Her Gratitude Tasted


rainy-day

In palaces of fire and water,
Hae.mi, how does the heart not lose herself?
When from rim to rim she squanders her beauty
In the pangs of gorgeous motherhood!

And it arouses me, because we stayed at home
Where roses meet their blowing end
And fragrance falls on thirsty lips
By gates of Eden, erect and wet

Our first elation met vaguely understood
Beneath the mirrors and hunger of our youth
Not all in world I have despised
I, who could not have who I desired most

Beneath friendly fire and blossoms of the misunderstood
In winged freedom’s last designs
Where I touched beneath your skin
The kisses have no names that you can utter

The pleasures have no shame when
Each to each are wed in friendship,
And obscene gratitude, and a lifetime’s ache.

Photo Courtesy.

I Went to Heaven with Suffering, but I Lived


berdua_by_thon94rt-dagqe9y

Photo courtesy of Thon94rt

A little madness for the end of Summer
Is wholesome even for a beggar
The start of the end of climaxes

Where experiments felt like a dream
And life had no soft distinctions
Only dramas that became less fashionable

Fashioned by these candid hands
Where I blush in solitude for my losses
A little crazier than before

A moment lost on the edges of lifetimes
The soul condemned to be a guest
With undisputed rights to be nobody

And fame for the fickle food of anonymity
There’s no scrutiny like self-judgement
No following like bleak humility

No embarrassment like the obliteration of need
When you as a person begin to dissolve
Remember what madness taught you

The hosts depart, the friends depart, the lovers too
But some things can be treasured

In the adventure of the self
In the bleak individualism of perishing
To passion, a broken mathematics of faith.

I Plead Myself with Thee


I have dreamed of death and mine
As if it were ungrateful of me to keep
Living and breathing, although

I have laid the rest of thy divinity
In a place so deep inside of me
That like a pilgrimage I scattered youth

The Autumn innocence that
Empties me of feeling every year
With each passing summer I leave

A part of myself well and beloved behind
And in doing so, I die enough to stalk
The future of my own gifts

That won’t be mine, but in meeting you
Will have unveiled something of the infinite
Where I can live irresponsibly and fine
Not bound by this Earth that won’t keep me lovingly
There’s no shadow’s length I bet
No growing pale as I strive

Who can understand the imperfection?
Of our humilities, that leaves
The orchard of our shared vulnerability
Open and not barren, where thrives
Scanty sunbeams for hidden fruit
Proof that we hung Springs together well.

If Making Makes us Thine


 

 

Dear soul, how long it’s been?

The poems in your mouth

That went unsaid?

 

My heart’s heart has no longer

The flowers of will, only

A silent longing that’s no longer

 

The beady desire of blood

Bless you and what’s near to you

Though, who said the journey ever stopped

 

We just became somebody else

As the months rolled into blinding anonymity

We moved closer to the light

 

To love you much and yet

To love more in the freedom of being

Dear soul, it doesn’t matter how many years

 

Tomorrow is a world without end

For others to feel the magic

While words remain and joys will echo on

 

Like children asking questions about the universe

We’re all I love you firsts, and afterwards

Where our love can be remembered

 

In the happy solace of helpmet age

Where age is just a number

And poems only mirrored garments

Our hearts once wore in sunlight

Different than today’s

Ode to Pinterest


Triketora, do you know how well I am acquainted
With the bundle of aches
Which is the rest of our lives?
It’s the light that knows my body best

My brain’s dreams and folds of
Where the cosmos is a Sea in a cell
And I am the ocean in a drop
Of me, and there, I know you

Like the wings of Taiwan
Where I summon the weeper
For a life misspent, in unequivocal caution
Triketora, it’s not that I don’t care

What you care about, but
How in reality lives don’t collide
We are like stars with our own light
Marred and married like souvenirs

And my authenticity cannot argue with yours
Though it wishes it could
You are not a singing bird
And I have only bitter words left

On the state of this world
I’m no longer young and foolish you see
Triketora, so I shall go on this anxious note
My buried love stored in descendants

Whom I shall never meet, having no children
The womb of my mind will burn
All roads leads to oblivion
And like a banished citizen

I will learn, which system to betray
And the secrets of the voices
Ten fathoms free. in a future inarticulate.

Burning the Journals where I left you 


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Burning the Journals where I left you

I made a fire
For burning letters
It’s not subtle, I won’t wait
With tin eyes and sorrow
It’s merciless to let love bleed away

I’d rather dream in clear waters
And rejoice in night swimming
For riding my arctic shade
I’ll swallow glistening for breakfast
I made a fire

To light my poems on fire
So that I’d forget you
And find wishes more divine
Between the yellow lettuces
And the weird blue dreams of yoga

Underwater, at least I’d be ready
To know love in a different way
The sort of mental love that
My non-animal self prefers
That does not require wombs

Or divorces, or vows for orchids in bloom
That will probably be taken back.

Thighs of your Genius 


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Thighs of your Genius

(for Julia Kolchinsky Dasbach)

I brought your Jewish soul some water
For your literary festivity
We both kneeled by the muse of spiritual words
Our collarbones angled to the skies

We knew the sacrifice and the longing
We were migrants of a different sort
We had travelled with necessity
And ached to find a home somewhere

Beneath the different dialects
The open-ended wounds we had sustained
Getting from one place to another
And sustaining the years where injuries

Were slow to heal, our hearts and lungs
Felt the fear of too much shirting
Our pulse steady as a loving pupil
We felt the silence of a lifetime of breath

In the steady gaze of each other
And then we let go, for all our dreams
Had already existed in the written word
There was only an unlived memory of love

That stuck to the back of our throats
Like medicine for poetry, and dispatched anonymity
Our dance of vocabularies were
Like Piscean windows that met the Eastern symbols
An alchemy of goose bumps and organic teasing.

Unmentionables


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Unmentionables

Come slowly, into my life
Like a tail wind of all the charm
I always wished for, but never found
The church of my faith is dim

I could submit so easily to the right person
Reaching late for a flower
Round my heart that hums
And lost in balms I’d be

A secret for you to savour, dear
Lost I am lit for this
Counting stars and nectars
In solitude, but not alone

I would be united
In every drop of blood
With something of life’s mystery
Eros to harrow in my looks

Wild winds to sweet my fears away
Uprooted yesterdays, I’d be
Vengeance of all the thrift
You saved in your years

Of places you never went
And intimacy you always craved.

F o o t p r i n t s of Loneliness


Tina Chang6TinaChang5

F o o t p r i n t s of Loneliness

I am hunted by my father’s lack of approval
And haunted by my mother’s naiveté
How a family can live on inside
A psyche, for good or ill, but one day

Our parents die; we may even lose touch with a brother
The empire in which we were born
Might lose its world-power and prestige

Taunted by a ruined name, we live on
With each version of our childhood we remember
We must pass a threshold of regret

And carry a student’s debt into the decades
I don’t know if it’s secrets which I carry
Or simply the dread of ancestors and descendants
The broken chain that started with me

Hypnotized by shadows, too poor to settle anyhow
Our ovaries will dry up one day
And my fleshy handle won’t be operative

If I were a dream you could say I unravelled
My mortality, but truth does not matter here
Only that answers we tell ourselves at the end of a long day
And the souls who save us with kindness and security.

Posthumous #quotes #artist #art


39

Posthumous

Everything in our lives is writeable
But did we script in free-will?
Without recognizing consequences
I talk to God but the sky is empty
I followed philosophers who were out-dated

My lovers do not know how to
Protect me, from my worst enemy
Who is the breaking of idealism
The broken wheel of pragmatism
And cynicism of aging in the school

Of real-world hard knocks
Can you understand? That we loved
Our tragedies as poor substitutes to living?
That we needed deeper lows to
Experience and appreciate higher highs

What is an artist, they are who
Most desire the things that will destroy
Them in the end, like a fanaticism to beauty.

Scarcity of Silence #FreeVerse #poems #micropoetry #silence #amwriting #NationalPoetryMonth


37

Scarcity of Silences

Silence isn’t depressing
It’s being with yourself, oneself, myself
That’s quality time
I knew it perfectly well

Nature is always present
Like when I used to walk in the woods
I wasn’t alone, I was surrounded
By trees, the forest, the snow melting

There weren’t windows, buildings noise
It was silence glittering and blinking
In terrible moments that were
Beautiful because they felt innate

Flat as a poster I walk this city
Without silence, or a clear mirror
Perhaps without silence, we
Find ourselves wanting everything

And everything we cannot have
I blame too much breeding
As the cause of the scarcity of silence
Dare I say it’s gone extinct?

Poetry takes me back to nature
When all the nature has been stripped
Searched, and taken, sort of how
The world treats a young woman
Who once knew what silence was.

Becoming acutely aware of all that I took for granted ##SundayBlogShare #poetry


36

Becoming acutely aware of all that I took for granted

Someone, somewhere
Can understand me
I’ll never meet them
Not be loved like they could love me

I’ve so much to learn
About finding the right people to love
God, but life is loneliness
Despite all friendships made

Inspite of grinning faces and passing stages
‘Parties’ with no purpose in truth
Loneliness of the soul well
It’s an artistic condition some

ii

Suffer from it more than others
Like allergies, a more unique brain
Someone, somewhere
Has a brain a little more like mine

I’ll never meet them, but sometimes
Knowing that they exist, helps me
Get through the day, writing
Like an unabridged journal from me to you

iii

It’s overpowering and horrible to be self-conscious
Making up narrative and plots, inventing them
All the time, like spirit-chatter
Why so festive, why so gloomy
Because my inner voice is powerful.

Author’s Note:

This is a tribute to all human beings who suffer from the condition known as “poet’s brain”, please share it on facebook, twitter and other social media. There is some evidence that writers, artists and especially poets have more challenges regulating their emotions, lifestyle, anxiety and subsequent consequences of struggles with mental illness sometimes leading to breakdowns, and even to premature deaths by suicide.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Category:Poets_who_committed_suicide

http://www.poetrysoup.com/famous_poets/suicidal_poets.aspx
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Featured Artist:

http://www.deviantart.com/art/Esencia-Primavera-527848910

The Purple Fat Feelings


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The Purple Fat Feelings

I can never read all the books I want
Never love all the people I’d prefer
Hoping to live and feel
All the cursive of the human palette
I was left feeling horribly limited

I learned not to expect
Nothing from anybody
As the surest means of being surprised

I wanted to be startled by life
And found everything in life was scripted
The outgoing guts and
The ability to improvise
With a touch of self-doubt

I took deep breaths and bragged
Inside my own heart
For taking-in kisses left me feeling

Self-important and in love with everything
That was the Spring’s ingredient
The stars still go waltzing in blue and red

And if all the world dropped dead
I fancy love would still exist
On stars, for sale, for youthful fancy
Perhaps if we ever find ourselves
At peace, it will be because

We are dangerously close to wanting nothing
For now in my own prayer-silence
I’ll dream of books, love and fat purple feelings.

Songs of Hedonism


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Songs of Hedonism

In the seduction of the sense
We have a series of pleasures
That introduces us to
A desire that is never quenched

So is it worth then to chase?
What fundamentally, shall
Never be caught, like dopamine on a leash
The variety that takes the soul

Off of its beloved course?
Celibacy is perhaps the sunlit path
For virtue and those who have read history
Nothing so tranquil as a good library

However, should you find secret love
Or a scandalous substitute
Remember, there is no sinner like a saint

Nothing so good for the health
As a touch, no learning like
The end of solitude, each moment

A happy lover’s hour, is worth
An age of dull and common life
Right down sensual love, is
A language all nations understand equally.

Last Stop


51

There is a last stop in all of us
A place our soul consents to rest
Few were the moonlit nights
That I’ve truly cared for after all

In the alphabet of stars
Time carried me until I was
Completely different
And with a fatigue of thought

I settled on dying a white death
After people were forgotten
There were still my dreams
Dreams I had held on to in spite

Of difficulties, tempests, dishonour
But memory is just a day
When somebody we cared for

Is replaced by somebody else or
The fleeting thing of hours
The turbulent street where everything blurs.

Losing


52

The art of losing
Isn’t hard to master
I do it a bit every day
One day in a lifetime, gone

Another stuck in the mud
The intent is there to be lost
Or to escape into disaster
Tragedy, love-struck

By the intensity of what
Youth once felt like
The art of losing
Isn’t hard to master

I’ve tasted abandonment
As clearly as the
Hope of poverty for
A better life, the art of losing

Comes naturally to me
Not like failure but
Next-to-last, I’m a lover
Of underdogs at heart

It’s evident that empathy
Is an open wound
In a corrupt world like this one.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Wet-505941921

On the pursuit of Beauty


21

Beauty is not
In what words you use
But in that which you say
Without having to use words
My rhetoric never felt

The true impact of silence
My naked veils never
Completely came undone
So I remained an imitator
An imposter of art

Armed with repetition and homage
But in art, there is non one
Behind and no one ahead
We are alone on our own path
And beauty is neither here or there

That is why we must continue to write
That is why we became writers
Became we felt alone
And in finding our way
We felt the beauty

Of the passing years
In a whole new way….
Beauty is not
In what fine craft you make
But in the effort to love your craft more.

Dirty Gold


15

I wrote a book of questions
For you, before you left
Until every event in my life
Became a metaphor for poetry
Is the lamp of my happiness
Tattooed on your skin?
Is my heart so dependent

That the night and day
Are prisoners to its food?
I wrote a book of questions
For the little moments of gratitude
And how the roots of my soul
Must climb towards the light?
I do not know how to live alone

Is it always the same spring
Who revives the role?
Experience does not bring answers
She brings sweet uncertainty
Between the orchids and the wheat
Which does love favour?

A woman likes security
That’s right…

The spilled blood will have no fragrance


79

The spilled blood will have no fragrance

Angel.
Dissolve my tears
My drama is too personal
Woodcutter.
Cut my shadow from me
The torment is without
Fruit, or just reward
Winter is the night copied
When all the stars are blind
God.
Leave some birds
The seeds that were dreams
Have been wasted
Youth.
Let go of me now
I am no longer a virgin
Or opportunistic or idealistic
Time.
Needle in the water
Of my health
Do not think we do not see you?
Melting the sun like a great center
A snake of flesh
The wood-cutter does not know
When, my heart grew pale
With stress, or
How the silence became moist and wise
Beneath the burden
Of the escaping years
Angel, woodcutter, God, youth, dreams, time
Do not imagine just because
I am now old, that I know
What experience is
Perhaps, perhaps I was hiding all along
From living.

Simulation of a Dream


72

Stillness
In the middle of the night
Hush like centuries
With each other
Only to know that we were not fixed
But changed, in the silence
Where nothing moves and everything
Flowers and exchanges
Reincarnates in place
It’s the quantum structure
Of how mutations occur
Like syllables on the vacation
Of the summer, that was
The rest of our lives
The hour grows and falls over us
Luminous, like the moonlit window
Clouds full of sunsets behind them
Surround us with poetic insomnia
I hear an anthem in them
That could be a teleportation of history
In the middle of the night
Where revelations occur
With each other
Tomorrow, the hours will be larger
Than ever and pregnant with something
Other that what I was today or ever was
I am here, at my beginning
Free in the will of the invisible
Where we are all algorithms.

Artist: Agnes Cecile (http://www.eyesonwalls.com/products/this-thing-called-art-is-really-dangerous-fine-art-print)

After Journaling


66

There is no burnt paper anymore
My age of confessions is over
I have nothing to hide from myself
My journals are just filled

With spiritual musings
The drama has gone
And angst is dead
No saxophone haunting

From my bedroom
No squalor beneath my
Guitar-fingers, only
The meditation of poems

The slapping phantom of laundry
An old apartment, beaten up
While my screen paints silversmithing
Of this unusual alchemy

The beating of blackberry wisdom
Into ripe aphorisms, it’s enough
For procrastination and myth
We all have to cross those waters

One day, astounded souls
Leaving games of chess and flirting behind
And filter flowers for golden messages
And live in a quiet place in Canada

Where the stars are not so cold
And all dark advice of shame is gone
Open to the wilderness, ready
To learn how to be free.

We Write


55

To write is not to presume creativity
To write is not to add something
But to take away, to cleanse
To dispense with the enormous

Personalization which is an error
Of an unnetworked brain
Men commit monstrous acts
In the hopes of becoming great

But to write is the most human act
Since language is our Tao and birthright
To live in harmony as an author
Means to write from the perfect

Symmetry of your soul, since
That is instinctive, move with its
Effortless flow, understanding is not

Righteous, it’s a perspective of dominance
Humility requires to let go of intellectual ego
And to empathize on a more fundamental level.

Lush


52

Lush

I had the courage to
Let go of thoughts
And found myself living in Silence

There highest knowledge
Was unbounded like a gold
Center of the void
Delimited by duality
I could see the unity-sphere

And I had the experience
Of nearness to emptiness
Tao is the source of these

Of unity, silence, emptiness
And I felt a sweet surrender
Letting go of what I wanted
Letting go of what I had planned
For something about the universe

That attracted me to living
In the moment, looking at
A flock of birds, or reading
The poem of the world
In fullness to myself
Reverberating with everything.

The moment scatters itself into a poem


43
The moment scatters itself into a poem

I am full, of unwritten poetry
My life is an experience
Of the lady of secrets
And the labor of art

I craft, I write, I want
To go to the beyond
Through the gift of the gateway

Of intuitive being
Until I become a poem
I am pregnant, with this
Reflection of resurrection
Words dance in my brain

In somersaults and fountains
Of the purest aroma
A vistas of the clearest day

My pen is not a pen, my page
Is not a page, I write for the future
To the future, arriving forever
Through the lens of beauty
I transcend and I perceive

Through until the lady of secrets
Down into the sea of mysteries.

To Let the World In Again


29
To Let the World In Again

Just remember
When the times are hard
What about when
Dear heart, I implore you
What about when

The hills are pink
In Summer morning’s embrace?
And the valley of forgiveness
Rises before your fate
The world still stands

Luminous as ever
Notwithstanding your
Dramas, these and those
The leaves still open
Like the soft dresses

Of magical hands
Graced with the mystery
Of all that is ordinary
Just remember
When the times are hard

There is bounty and blessings
More than your little body
And tiny mind can imagine
What about when
Dear heart, I implore you
The sunsets spring up
To let the world in again.

The Worthiness to Die


87

I know loneliness one dare
Not sound, so grave that friends depart
The alarm that leads to inner scrutiny
And horrors not be surveyed

The gloom of youth with no resolve
Skirted in the dark, under lock
Of our brief taste of tragedy
That does not depart so easily

I fear that loneliness is one of my
Prime emotions, that illuminates
My caverns and corridors
But am I alone in this?

I do not know, I suffer
As best I can, with brief wisdom
And hampered forgiveness
For cowardice or weakness I am not sure

And friends too few, and charity
Only given, and lovers
That leave before they truly know
I know loneliness one day

Not watched, that poverty expounds
The hardship of living a minority
Without but a wave of gold
I know loneliness like a jewel

With so much weight, and worthiness
And a strange hunger to die
Before one truly knows how to live.

105

Featured Artist:

AGNES CECILE
https://www.facebook.com/agnescecile
http://agnes-cecile.deviantart.com/gallery/23399055/Featured
https://www.youtube.com/user/agnescecile
https://www.facebook.com/SilviaPelissero

Romantic Autism


53
Today I am a tourist
In romance, her swaying hair
Across my lap
She showed me this long night
And I bit into it

Laughing loudly and aroused
Not for sensation, but for feeling
She showed me the stages of joy

We folded our lives
As we folded laundry together
Ate our meals in complete comfort
The interior of thirsty years
Of suffering, made worth it

In a few months of purest joy
Loving her was like a Jewish legacy
Of an expression of American hope

I could hope I belonged
But romance usually had a way of
Burning my letters at a bonfire
For a muse I couldn’t have
So much color, so much sadness

So many postcards from
The women I believed I loved
Thus I remember your face everywhere

Like a poet infatuated
With the idea of love
Who has some difficulty
Recognising her at “face level”

Morning Song


Art Courtesy of: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Nature-s-Embrace-478706780

11

Every morning
The world is created &
I am a new person

Purified by the tips of orange
Alive with sticks of the sun
Patting me, caressing me
Aching in me to be somebody new
And summer pushes me enlightening

My spirit in phases of existence
For hours I am drunk in
The possibilities of who I could be

But the day has its plan for me
As I submit to the light everywhere
I can feel it secretly working in me
Every morning
I awake to a harmony

That is lighter than snow
More wise than the sound
Of migrating birds, more deep

Than the green that always returns
And my prayers are no longer
Loud, but a part of the silence
From which all prayers come and go
Every morning

The world is created &
I am a new person
With the ashes of night

Sparkling in my chest
Like the reminder of past lifetimes
And in my soul I carry
Thorns like jewels
And it has become my nature

To be happy, to share it
To gift it as if soft trails
Of happiness existed everywhere.

THIS ALLEGED AND FORMAL VULNERABILITY


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Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Alouette-Lake-472214396

What a little bruised fate
is our story, not so harsh
just loving out of necessity
in order to survive we choose to live
in a heart, with all its comfort

a little late divinity for
an uneventful youth, where
we were not lucky to find a big love
you see, we are more fragile
than we thought, and life is more

austere in the next decade
than we ever imagined possible
no wonder those folk are so stern
life has beaten them down
from the inside, and they are vulnerable

more vulnerable than they would
have imagined, at twenty, at thirty?
but you and I, we have learned
to deny the gloom, to shut the door
to sorrow, like children in a make-believe

we call our soul a shared marriage
it’s a kind of journey in gentleness
to despair together is no longer misery
it’s what we call a journey, every sweet
month, this lifetime of acceptance

forgiveness, and gratitude, it’s like family
they don’t always tell you what
they have lived, but somehow you know.

Last manuscript of an exiled Russian poet


Pick up a yardstick to measure your life against anyone else’s, and you’ve just picked up a stick and beaten up your own soul.
~ Ann Voskamp

55

And I cannot inherit back
my childhood from a photo-album
what I was, what i am

is transferred in silence
and most probably lost
like all living things
I accept the change of it all

that which expands, contracts
like a flock of birds in flight
I am at ease & I am alarmed

you hold your own hand in smiles
And I cannot do that, I’m not you
the pieces of my soul
Were already given to words

lost on words like a poet
writing after midnight
not destined the next morning

to remember what possessed him
not able to make up all the alphabets
that changed his life as the
seconds overtake me

I will be that irregular snowflake
as misunderstood as the
hands of the clock

the golden speck in sunlight
the stranger who smiled
at me, or with me, strangely.