Sunday, October 19, 2014

On a Given Day









In the style of Peter Davis

On a good day, she writes poetry
like a poet and not a desperate
amateur trying to get published.
I don't know what she writes, but she digs
deep into her soul to drag out
words coated in nacre to protect
them from the critic within. 

On a good day, she is playful
with her children and her love,
opting to be with them on sunny days
and family nights rather than hide
secluded with her words.  On a good day,
she leaves the protection of the house
and shops for chocolate and coffee,
her sustenance through a good
writing spell; she likes all three. 

On a medium day, she takes naps
during the day rather than talk
on the phone or peruse the Internet. 
She sleeps for as long as her son sleeps,
and sometimes longer while he watches TV. 
On a medium day, there is a sense
of apprehension, of distrust, and she questions
the very words she once loved, suspicion
and ennui threatening to trash
all she's written.  On a medium day,
she is impatient, more with herself
than her family who hovers on the outskirts
of her moods.  She struggles within to bring
back balance to her spirit and her soul.

On a bad day, she is paranoid,
wanting to delete online accounts
and unfriend acquaintances, to
untether herself from others' realities
and hide inside the darkness of her mind. 
She does not sleep, but lays awake
feeling sorry for herself and for the pain
she causes her family, willing herself
to end it all if only for a moment's peace.
On a bad day, she imagines cutting herself
to pieces and gluing the chunks back together;
it is not okay to feel this way, but she does. 
On a bad day, she hates how she feels
and detests the monster she's become.

But on a good day, she sees truth for what it is;
I'm not a monster, she says with conviction,
and smiles at the reflection she likes again
in the mirror.  But on a medium day,
she is alone with her thoughts. 
And on a bad day,
her thoughts are of death alone.

Tuesday, October 14, 2014

Notes to Self

In the style of onerios13

Hello Rain, my old nemesis,
I've come to talk to you again
about your choke-hold on my
emotions, the way you dictate
the shifts of my moods
like a demented puppeteer
on a sadistic stage as I bounce
from irritation and disappointment
to melancholy and fear
at the flick of your wrist.

Dear wrist: if it weren't for your
continual devotion, these thoughts
would forever be trapped in my mind
and it would have been like
living in poverty while hoarding
treasures under the floorboards,
or not letting my right hand know
what my left hand is doing, so I depend
on your steady rotation to keep
the pen moving and my fingertips
pecking (though never fast enough
to keep up with my thoughts
but that's not your fault).

Dear fault: every November
you have a way of digging
your fingernails into old wounds
and ripping apart years of healing
and therapy, not quite redeemable
to you, always bringing me face to face
with the realities of my fallibility;
"mirror, mirror on the wall
who's the fairest of them all?"

Dear fairest of them all: oh,
how I envy you, a younger version
of me though I never knew it then
as I age profoundly, wrinkles etching
the corners of my eyes, grays
creeping into the brunette of my hair,
weight gained like an unwanted family
member that won't go away and you can't
seem to get rid of without being rude,
and I see you laughing at my own insecurities
while I hunt you down
into the deep forest of my soul.

Dear soul: I reverently wait for the Muse
to take her place in my thoughts
before I speak to you since you are the seed
of who I am, the real determinant
of my here and now, and of my hereafter,
and the choices of my life both
influence you and are determined by you,
a symbiotic union even as darkness
hovers in the outskirts like a slightly
singed map with landmarks and arrows
but no symbols key.

Dear key: you open the door to my mind
and peer inside with curiosity as if there
were more to see than what lies written
in these verses, shadows of the real workings
of an artist and a poet, kaleidoscopic colors
and images, butterflies-in-your-stomach dreams
and nightmares that linger through the day,
words that form on the cool surfaces
of night to keep my creativity moist
and become a constant oasis from reality.

Dear reality: I both hate you and love you and
hate you again for your mercurial temper
like that of my child in tantrum, and your
unceasing envy of all that is not yours, even me,
with the little that I can offer as a woman and a poet,
just words strung in phrases and emotions and images,
passion tangled in each word and my soul
clinging to the rest; don' take that away from me!

Dear me: I like the way you no longer shy away
from raw truth but share an ounce of it
in each piece of your writing, each word
and expression laced with honesty and history
even when sometimes it seems like you're saying
nothing, nothing at all.
In the style of onerios13 (www.AllPoetry.com)

Hello Rain, my old nemesis,
I've come to talk to you again
about your chokehold on my
emotions, the way you dictate
the shifts of my moods
like a demented puppeteer
on a sadistic stage as I bounce
from irritation and disappointment
to melancholy and fear
at the flick of your wrist.

Dear wrist: if it weren't for your
continual devotion, these thoughts
would forever be trapped in my mind
and it would have been like
living in poverty while hoarding
treasures under the floorboards,
or not letting my right hand know
what my left hand is doing, so I depend
on your steady rotation to keep
the pen moving and my fingertips
pecking (though never fast enough
to keep up with my thoughts
but that's not your fault).

Dear fault: every November
you have a way of digging
your fingernails into old wounds
and ripping apart years of healing
and therapy, not quite redeemable
to you, always bringing me face to face
with the realities of my fallibilities;
"mirror, mirror on the wall
who's the fairest of them all?"

Dear fairest of them all: oh,
how I envy you, a younger version
of me though I never knew it then
as I age profoundly, wrinkles etching
the corners of my eyes, grays
creeping into the brunette of my hair,
weight gained like an unwanted family
member that won't go away and you can't
seem to get rid of without being rude,
and I see you laughing at my own insecurities
while I hunt you down
into the deep forest of my soul.

Dear soul: I reverently wait for the Muse
to take her place in my thoughts
before I speak to you since you are the seed
of who I am, the real determinant
of my here and now, and of my hereafter,
and the choices of my life both
influence you and are determined by you,
a symbiotic union even as darkness
hovers in the outskirts like a slightly
singed map with landmarks and arrows
but no symbols key.

Dear key: you open the door to my mind
and peer inside with curiosity as if there
were more to see than what lies written
in these verses, shadows of the real workings
of an artist and a poet, kaleidoscopic colors
and images, butterflies-in-your-stomach dreams
and nightmares that linger through the day,
words that form on the cool surfaces
of night to keep my creativity moist
and become a constant oasis from reality.

Dear reality: I both hate you and love you and
hate you again for your mercurial temper
like that of my child in tantrum, and your
unceasing envy of all that is not yours, even me,
with the little that I can offer as a woman and a poet,
just words strung in phrases and emotions and images,
passion tangled in each word and my soul
clinging to the rest; don' take that away from me!

Dear me: I like the way you no longer shy away
from raw truth but share an ounce of it
in each piece of your writing, each word
and expression laced with honesty and history
even when sometimes it seems like you're saying
nothing, nothing at all. - See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11698014-Note-to-Self-by-Deviant-Writer-noguest?utm_source=email&utm_campaign=new_comment#sthash.Wn3TJ0F4.dpuf
In the style of onerios13 (www.AllPoetry.com)

Hello Rain, my old nemesis,
I've come to talk to you again
about your chokehold on my
emotions, the way you dictate
the shifts of my moods
like a demented puppeteer
on a sadistic stage as I bounce
from irritation and disappointment
to melancholy and fear
at the flick of your wrist.

Dear wrist: if it weren't for your
continual devotion, these thoughts
would forever be trapped in my mind
and it would have been like
living in poverty while hoarding
treasures under the floorboards,
or not letting my right hand know
what my left hand is doing, so I depend
on your steady rotation to keep
the pen moving and my fingertips
pecking (though never fast enough
to keep up with my thoughts
but that's not your fault).

Dear fault: every November
you have a way of digging
your fingernails into old wounds
and ripping apart years of healing
and therapy, not quite redeemable
to you, always bringing me face to face
with the realities of my fallibilities;
"mirror, mirror on the wall
who's the fairest of them all?"

Dear fairest of them all: oh,
how I envy you, a younger version
of me though I never knew it then
as I age profoundly, wrinkles etching
the corners of my eyes, grays
creeping into the brunette of my hair,
weight gained like an unwanted family
member that won't go away and you can't
seem to get rid of without being rude,
and I see you laughing at my own insecurities
while I hunt you down
into the deep forest of my soul.

Dear soul: I reverently wait for the Muse
to take her place in my thoughts
before I speak to you since you are the seed
of who I am, the real determinant
of my here and now, and of my hereafter,
and the choices of my life both
influence you and are determined by you,
a symbiotic union even as darkness
hovers in the outskirts like a slightly
singed map with landmarks and arrows
but no symbols key.

Dear key: you open the door to my mind
and peer inside with curiosity as if there
were more to see than what lies written
in these verses, shadows of the real workings
of an artist and a poet, kaleidoscopic colors
and images, butterflies-in-your-stomach dreams
and nightmares that linger through the day,
words that form on the cool surfaces
of night to keep my creativity moist
and become a constant oasis from reality.

Dear reality: I both hate you and love you and
hate you again for your mercurial temper
like that of my child in tantrum, and your
unceasing envy of all that is not yours, even me,
with the little that I can offer as a woman and a poet,
just words strung in phrases and emotions and images,
passion tangled in each word and my soul
clinging to the rest; don' take that away from me!

Dear me: I like the way you no longer shy away
from raw truth but share an ounce of it
in each piece of your writing, each word
and expression laced with honesty and history
even when sometimes it seems like you're saying
nothing, nothing at all. - See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11698014-Note-to-Self-by-Deviant-Writer-noguest?utm_source=email&utm_campaign=new_comment#sthash.Wn3TJ0F4.dpuf

Wednesday, September 24, 2014

In Between

Inspired by Jacob Erin-Cilberto's "In-Between"

I feel like January
when everything is close to dying
and the wind prepares eulogies,
but the sky is only partly cloudy,
the sun looking on in suspicion,

because it isn't officially winter
and you aren't officially dead,
simply perishing under the weight
of leaves that haven't fallen
but still crumble beneath my feet
walking towards you without
knowing that I crush you too.

I feel like January wondering
when this season will pass and the next
will bring you back to me in the breeze
of another sunset and another spell


Friday, September 5, 2014

Two Seasons

Two seasons later and thoughts of you
surface like buried treasure hidden
in the depths of my heart,
an emotional whirlpool swirling
at the sight of someone else's loss,
someone else's sadness,
florets of memories alight
in the wind, the air heavy
with rain still falling
since the day we parted,
and loss takes on a new pain.


Thursday, September 4, 2014

Lo Que El Viento Se Llevó


(En el estilo de My Peace)

Quiero que se sienta como la salida del sol al amanecer
cuando Dios toca
      a la puerta de
           mi alma
y espera a que responda a Su llamado.
Quiero que huela a hierba recién cortada.
Yo quiero que suene como el silencio de la naturaleza
antes de los temblores de noches costarricenses.
Quiero que se sienta como verdadera pasión.
Yo quiero que se vea
como el horizonte de
"Lo Que El Viento Se Llevó."
Quiero que se vea como
murciélagos que se escapan en el crepúsculo.
Quiero que se sienta como
      la libertad de alas largas
           en la brisa fresca,
                como la puesta de sol
                   tarde en el solsticio de Verano.
Quiero que mi paz suene
como el rock Latino y el cine en español.
Quiero que se vea como
la piel de mi hija, el color de melocotones.
Quiero que se vea como la aurora boreal.
Quiero que suene como
las oraciones de mi abuela
      en la oscuridad matutina.
Quiero que se vea como
el Otoño, la puesta de sol en la noche y
la belleza de las hojas sonrojándose
en la pureza de su hermosura.


Wednesday, September 3, 2014

Sundew Yearning


Bare-handed, I reach into the fire,
burning my fingerprints smooth
enough to leave a mark
upon your heart and still
drag you back here with me,
like dawn hauling the sun
up to the horizon, light
stealing through darkness,
or a sundew luring others
to suck nectar from its bosom,
inhaling them into colorful traps. 
 
Is that what we've become?


Thursday, August 28, 2014

In the style of My Peace...

I want it to feel like sunrise at dawn
when God knocks
     on the door of
          my soul
and waits for me
to answer His calling.
I want it to smell like recently cut grass.
I want it to sound like the silence of nature
before the trembling of Costa Rican nights.
I want it to feel like real passion.
I want it to look
like the horizon of
"Gone With the Wind."
I want it to look like
bats that escape into twilight.
I want it to feel like
     the freedom of long wings
          in the cool breeze,
               like the sun setting
                  late into the summer solstice.
I want my peace to sound
like Spanish rock and film scores.
I want it to look like
my daughter's skin, the color of peaches.
I want it to look like the Northern Lights.
I want it to sound like
my grandmothers prayers
     in the matutinal darkness.
I want it to look like
Fall, the sun setting at evening and
the beauty of leaves blushing
in the purity of her comeliness.