a few tankas
In the setting sun
against burned mulberry leaves
a canary sings:
bars of some gold melody
suddenly freed from the cage
( — elsewhere — )
Amidst the temples
and ancestral memories
tamandua thrive
on an ant infested mound
weilding tongues like spatulas
( — erstwhile — )
There in the blue green
between tumbling kelpweed
a workhorse, a seahorse
continues on its home spree
leading a herd of small fry
( — likewise — )
Returning to caves
in the solemn sonar dark
bats descend to rest
like upside down sleeping bags
hanging among stalactites
#Animals #Tankas #Challenge #4Takes
Subdued Shadows
Time is ethereal
whenever we are together,
wind blowing misgivings away,
tucking it into breast pocket,
whispering the words
of lost wavering seas.
swallowing morning sands
as we plunge into ecstasy,
tied together by knotted strands.
Phosphorescence crescents
your luminous hair,
cerulean skies pool
your soft lashed eyes.
You open to me,
hoping I’ll stay -
our bodies a vessel
of beckoning depths,
raging sea spilling life
and bliss on our skin.
Hunger for closeness
breathes in our scents.
We meld into one
until reality knocks
on our portal,
sketched sunbursts
leaving subdued shadows
of unwinding lust.
#WheneverWeAreTogether #OpenToMe
Anthem of the Ordinary
You've done it you've made it
Look at you
you big shot, star-shooting golden girl
with your clean socks and your
shiny curls
You're on top of the shit-heap now
crawled your way to the tip of the dung
the crest of the crap
to peer over the stinking ledge
at the breathtakingly bleak view
of the future you'd had so much hope for.
Queen of the Cold-Hearted
and of the other pretty girls who
thought that up was the answer,
who turned down the snaggletoothed boys they loved
so that life wouldn't snaggle them
on its dull dreary planes
of flat boredom
and getting a rush out of a sale on dish soap.
A Mouthful of Flowers
Hello looks a lot like daisies
You fell in love with him under a June blue sky
Fingertips were stained
In the artificial blues and reds
Of a summer afternoon
Your eyes grew to love the burn
Of the sun reflecting from his eyes
Your skin craved
His dirt stained, tequila spotted
Fingers, carefully holding
Your thin bones together
At night you painted your nails
The deep purple of the sky and
Slicked your lips in poppy red polish
His cheekbones sliced through your flower-petal walls
Under the glaring July sun
He took your hand and stood facing the horizon
Your retinas burned at the sight of him
And his careless smile
But somewhere along the path
Dripping in summer golds and morning glory pinks something changes
Because now a bouquet of Marigolds
Stands where he should’ve been
He says it’s okay
Under an August moon
But there are lilies where his hands used to be
And daffodils where his lips used to kiss you
You forget the exact color of his eyes
In the sunlight
In the morning you paint your nails
The light purple of the Lavender he left you
But sunflowers won’t replace his hands on your skin
Or his voice in your ear
And flowers won’t fix the holes he left behind
They leave each other under a September sky
Fingertips are still stained
In the colors of one another
But you deserve better
Than empty promises and peonies
Left with only a mouthful of flowers
As it turns out, goodbye looks a lot like roses
Pisces Moon
I've been crazy
Since the moon moved into Pisces.
I've been drowning sorrows
In red wine over ice
And copious amounts of Mary Jane.
I've been grateful for new awakening
But I'm stuck in a world
Neither Earth nor Amnetti.
I may quit my job
I may quit my life
I may travel to another place
Deep back in the past.
I may just stay still.
Rebirth tomorrow into Aries
Say I've lived through it.
Odalisque
There's a place to hang a hammock
on the hill above your house.
Here we are free
and know each other to be beautiful.
It pains me to see you grow
up up and away
to see you suck in your stomach
and sit up straight under their gaze
- the boys' -
because you love it when they look at you.
And that's okay.
But don't let their eyes give you your value.
You're worth so much more.
Like when you sillywalk down the hillside
or sing loudly out of tune or when your face twists
because your mouth isn't wide enough
to let all your laughter out.
I come second to you, but I don't mind.
I've always sought out lights brighter than mine
in the hopes of illuminating something larger that I.
And so that I can hide.
But I can see where you broke,
where your spine snapped
from twisting back to please others
and the holes they left
and how you're insecure about the way
the tops of your thighs rub together.
Or the way you tiptoe around your mother.
There's a place to hang a hammock
on the hill above your house.
It's quiet here
and I hope you can see
you deserve so much better
than what they're giving you.
crack hands
my mother says i speak with my hands. red fingertips ripped raw, scratching skin, digging holes to bones. she says the dried blood beneath my nail beds reminds her of women whose homes are shadows and alleys, who swallow grease and eat needles, who need a fix and need fixing but can't do it on their own. she says to please keep my left hand away from my right, stop your picking, jesus christ. she says i am lucky i still have skin to grow.
my grandmother passed down her bad habits. my father passed them down to me, and i have inherited every piece of dead skin they have peeled off their bodies. my grandmother picked her shoulders, my father picked his fingers and his toes. i was born a hybrid who is willing to scavenge both.
when i am ten, my mother coats my hands in lotion, the kind that smells like a head cold in the winter. she wraps gloves to my wrists in gauze, tells me to wear them while i sleep. she thinks double layers can stop me. i rip the fleece off with my teeth.
i'm at my worst when i'm with god. my mother holds my hand during the our father and won't let go until mass ends. she slaps my arm every time i pretend to fold my palms to pray but start to pick again. at penance i stain the pew when i rest my red nails on its wood. the priest and i both know i won't confess to the mess i've made even though i should.
i learn how to shake hands with strangers and grip their palms like i am whole. lightly squeeze, dip and flip at a fifteen degree angle. i hide the animal my father sees, whose maimed joints i make look tame. the cracks in my knuckles go deeper than any routine can tame.
Dimple
You might call it "dent"—
something left by pure accident;
Even object that negative space,
has hardly any anatomical place
—like Creative Mind drifted elsewhere,
showing unfathomable lack of care—
Rather, such hallows of grace
impressed upon a blessed face,
are imprints the Sculptor leaves,
when oh so very pleased!