Wednesday, November 25, 2015

Blue Dress

"Sorrow" by Farhad Ahmed

In the style of Kim Addonizio's "What Do Women Want?" (Please read Addonizio's poem first)

I want a blue dress.
I want it starched and unwelcoming;
I want it so loose I forget I'm in it;
I want to wear it until I completely disappear
in the folds of its cobalt fabric.  I want it
turtleneck and ankle-length 
so no one cares to guess who's
underneath.  I want to crawl under 
the covers in my blue dress and bleed
into the mattress, the springs groaning
under my weight.  I want to sulk 
in the silence of my own brooding,
to hide behind the guise of "I'm fine" and
"okay" just to be left alone, unpursued.
I want that blue dress quite badly.  
I want to confirm 
your worst fears about me,
to show you how little you know
of anything except the clichés that slip
out of my lips, the ones I hate the most.
When I find it, I'll pull that vestment
from its hanger in the dark corner 
of my closet like I actually have a choice
to feel the way I do when the only blue
I find are the veins that run too close
under the thin vellum of my skin.
It'll be the obsequy dress 

they bury me in.

Tuesday, November 24, 2015

Wandering Wind


Behold the wandering wind
gamboling in the vast prairies 
of my spirit like a lovelorn maiden
writing poetry in the air 
with jazzy hands and languid steps, 
while murmuring sweet nothings 
to the pitter of rain upon the thin tin roof 
of my soul, 

tap-tap-tapping away

the patient equipoise of reason
and wit, each linked to the other
in the wild dance of the eden,
as night watches from a distance
and the roving wind teases 
and winds her hair in the glow
of his outstretched hand, 
the zephyr of her whisper 

slipping through his fingers

Saturday, November 21, 2015

The Smell of Sleep

You smell of sleep,
your back pressed 
against me,
the scent of you 
leaning somewhere 
and the taste 
of dreaming, 
like cotton balls
caught in the clouds,
and I lay awake
that each night
I will smell you 
in my dreams
and every morning 
I will wake 
to the smell of sleep 

on empty pillow cases

Saturday, February 7, 2015


I notice my patience
cracking like fissures
on a dam, drops of water
eroding the cement,
ink blots
on thin parchment,
and I cringe
each time my voice
in violent vibrations
as broken pieces of me
slide down the sides
of my resolve,
and the patches grouted on
by those I love
who keep me together
slowly break apart
until even they
are submerged
in my waters

Monday, January 26, 2015

White Lies

Inspired by Sue Sinclair

Light dumps on us,
the sibilance of refrigerators
stealing the silence of night, when
we imagine our lives as little
white lies, the only way we know
of coping with dead ends and
swallowed grief, falling
from the ceiling like birds,
forgetting to spread our wings

Photo from Manda Flower

Monday, January 19, 2015

Fig Leaves

Fig leaves hide the shame
behind skin deep intimacy,
which my soul craves
in all the wrong places,
broken pieces of a hand-crafted
clay vessel of fresh oil
and anointing from the Potter
that had once filled a valley
but now lay barren between
my breasts, empty tombs
of a paradise lost to my shame

Thursday, January 1, 2015

When Playa Agujas Was My Own

When Playa Agujas was my own
the waves whispered
my name at dawn
and beckoned for me
to come play in the sand
as it scattered beneath my feet
and tickled my toes. 
Seagulls graced the skies
in search of zig-zagging
red crabs that shared
the beach with coned seashells
and burrowed holes deep
into the sand the same way
Playa Agujas dug deep into my soul,
and then the sun pressed
against my skin revealing
the secrets of littoral seashores
and imaginary sea nymphs, its light
guiding my playful days and its heat
keeping me warm by night
until it burned in my memory
and gave my childhood
a seaside playground