Photo by Cherry Laithang on Unsplash
loss
with what
you know about
past lives, turmoil, trauma
how dare you misconstrue this calm
for ease?
I fear
if you peer beneath the veneer
what appears as apathy
will show true cost
of loss
***
loss
Vain Brown Mess
Vain Brown Mess
I cannot recall
when mirrors became
the enemy.
They reflect a stranger;
I fail to maintain eye-contact.
Cursory glances reveal
sagging, ashen skin
concealing bashful blush.
Reddish,
buttery-brown skin
barely begins my story’s depths.
Hate my lips,
my nose, love
my sad eyes,
hate the sad lies
behind them.
They see a blurry,
russet, greying, messy mesh
unworthy of the love
it somehow netted.
Legs too long,
torso too short;
too much midriff girth,
not enough bicep mass
Shoulders broad, bearing
burdens of never was,
wishful nights, and
what was once a neck
A greying-brown mess.
** *
A doctor once told me
I was a small man in a
large man’s frame, but
that was a time before nachos.
A time after that,
a beautiful, fit
personal trainer told me,
accurately,
I was a mess.
Up-selling gym membership,
but I must confess
I believed him,
nevertheless.
But as I stop averting my own gaze
and look directly at the mess,
I see the insecure boy
within the sad old man
occupying this saggy
stretch-marked meat bag.
Imperfections carry
a certain undressed beauty
left unaddressed; now I see differently.
This body is worthy of love
and being loved, despite aberrations.
Despite poor choices,
heartbreaking shortcomings,
succumbing to immediate need
Perhaps living inside
this greying brown mess
isn’t as bad as I envisioned.
** *
Written for Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Poetry about the Body, posted by Sumana Roy.
I’ve been shying away from online poetry prompts recently, opting to work on a collection I hope to have published before the end of the year. But this prompt compelled me to revisit a vulnerability I’ve dealt with since I was a child.
I apologize for yet another naval-gazing (see what I did there?) confessional poem, but this one just fell out of my head. I may take it down in a few days.
Longest Night Yields to Wolf Moon
Image source: https://science.nasa.gov/
Longest Night Yields to Wolf Moon
Knowledge,
for a time,
lagged behind us
on the longest night
when we would celebrate,
sacrifice animals,
indulge in wine, feast,
and flesh, ignorant of the science,
the moon’s tidal-shifting dance,
stabilizing the magical tilted trance
that allows for being,
for celebration, sacrifice,
indulgence, feasting, and
blissful ignorance.
Knowledge,
through exploration,
measurement, and study,
having long ago cast aside sheep skins and
rosy veils of ignorance,
reveal the illusion of
Sol’s seasonal retreats and returns,
our angles, no longer dangled,
steeped in superstition and myth,
but no less necessary for our
existence, and thus,
still worthy of celebration,
sacrifice, indulgence, feasting,
and heavenly knowledge.
And yet!
Knowledge continues
to reveal new truths,
unlocking doorways to cosmic realities;
the longest night, the redundant,
recurring, cyclical cycle of ending,
beginning, rendered trivial,
infinitesimal against infinite
intergalactic backdrops.
Knowledge stands before me
in this January doorway,
rendering me insignificant,
raising the curtain on liberation,
beckoning me to wonder at
what has yet to be unlocked.
I will feast upon her
in a drunken stupor,
all the while, a wizened man
howling at the new year’s Old Moon.
Photo by Aaron Thomas on Unsplash
** *
(Mild nudity in video. Mildly NSFW.)
Written and shared for the prompt, Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Doorway(s), posted by Susan. Feel free to stop by and read other poet’s entry to this prompt
January is my birth month, which hasn’t held much significance in my life in quite some time. Susan shared some intriguing knowledge on January’s origin that compelled me to take another look at it. Per her entry:
“Door” is also the deepest root meaning of January:
January (in Latin, Ianuarius) is named after the Latin word for door (ianua), since January is the door to the year and an opening to new beginnings. The month is conventionally thought of as being named after Janus, the god of beginnings and transitions in Roman mythology, but according to ancient Roman farmers’ almanacs Juno was the tutelary deity of the month.
Pretty neat stuff! How could I not break the seal on 2018 and scribble a few lines after that?
Monkey Pause
Photo by Matthew Kane on Unsplash
Monkey Pause
A troop of
young Japanese macaque
frantically chase
evening moon’s reflection
upon hot spring’s surface.
Moonbeams reflect,
refract, fragment, flitter,
fleeing tiny grasping fingers
scattering light
leaving callow plunderers only shivers
for their boundless efforts.
Matriarch and Alpha
observe the scene
sitting in silent stillness
warming, cooing,
grooming one another in the depths
content with the moon above
its countless illusions below
and the crisp air between.
Nothing is obtained
this moment is now
everything is as it is
what should be is trickery; just
moondust eluding monkey paws.
** *
Written for dVerse I Once Used an Earthquake–dVerse MTB: Symbolism, hosted by Victoria Slotto We were encouraged to write a symbolic poem. This one still feels a bit “on the nose”, but meh, I’ll take it.
Go here to read other poet’s contributions to this prompt.
Echo’s Lament
Echo And Narcissus, John William Waterhouse (1903)
Echo’s Lament
I am not yet ready to live
and yield my love to another
I have not yet explored
the wonders of choice
having none to choose from
other than my unanswered desire.
My waning heart cannot see
beyond the beauty by the pond
who will not see me
as I diminish with daylight
you won’t see even less
I will not waste time
embracing another
You are kind and fair
but reflection can never compare
So much the better;
had I caught your eye
Your gaze reflected
upon my echo
repeated back
into your flawless eyes
reflecting into the echo
chambered within my
unrequited heart
would echo my loss
onto your being
reflecting an infinite wound
and I adore you too much
to even risk destroying a world
where you can only find love
at the surface of you
I’d sooner die than crush
even the façade of you and
I’d sooner die than live
without my beloved
I’d sooner die and wither
like crystalized narcissus
in a December evening frost
I’d sooner die in a winter whisper
heard only by the lonely
and I’d sooner die
sooner still
I’d sooner die
and fall
into nothing
but sound
I’d sooner die
sooner…
die
** *
Written for Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Narcissus (Vanity/Narcissism), hosted by Susan. I chose to give voice to Echo, the mountain nymph, because of course I did.
Because of course I did.
I did.
Left Hand
Photo by Cristina Gottardi on Unsplash
Left Hand
Melody
she plays with me
in familiar keys of
The song
pulsating with a vibrancy
she glides with me
reliantly
she comes
spiraling from soprano
rafters like a raptor
I am captured flat and
sharply raptured back
into wry smiles
within her rhythm,
her movement
moves Miles
along
currents swelling
from fingertips,
compressing
flowing,
spilling vibrations
sensationally
sonically caressing,
undressing her expression,
tingling a taut spine,
into loosening,
expressing what
we want
which is to tap
our foot in time
with her universe
increasing rapidly
haphazardly
astoundingly
muttering a curse
as the floor is felt no more
as our rapport
goes on unrehearsed
awe is dispersed
and then
what comes
is the melody
she played for me
in invented keys, free
to romp
pulsating with a vibrancy
she glides for me
defiantly
we stomp
diving from soprano
alighting near the altos
capturing counter-tempos
we come
baring nimble fingertips
ruling our rhythmic hips
soaring above mundane grips
we jaunt
and then we thump
to her melodic
microscopic
atomic-smashing
powerplant
it pumps
and then it jumps
tracks,
exchanging tempo
in time with
refined lines
I skip it
with her,
slightly behind,
but shit,
nobody minds,
freely
we balter
her id
leading evocative
moonbeams to traverse,
as planned
I skid,
reading provocative
loony dreams,
unrehearsed, and
I miss it
we falter
she has me
right where she wants us
at her fingertips,
and her fingers slip-weave
constellations
she baits,
but will not wait
for me to map her
destination, so I
play catch up
while she plays
parlor games with my soul
using only her right hand
she kissed it
with her left.
** *
Inspired by dVerse’s Jazz poetry with Amaya, hosted by guest poet, Amaya Engleking. We were encouraged to write some jazz poetry, or jazz-inspired poetry. Go here to read other dVerse poets’ contributions to this prompt.
I guess my whole vibe is that I kind of accidentally already live in this jazzy poetic realm. Still, this challenge reminded me of a recent jazz session.
I had the privilege of taking Wifey out to Jazz Alley for her birthday earlier this month and catching Hiromi Duet featuring Edmar Castaneda. They were amazing together, and Hiromi was especially mesmerizing in her solo piano work. I found a clip of her performing a song that just knocked the stuffing out of me live. It’s called Sicilian Blue. Anyway, my poem isn’t exactly about her, but it is most certainly inspired by her music.
(Also, sorry I’ve been away for so long. I’ve been struggling with depression and some unexpected life-altering changes. No one is in danger or poor health, but there were changes that I’m still struggling to adapt to. I ask for your continued patience and kindness. We’ll survive this. If I don’t see you again by year’s end, I’ll see you on the other side of 2018.)
Ode to Good Senses
Photo by Yoann Boyer on Unsplash
Ode to Good Senses
I have the greatest nose I know
I can detect strawberry,
Spiced cinnamon
And encapsulating earth-tones
Of her presence
My ears are tremendous acoustically
Bringing me songs of her laughter
Cocooning me in the
Comforting confines
Of her cooing voice,
Granting warm pathways to her
Innermost ideas
The percussive reassurance of her
Light snoring, like raindrops
Shushing the roof above us
These astonishing eyes of mine
Take in the angles of her smile
At angles where gods and goddess
Are perceived, but pale in comparison
To the sight of her in flannel pajamas
Doubled-over, compressed
Tickled, in-spite of herself
By our silly whimsy
My body is buoyed by
A buffet of sensation
Of touching and tenderness
Of her connection
We cuddle and exalt
Life with definition
We touch and connect
And flush as cells rush
We infuse and blend
Molecules, use, renew
Our fire, chemically tuned
To our new, sacred element
We touch and forge,
We kiss, and sparks tell
We embrace, and I face the folly
Of oneness within our absurd bliss
I taste supernovas
Of past lives
On her lips,
Elemental fire-quenched eclipse
Craving her flavor rewrites code and creed
I drink her in abundance; she is
More than I needed and never enough
But there is something more
Within her, beyond perception
Greater than inhaling her presence
More tremendous than her vibrations
Transcending her astonishing spectrum
More buoyant than her touch
Beyond infinity of her taste
I cannot smell, hear, see, feel, or taste it
But I know it to be the purest form of her
As great as my fine senses are
I am grateful to find
Something greater in her.
** *
Written for Wifey, on her birthday on November 12.
Shared at Poets United, Poetry Pantry #378.
The Laundry
Photo by Jesse Bowser on Unsplash
The Laundry
Once upon an evening dreamy, reclined beyond conscience unseemly
Clean-laundry piled shotgun beside me burst forth with Terri Ann’s allure.
Her voice apparent, yet quite untimely, bubbled with laughter, light and finely-
Tuned for my perception, winding her time, which ended years before
A decade before, less or more. Is my mom’s soul now laundry lore?
I’m just baked. I must ignore.
We watched cartoons and tripped fantastic, Kush-soaked reflections, quite elastic.
Asked laundry-mother what traumatic lesson her spirit had in store?
Her laughter warmed peripherals, soft linen, looming lavender smells
Her soothing hearth of laughter tells me, unseen, with heart a-pure
Soothing song sang as she gathered with mother’s heart, rang, not demure
Laundry said, “You must endure.”
I laughed at her linen reprisal as if she sensed my suicidal,
Un-suspenseful thought-revivals. I asked clean laundry, “Is there more?”
For to suffer life in silence, its smearing rife with leering violence,
Abysmal veering into blindness; is that our fate, and nothing more?
Subliminal closed-mindedness? Should I get baked and just ignore?
Spit at fate, and what’s in-store?
My laundry-mother laughed disarming laughs, belying life’s alarming
Nature, nurturing and charming me, unanswered, insecure.
Her non-answers thrust upon me like a thirst quenched by tsunami
Voicing visions far beyond me, unseen, she sings with heart a-pure
She stings my heart, weary, unsure, with momma’s voice ringing a cure
Laundry sang, “You must endure.”
** *
Written for dVerse Poetics’ The voice of the monster, hosted by Björn. I know I’m a day late, but I thought I’d share an actual ghost story that happened to me about a week before Halloween, when my mom visited me during a low point. I’m agnostic, but I believe my mom dropped by to kick my ass, get me to stop feeling for myself and keep grinding for the fam. Perhaps in my case, the monster was my depression? (Who am I kidding? It’s almost always my monster.)
Go here to read other spooky stories.
My Ghost, No Longer at This Address
My doorway.
My Ghost, No Longer at This Address
Upon my untimely death,
a chaotic redundancy
as death is untimely
except suicide,
which I don’t currently abide,
but that’s another vibe…
I request my epitaph be
“Life was often confusing,
difficult, and demoralizing,
but I laughed a lot,
so maybe it wasn’t all bad.”
Verbose, yes; feel free
to edit before placing
on headstone, or urn.
I have no preference
on my corpse’s disposal.
If I’m right, it is
only an empty shell anyway,
as sturdy abandoned houses
that once hosted countless
Christmas dinners
are no longer homes.
The phenomenon
or mechanism of me
is long gone from here.
** *
Written for imaginary garden with real toads FASHION ME YOUR WORDS ~ Lets build houses. Also shared at Poets United’s Poetry Pantry #377.
As we’re close to Halloween – widely regarded as the point where the threshold between the living and the dead is at its weakest – I found myself thinking less of home building, and more of ghosts, including my own, leaving their bodies (their homes for the duration of their lives) for the first time.
Lifted, Chopped, and Screwed Affirmations
Photo by Søren Astrup Jørgensen on Unsplash
Lifted, Chopped, and Screwed Affirmations
I am of hip-hop
Jazz is my mother
Soul is my father
My pulse, reclined
refined bass-line
My bones creak
counter-beats
I feed on funk
to find the funk
I count tempo
with Counts
Duke-out measures
with Dukes
My birthright,
American as
sweet-potato pie.
** *
Written for dVerse’s Quadrille #43, hosted by Grace. I figured I’d give a shout-out to one of my first loves. Also, here’s another cool video on the evolution of hip-hop verses:
Go here to read other poet’s contributions to this prompt.
Hephaestus’ Waste & Cosmic Rubble 
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