Sliver of the Sky

An untouched sliver of the sky
hung still over the open door of the Honda,
pressing cold bursts of air through
a cracked window.

I watched this jagged bit of heaven,
cut and styled by the sharp points of pine,
throw tiny dark shadows down
across the traffic before he and I -

Amazed,
I watched the little ashen bodies turn pearl,
ghostly, white,
and fall into clumps along the sides of the road.

Less Realistic End Times

A rift in the ocean floor
yawned and opened itself,
thin and red hot,
to the cool embrace of salty sea.

Sharp and focused like a cat's eye,
the light of the rift tore
through murky blue and caught in its glance,
 the quiet stirring of the beast.



Cthulu?!?! WAHHHHHH!!!!!!
     Sorry everyone, getting caught up in Christmas shopping and such makes for not much time to write poems.  I promise you the next one will be much better :)  Merry Christmas, and a happy new year!  Weekly poems will continue January 6th.

Demons of the Westboro Cult

http://www.examiner.com/article/westboro-baptist-church-to-protest-newtown-when-obama-visits-on-sunday

*This poem was written to commit to memory the abject stupidity and blatant apathy shown by the cult known as the Westboro Baptist Church towards the victims of the shooter, Adam Lanza, in the Connecticut Elementary school shooting.  Westboro Baptist Church... I mean honestly.

A resounding "What the fuck?!"
 Passed through my mind
upon realizing this
was attributed to divine

intervention.  God's will
sacrificed little lambs
to undeserved eternity.

God, their god, their demons, 
their lunacy, spewing forth acid
and hurt and sorrow
in the name of judgement,
crooked justice. 

The self-deceived sons of bitches
and their bitches,
blind to the purpose of the cracked mirror 
they hold to the world.

To be expected.  Cults come and go,
but their insanity and trail of filth
mar history forever.

Strength and the Eternal Dream

My hand brushed slowly across the glassy surface
of the still water,
longing to suck up its movement
and become transparent and everflowing.

Tender ripples traced over the silvery liquid,
glimmering and shaking off
rainbows and jagged bits of light;
     I watched the little daggers
bound against the wall
     once, twice, thrice,
before imbedding themselves in
optic nerves.

I yearn for that fluidity
which surrounds my skin
and penetrates,
painfully, my thoughts.

The immortal gift
came in slow-melting snow
hidden in the folds of
Aphrodite's hair.

Existential Crisis

The eyes looked up vacantly, expectantly,
toward the darkening sky.
Silent and wide and drinking in
the dim light of the waking stars.

We were far away tonight,
watching our dreams narrow and shatter
against the sharp horizon like fiery glass arrows

(the remains of which glowed as they fell into place,
leading us slowly into the billowy blackness).

Procrastination and a Skewed Sense of Time

Why do I do this to myself?

I know the time is coming
quick and hollow
like Christmas songs
before holiday cheer:
sickening and I don't realize
how disorienting it is
until it's too late and

Someone's already been trampled in Walmart
for presents they can't afford to buy.

That's where I am.
Stuck, between a hard place
and several worn soles.

I just can't force myself
to get this all finished.
I just can't force myself to begin.

I don't really know where to begin.

Tongue Forgot the Way Back

*NOTE: Sorry this one was late again, but I am working on something new for the blog: Video Poems!  Above is the first of what I hope will be a long line of them.  Let me know what you think!  As always, the actual poem will be listed below.  Enjoy! :3

I woke up yesterday realizing that I am not Africa.

I have not been Africa for a while.
My hair and skin my speak African,
but my lips and tongue forgot the movements.

My lips and tongue forgot the way back.

I am and have been American, only,
for over a century, if not more.
I was lifted away from that distant home
some time ago, forever ago,
and became separate from its history.
   I thought it might be hiding in here
   somewhere,

But, my lips and tongue forgot the way back.
And they were my road map.

So now I'm following forest green street signs
waiting for one to point me in the direction of my history
and my future.

Not having a history, and having no history
truly, leaves one disjointed and slippery
like colored paint.
    Easy to wash away.

Puzzle Pieces

Bits of picture plastered cardboard
tumble down haphazardly
onto cool, morning dewy me.
     They place themselves
     effortlessly
onto my exhaling belly
and wait.  The space
     between the breath -
and they fix themselves together,
completing the image
without letting me see.

It's my lot in life,

to know when...

but not where

 or how.

Lemonade in November

In Southern California,
there's always lemonade in November,
and ice cream in December.

The heat makes it necessary
to live in summer
during this confused, "sort of" winter

where the trees blow a bit
and the ground is slippery and gleaming
for a week.

At most.

The Lighter Reflections

Hey everyone!  Sorry I missed a post for the last week.  Since school started I've been SUPER busy what with work and such.  Never fear though!  I'll be posting my routine poem tonight, and another tomorrow night to make up for the missing one.  Hope you like it!

Louise


I watched his profile disappear behind the mirror.
I watched his reflection smile and frown
as he found himself, finally.

It was as though Narcissus had possessed him,
or the mother whom fate had forced to
flee.  Loving and inconstant,

his gaze bore holes in the silver glass,
treated with toxins and abrasive chemicals
and holy water,
to reflect what he'd forgotten

like a river,
clear and dishonest:
only feathers or pixie dust may be carried by the flow.
All things heavy eventually settle along the outer edge

to be seen only by a strange passerby.

24 Miles

Standing on the edge,
the man breathes in deeply
and allows the oxygen to calm his pulse.

Inhales,
and leaves the world breathless
and captivated.

He tilts his head over the platform,
above the shining blue Earth;
falling, he becomes as a shooting star:

bright, effervescent, and free.

To Banish A Nightmare

She leapt slowly from the staircase,

her sadness etching a dark trail in the still air.

     Transparent and razor thin

     like a wisp of a China doll’s hair.

     Thin and hollow and

     lost in despair.

The front door opened and the house

sighed and blinked;

     breathing,

     it removed the irritant.

Working Again

I forgot to put up my poem yesterday, but I have a good reason!  My lovely boyfriend turned 22 yesterday, so I was celebrating with him. :3  Okay, here's the poem.  Enjoy. <3

Insomnia, brought on willfully.
A give-and-take; an exchange
A minute of health for a minute of gold.
Sleepless and self-deprived,
I find that my mind rests somewhere else;
     My body trudges on, heavily.
Eyes downcast and searching
for lightless repose:

Surely, 5 a.m. is too early to be awake.

Empty Hourglass

The nail polish shimmered
and sent sparks flying toward my face.

It burned down into my skin
and made my heart scream.
     I had to tear off this
costume - my enchanting hour was complete
and I was nude now,
covered in cool sweat and brown skin.

But the souvenirs of my witchcraft
were ever present,
the remnants of my time
as a Goddess.

But I was mortal and fragile tonight,
the nail polish had to go.
     I did not crave the
immortality it promised.

I could not hold it in,
for that promise was vast
and dark like the ocean
and engulfed me
and submerged me into its depths
as I whispered my longings to the moon.

Le Coup de Foudre

The night, soft and smooth,
seeped across the sky.
It dripped light in tiny drops,
and filled our eyes with moonlight.

Foreign,
but welcome, effervescent
and breathtaking.

Tell me, Love. Was it that magic of France
or the last sip of wine,
that caused our lips to touch?

Puppy!

It came in a pretty blue box.

Saddled in satin and
bright glitter,
the bow echoed the fragility
of the hidden contents.

It came, sleeping,
on pink tissue paper -
covered, save for a tiny furry ear.

One eye open,
it peeked at me, cautiously,
as I raised the little thing
from the superfluous packaging.

Desperation, Born of Love

I'm afraid of this solitude;
it is all I can do not to break,
for want of his touch and soft whispers.

The Ripped Weaving

One's every pretenses ripped away,
the tapestry called Civility, unraveled in a single pull,
where the small rip was borne.

One's every plan destroy,
systematically; intriguingly
slow is the destruction

and the images of the past
and the hopes of the future,
all the bright reds and pinks and whites.
Swept away into the fire
in a moment of tearful
passion.

After Birth

The woman shook as her heart
beat loudly between soft palms.
She watched it,
                        confused and curious both,
as the child tucked it away
into static-lined folds
of its pastel green blanket.

And the woman said to herself
as she was reborn:
     this new babe,
     tender and sweet as he is,
     has killed me with love
     of his utter
     innocence.

Meditation

Today I left my trinkets
and teddies and toys and tears
scattered on the floor.
I walked into the sunlight
and was set aflame
by the new day.

A soft breeze came, silently,
whisking away my cremated skin
and settling my mind's ashes
over the earth like dandelion seeds
tossed into the clouds
by a child's kiss -

I opened my eyes, invigorated
and smiling.  My hand reached
into a paper bag of peaches
as I watched the clutter on the floor
eat up my space.

The Façade I Wore

The façade I wore
melted like yellow gum drops
soured by the excessive summer heat.

It dripped down slowly into
the two outstretched palms
waiting for the slow, bubbling liquid
to move.

It would take some time
before the awareness
                shock of my
sudden nudity would sink away,
allowing the next porcelain mask --
sugar-coated, candied and rhinestoned --
to surface.

The Rising Sun

The rising sun
weeps breathy petals of frost,
shaking away the cool calm of night
with pale silk fingertips.

Long and graceful,
it stretches its divine limbs
over Gaia,
its lovely child,
whose pine green nails
dig the light down from the sky.

Straight from the Camel's Nipples

This poem came about because of a very brief and weird dream involving camel nipples? Don't ask haha.  Anyways, enjoy:


*************
I turned and watched the bosom sway,
heavy with fresh milk and irony.
The pregnant thing did betray

a bit of remorse
at her sorrowful state ---
I touched them gingerly.

The aureolas darkened,
growing large.
Lactation.

We Watch The Shadows

We watch the shadows
ripple effortlessly across the cement
like disturbed moonbeams;
enchantingly quiet.

One can only assume
that the Little People
are responsible.

Who else can immaculately conceive
such wonder?

Little Rattler

I saw the sun streak warnings
across your reddened palm
as you raised the stick
and nudged the little Rattler.
     Bewildered,
I closed my eyes
and felt my breath leave my lungs.

But all was well.
The tiny thing slithered away
into the crooked mountain crevices
as we made our way back down.
     Shocked,
I looked at your face
betray ignorance of your selfless audacity

and I wondered if all my dammed up fear
would give way, one day, and again lead me here.

In The Hidden Garden

An empty cigarette box and several orange peels
lay littered across the sun-faded bricks,
decorating the ground.
      It was quiet enough in this space.
There was no darkness here.

     Yes, the trees cast bluish shadows
across my feet.
     Yes, the sunlight crept in too slowly
to throw off of my seat, the gloom
of early morning.
     Too slow for my taste.

     But the pink and yellow hibiscus flowers
still smiled up at the new dawn
and I was at peace.

The day had exorcised the blackness
that had filled my room the night before,
thick as molasses and formidable as it was.