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
love
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.
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.
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.
But Much More Than That
Photo by frank cordoba on Unsplash
But Much More Than That
Red-shifted light is
moving away from us at
unimaginable speeds.
Nature’s senescence
will overtake us before
we could conjure a method
of overcoming physics.
Red hue of dim light
surrounds us now, painting your
rosy silhouette kneeling
upon tangled plum bedsheets,
facing away from
me, preening your neck to peer
my darkness, closing behind
you, smiling coyly with
licentious lips that
I imagine must taste of
bourbon and fizzy ginger,
its bubbles catching a faint
gleam in your eyes as
I fall into you, and I’m
overwhelmed by a vision
of blue ocean lapping at
your sun-kissed skin as
you serenely swim away
from my anchored boat moored at
the edge of my comfort-zone
I page through my book,
pretending not to obsess
over your safety as you
let currents increase distance,
peeking over your
shoulder, confirming I’d be
there, right where you left me, no
longer in the red. You are
to the left of me
and my teasing left you with
the impression that I had
forgotten your name.
You tsk me for it
from behind wine lips and we
collapse in rose-hued laughter.
***
Shared at Poets United Poetry Pantry # 376
Smirking Dragon
Smirking Dragon
As the sun settled into soft angles
just above igniting western skies,
it spotlights a cumulus cloud curiously
shaped like a coiled, smirking dragon
lazily floating eastbound, her neck and
grinning head preening north by northwest,
drawing your attention toward Orcas Island
and one of the most perfect moments of
your life, when you were inexplicably
comfortable in your own skin while both
alone and in unfamiliar company
at a destination wedding you attended
against your will, watching two outliers
pledge their lives to each other as you’d done
twice over, with the second time inexplicably
working out much better than the first,
which compelled you to make that journey
in the first place to that unfamiliar island
surrounded by unacquainted people
to witness an unfamiliar couple
pledge their lives to one another in a
series of moments the smirking dragon
reminds you that can only be described as perfect.
As the dragon cranes her neck northwestward,
it evaporates into the ether,
leaving only her fluffy scaly body and
a disembodied smirking head, which also
slowly vanished from misty existence
leaving you wondering why your second
attempt at sharing your world with a woman
worked wonders while your first effort failed
spectacularly, or why your second trip to
Orcas Island was fun, but not nearly as
magical as that first one, or why that beautiful
smiling couple of strangers beginning their lives
together ultimately could not fulfil
their pledge to one another even after
committing to create another beautiful,
smiling, giggling, spunky stranger together, but
then it hits you as the headless dragon corpse
became just another cloud fading away from
the settling sun, which ignites the western sky
as eastern clouds are devoured by earth’s shadow.
We often chase perfect destinations
seeking to relive perfect moments, as
if we were living ghosts who for fleeting
moments have forgotten how to live. But
we have far more in common with misting
smirking cumulus dragons that we see
than the ghosts we chase in familiar places.
***
Shared at imaginary garden with real toads.
New Day
Photo by LoboStudio Hamburg on Unsplash
New Day
Mist melts with sunrise
Summer rain kaleidoscopes
Purging man’s folly
Nature laughs at his hubris
Her blossom scents go ignored
Clouds conceal sunrise
Morning breeze dovetails through trees
Shushing our madness
Who will hear tomorrow’s song
If we close our hearts today?
***
The Trouble with Bonding
Image source: Google
The Trouble with Bonding
My fractures run deep
with jagged curves back in time
misaligned by variances between
what was and what should’ve been.
I pretended
to be whole
again and again,
blending my façade
with her charade,
becoming a beautiful lie
that died
the moment we tried
rocky weather together
whenever and wherever
our rhyme got sloppy and
disjointed.
We pointed out each other’s flaws
and clawed ourselves apart. My heart
mistook love for a pleasure found
oozing pillow-talk
into the next girl’s
midnight bedsheets;
repeatedly pressed this error
into her replacement’s bed too,
but she fled my good intentions
just as I was finding leverage
to press solid meaning into her…
into her…
Are these mildly lewd sex metaphors
doing anything for you? Because
I could probably say plainly that
I had mostly good sex
with mostly good women
for mostly bad reasons
not for love, pleasure,
not even for affection
mostly, a self-deception
as I mostly engaged in the self-delusion
that I loved them
or that I loved myself, when
I was clearly too broken to do either,
but I suppose it’s better that I couch it
in some wrecked flower and
tangled bedsheet nonsense.
I’m wrecking the rhythm of this poem.
I apologize. Now, where was I?
Into her wake,
serene surface broken
by her rippling,
departing waves
I wandered,
my fractures,
deep with jagged
curves back in time
misaligned
by variances between
what was her own brokenness and
what should’ve been
her pristine perfection that
should’ve saved us both
but didn’t.
Looking back, I know now that her imperfections
were perfectly wondrous and uniquely lovely.
But it took another woman with her own unique
deep, jagged, fractures curving into my own
that helped me appreciate my own failings
from wondrous newly tacked angles.
This poem is uneven
and not as pretty
as I had hoped it would be.
But it is pure gold
where it needs to be.
***
Written for Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Kintsugi: Art of Mending, Posted by Sumana Roy.
Hephaestus’ Waste & Cosmic Rubble 
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