrase
of, furthermore
or as well—
or something similar,
as to extend
the remark—
without altering
effect and continuity
of, thought
or wire
on which dial tone
depends—
the somewhere
along, the spectrum
or broadband
of, understanding
that follows us
like umbrage
taken, in defense
of, the long shadow
behind the hooker's
lashes
or the dalliance
that melts us
into common shade
of, divergence
and still we look
in storybook reference
for the Guiseppi
connection
individual,
what keeps us
assembled, schooled
and attentive—
to the draft of work
we were meant,
as lineage—
to accomplish
what withal
invisibly held
strands
of, that lower
and raise
our arms and teeth
like piano keys
and animate our feet
in directions
of, or way wards
we might
question—
drawing attention,
if the public crease
of, our mouths might
speak independent
of, the projection
in the diaphragm
that resounds
with authority
of, ventriloquists
and master scripts
of, social recital
amid the wool
we are pulling
as we ready our trays
at the soup counter
where we ration
and gather
our portion
of, hallucinatory
daily fare—
while
at the back
of, is waiting
the rod and the bait
not spared with image
notes, smoke or underline
reflected in the
buoy of, water
with a smear
from the corner
of, a blurry signature
and every fading
memory mark
on paper
of, any me,
myself—
and
I
2024 APR 18
Bob Ross Paints His Eden
happy little trees surround
nakedness, so Bob draws
knowledge with colors that spread through the garden
an orange fire of knowing, until the people start wearing
clothes. hats grace the heads of everyone, lined like store
mannequins in dress shop windows. purple veils, pink brims,
the garden turns into shopping
malls and sky scrapers, brush
strokes turn violet fields into a gravel road painted just so
which lends itself to country drives. skinny jeans painted blue-
black, hide tired saggy bodies
until no one looks like anyone else.
the summers are drenched with colors of broken
leaves, until chips of paint flecks the canvas and the imperfections are revealed,
the fruit taken, the body discovered, the truth
like flies buzz around the heads of the many, while Bob explains god the way he paints,
how anyone can do what he does,
maybe even better.