fold upon fold

my center-

your goal

borned through,

yet hidden,

watch in silence-

its forbidden

fruit,

flower,

the earth for seed

a glimpse,

a touch-

like silk for thee

Existence is:

parallel possibilities

Choice

or guidance

is the question

If in mind choosing

but by holy force

being pushed:

Does it make a difference?

The path will

be but one:

Long,

dusty,

dry

Cloud of sand

stirred up

by boundless walking,

blurring vision

and instinct

Such is life,

such is life,

such is life

So push me

or I'll choose-

whatever it may be

My face:

a dot on the horizon

Send your subtractive labels

to where no sun shines

For I am 'woman'

I am more than:

bloodshed, birthed child, tidy house

I am.

I am.

I AM!

Watch this eye watch the world

watch this mouth

with its wit;

this hand with a pen;

this foot on the earth

watch me fill my soul

with glorious experience

histogenesis:

'woman' to 'sister'- you: 'brother'

We are.

We are.

We are!

Inspired by Maya Angelou's "Phenomenal woman". I like how Angelou's poem and quote strengthens the notion and idea of 'a woman'. I take that strength into my poem, but I also add my own message: 'man' and 'woman' are in essence the same, for they "are", i.e. they co-exist by ways of 'humanity'. I hence take great inspiration in the original poem at the same time as I allow myself to critizice the idea of 'woman' as something particular. Rather: I present the idea of a 'woman' and 'man' as complete equals by ways of shared humanity. © 12 days ago   

A sanctuary

of isolation

spun out of

wistful threads

Outside:

the wind

and the world

spin their circles

Inwardly:

spherical asylum

of silence

Desperate fingers

strenously eroding

The walls of this prison

Muted mouth interlaced

with its walls

On this stalk of life:

we all hang separately,

isolated and encapsulated

unitedly scratching the walls

Shared dreams

upon resting corneas:

exhuberantly

fluttering butterflies;

dreams of what

we will become

Notes:

My process started with finding a natural phenomenon that could be used as a metaphorical vehicle for describing the solitary existence of all human beings. I thought that the metaphor of a pupa was an excellent choice.

The first five stanzas describe the loneliness from inside the pupa and how it is separated from the rest of the world, amidst the desperate trials to get out of it.

Note well how the ending notion of the words "unitedly" and "shared" works as a contrast to the lonely existence first described, and how I invite you to ask yourself the question: are we ultimately alone OR do we stand together? My answer in this poem is: we are united in loneliness by ways of humanity.

I wanted to end on a hopeful note: for are we not all sharing the dream of once becoming “complete”? Don’t we all want to become “an exhuberant butterfly”? Fly freely?

I sincerely hope that my readers will catch the essence of this poem. Share your thoughts with me, I love that!

"Existence precedes essence"

-Jean-Paul Sartre

Pupa

A sanctuary

of isolation

spun out of

wistful threads

Outside:

the wind

and the world

spin their circles

Inwardly:

spherical asylum

of silence

Desperate fingers

strenously eroding

The walls of this prison

Muted mouth interlaced

with its walls

On this stalk of life

We all hang separately,

isolated and encapsulated

unitedly scratching the walls

Shared dreams

upon resting corneas:

exhuberantly

fluttering butterflies;

dreams of what

we will become

I am 'woman'

Send your subtractive labels

to where no sun shines

For I am 'woman'

I am more than:

bloodshed, birthed child, tidy house

I am.

I am.

I AM!

Watch this eye watch the world

watch this mouth

with its wit;

this hand with a pen;

this foot on the earth

watch me fill my soul

with glorious experience

histogenesis:

'woman' to 'sister'- you: 'brother'

We are.

We are.

We ARE!

Life's path

Existence is:

parallel possibilities

Choice

or guidance

is the question

If in mind choosing

but by holy force

being pushed:

Does it make a difference?

The path will

be but one:

Long,

dusty,

dry

Cloud of sand

stirred up

by boundless walking,

blurring vision

and instinct

Such is life,

such is life,

such is life

So push me

or I'll choose-

whatever it may be

My face:

a dot on the horizon

Black Hole Me

Black Hole Me

There is an

empty space

within us

Untouched;

unexplored

A gut-wrenching

fear of falling

as we reach there:

'The Black Hole

of the mind'

Around its center:

memories in orbit

silently drawn

to the void

A seventh birthday;

a teenaged kiss;

blood-covered children

brought to our arms

All life lived:

Silently awaiting

its slaughter

Reformation

I was searching within:

a mirrored sphere

All even,

Clinically perfect

Tensions in the glass,

Shattered surface

Imperfect self;

Broken me

Interconnected,

Displaced shards:

Aspects of identity

Now in orderly line

Epiphany:

An empty space

Blank canvas,

Primordial me

"I love you without knowing how, or when or from where."

- Pablo Neruda

A riddle

Once small,

now endless

I gather fears,

I gather hope

I am the gatherer of contradictions

Fear me- for I can kill

Fear me not- for I shall bless

I unite-

tear apart:

A two-edged blade

Humans flee me;

Humans embrace me

I am the Durga of the hearts

simultaneously Lord Yama

Catch me if you can-

but you shall see:

I am a stream of transformation;

Ungraspable, unsolvable

If you don’t harvest me in time

I wither away and die

I am love

Sun

Locked up in a beehive of convention.

Producing lies - not honey.

Hexagons of frustration.

The sun can barely make it through those thick, waxy walls.

Walls built of promises not to break.

Photos of ancient smiles hanging off them.

Here I lay, naked.

The queen of the beehive.

An aculeate unable to sting.

Alone yet surrounded by a swarm of those built by my own flesh.

If you are crowned a queen you better say thanks!

Better stay put!

You have wings,

but not those meant to fly with.

The wings of the queen of bees are to be folded to her sides.

Diamond rings keep them from flapping.

She grows fat in time.

The beekeeper too.

Releasing a tear that reflects the dream of life outside,

through the bedroom window;

across the window sill;

down the cracked facades.

Through every street in an empty town.

Icy winds hinder not.

It lies in the palm of your hand in the morning when you wake up.

My sun!

My amorous apivorous!

You are a lady's mantle for my shimmering dreams.

Collect them until you find my face between your palms,

one morning in your waking hour.

Until then:

I fold my wings,

stay put,

say thanks,

grow fat,

grow old

and cry, cry, cry

with dreams of dewy meadows exuberantly flickering on my resting corneas.

Vagina

fold upon fold

my center-

your goal

borned through

yet hidden

watch in silence-

its forbidden

fruit,

flower,

the earth for seed

a glimpse,

a touch-

like silk for thee

Lie

I do not possess the loveless kind of love,

My love is wide;

I give my love to all whose eyes sparkle.

Seams of tenderness across hardened hearts.

I do not have the power to refuse each man’s right to love.

In my room:

shamelessness dripping from the walls.

Droplets of longing flows over my face.

I have no right to discard a man's right to love.

Between my sheets blessed spirits float.

I utter nothing but lies.

Path of lovers

On this road,

of thorns and broken glass,

dusty and dry,

through waterless desert,

we are bound to walk with naked feet.

Our palms we raise to the sky;

Our sights we keep up high

Not to witness how our path tears our bodies apart

Hearts are kept intact

This is the only thing

we cradle,

care for

as if our lives depend on it

We kick gravel and laugh;

Sing as snakes swirl up onto our legs

Smirk as the sun burns holes through our skin

Applaud as scorpions bite us

Giggle at jaguars lurking in the dark

We count the stars at night

In awe of the northern lights

Miles down the road:

we have lost our legs,

Torn down by endless walking

Legless torsos reaching for each other,

The gazing sun:

Tortures us, nurtures us

A pile of charcoal is what we will become

By-passers will find

Two golden hearts

deep within that pile

Gleaming,

Shimmering

And they will know:

This was the path of lovers

Caught in-between

My lungs between my children and father

My feet between my country and here

My heart between you and another

I braid time around those I hold dear

But it decomposes and blows away;

Mixed with cherry blossoms and pollen I watch it decay

My skin between what is real and what is not

My fingers between a laugh and a tear

My eyes between all remembered and all I forgot

I weave time around those I hold dear

But it decomposes and blows away;

Mixed with smoke and old breaths I watch it decay

My nails between heaven and my mother

My legs between your door and his

My hair between my husband and lover

I paint time around everyone I kiss

But it decomposes and blows away;

Mixed with sorrow and distress I watch it decay

Until death do us part

Baby,

do not ring the blues.

No, no- do not

Emptiness be

the only end

for lovers having lived

Baby,

weep not for me.

No, no- do not

Separation be

the only knowledge

lovers carry within

Baby,

do not mourn,

the awful about to happen

not having happened yet:

An irrevocable tragedy

Re-wind

I’m unriting you writings, on the papers and on the heart.

I am un-kissing these lips and un-**** this body.

I am a magician, with tricks in a hat not only filled with innocent bunny rabbits.

I possess this magic. How awfully silly of you not to acknowledge my inherent super powers.

*SWOSH*

I am passing our old hiding places:

benches in deep woods, and concrete walls of office buildings.

I am re-painting those places with forgetfulness: no naked body of mine was ever pressed against that surface, or this. Perhaps a confused version of the self. Once or twice. But this is not remembered.

*POOF*

I am un-starting to smoke, I am un-dreaming this dream.

I am un-un-zipping my jeans and I am un-doing the doings of the mind.

I am re-painting and re-modelling this future ahead

I am re-directing the longings of this slippery, slimy heart, still dancing to the lonely rhythm of its own beat.

I am re-applying to reality. Please accept my application as soon as you can! I am a useful citizen in Life, the home of my soul.

I am re-winding time to stop re-gretting having met you. Nothingness requires no remorse. Emptiness is risk-free. I rather float in vacuum than re-enter this cobweb of retarded love.

This “love” had one chromosome too many.

I am re-entering the road which was my own, in the life which I used to control.

I am rejecting you. I am referring you to the department of damaged goods.

No re-negotiation of the pillars of this plan of ours. No re-cognition of this so called love.

I am re-entering this road which was my own all along.

I am starting to walk.

This houndstoothed-covered back of mine was the last you ever saw of me.

Firefly

Lurking in the woods,

you pulsating beacons of green.

Two becoming one,

the most beautiful sight ever seen.

Watch them catch each other’s gaze;

Spread your illuminating sparks;

Float across the dewy grass;

To the rhythm of their beating hearts.

Two panting bodies reaching the ultimate high,

Enveloped by the forest,

while you illuminate the sky.

Lovers left in awe, enchanted by the light,

Their love carried on a thousand wings,

This cold and dark, dark night

Lanterns of the night, fireballs of lust,

Even the bluest of eyes turn black by the dusk

"Nostalgia - it's delicate, but potent.  In Greek, "nostalgia" literally means "the pain from an old wound." It's a twinge in your heart far more powerful than memory alone. This device isn't a spaceship, it's a time machine. It goes backwards, and forwards... it takes us to a place where we ache to go again. It let's us travel the way a child travels - around and around, and back home again, to a place where we know are loved."

Don Draper, Mad Men

Perished

I float on the

currents of my past

An empty gaze

catching memories

Still your face is gone

Ant Hill

The ant hill always faces one direction - which one I forgot - and supposedly you could use this knowledge to find your way back home, would you for unknown reason find yourself lost in the woods. I suppose I'd die face down in the moss me, for darn it- I can't remember the direction the ant hill always faces.

I angered my mother when I kicked down an ant hill once when we were strolling in the woods. Perhaps she was worried we wouldn't find our way back home? Perhaps was she worried she had raised a particularly cruel child? She told me it takes those small bugs years, YEARS to build a hill. Perhaps she was was angered by the idea of work coming undone?

My mother worked a lot. She wiped my snotty nose and that of my brother and before us that of my older brother too. She tucked in old, forgotten men and women at night and held their hands upon their last breath. Her pay check was a kick to her ant hill as was her tired eyes.

The eyes of my mother were gray and the skin around them sagged. They were the eyes of an energetic bird or perhaps gazelle, always on the move. She moved across our wooded floors, cleaning, cleaning, screaming, painting, crying, laughing.

Her laughter made our house into a home and since the day of her last breath - her hands unheld - I suppose the ant hills can face whatever direction they please for there is no longer a home to which I need to be guided to.

The Things That Never leave

Those are all the things that will never leave me:

Mother’s firm grip around my tiny hands

The first kiss (I thought I’d never get it!)

my first bike ride

and how I rode it over and over and over again

Those are all the things that will never leave me:

My husband’s hope at the alter

and his tears as I left

The way the wind has hit my face

thousands and thousands and thousands of times

Those are the things that will never leave me:

My earliest childhood memory

And how the entire world was all made up of snow

My mother’s footsteps over that frozen lake

the calmness of the mind

Those are the things that will never leave me:

How my newborn child redirected my being

and how my first rejection

felt like a black abyss in my gut

The sweet scent of my lover’s chest

And the lightness of the heart when in love

The angelic faces of my sleeping children

The faces of my children.

Those are the things that will never leave me

Home

My heart lays

upon my mother's

kitchen table

sprinkled with bread crumbs

and surrounded

by family sharing

their days' tales

My limbs are spread

through rusty water pipes

helping save

mother's sweetpeas

sprinkling foreheads

of over-heated,

playing children

My eyes:

cracked facades

facing a Nordic

summer's night

My lips:

the flowerbeds

framing the edges

of the yard

My home:

resides within

Evanescence

Tiny knees-

green of grass,

brown of gravel

red of blood

The sting of that

alcohol in the wound

mother's calming voice

Teenaged lips

wet of your spit

and his,

bloodflow-swollen

inflammed red

the assuring touch

of that firm grip

Ripe fruit is

not granted

the right

to fall

neither down,

nor in love

Shame on you,

for the humanity

of your failures!

Impossibility is:

catching life’s evaporations:

Futility-

Searching love’s stability

There is an

empty space

within us

Untouched;

unexplored

A gut-wrenching

fear of falling

as we reach there:

'The Black Hole

of the mind'

Around its center:

memories in orbit

silently drawn

to the void

A seventh birthday;

a teenaged kiss;

blood-covered children

brought to our arms

All life lived:

Silently awaiting

its slaughter