Carlos & Blue
Maybe he can drown thatthere love of his
like his liver–no bigger than a dime now
but still worthy of the ten pennies in his pocket.
She’s covered with dayburst all the way up to heaven.
80 days gone, six foot deep like an Ophelia
once read about 30 years before. Nothing hurts
much like death expect for swallowing
the distilled tears of moonshine breath,
he thinks.
The Iranian Girl
There’s a hole in the ground
A moving of earth, now made
A sad depression
Where once she played in
Puddle-rain
Splashing with the joy that comes
From child-like feet
The sound is still here
In the air, the breeze yet carrying
The secret laughter
That haunts the waking hours of those
Who’ve lost the way
How vain to think that
Memory can be erased
All will remember
No one escapes
I wonder if she saw it
The moment before
Her hair still flying free
The metal catching that last
Pure glint of sun
Did she hear the explosion
That made no sense
Did she feel
Her body come apart
And fall like dust, too soon
Does anyone ask
Whatever she felt, whatever she dreamed
Her dreaming time is gone
And no lofty word of God or
Glory will ever make it right
Dare to listen and you will
Hear her
Dare to open your eyes and see
The Iranian girl
No different
Like you, like me.
(Previously published in StopWarOnIran.org, Nov.2007)
A love lost
There has to be a time where we say enough is enough
Where we have to think about maybe cutting our loses
Maybe go as far as moving on
When do we say it?
When do we follow through?
A love lost may be gone forever and what more can we do?
cheated
I hate it, my life, because no one gives it time, thats why death is close.
Practicing
She never cried on Sundays. It was her “covenant” with God. She loved Jesus so much that she’d often stay in bed all day, taking lines of my Ritalin to help her focus on the scripture.
I didn’t know anything then, sitting in the smell of lukewarm chicken broth, in our kitchen the color of faded lemondrops. She stirred aimlessly with one hand as the other clutched her morning mimosa.
I asked her why the pages in the Bible were bloody.
“It’s a reminder,” she said finally, wiping roughly at her nose, “of all that He did for us.”
A single tear made rivets in the silence of my soup. She almost never broke her promises.
Perfect Companion
Perfect Companion
Besides a dog, have your significant other as your best friend and companion,
Someone to talk to, listening, sharing your thoughts and dreams,
A constancy of trust, friendship, faith and fidelity,
This person to be there for your nightmares and bad times.
Maybe a puppet or clown to make you laugh when sad,
Just by their loving touch, you’ll feel better right away,
And to dry your tears, and to make you smile,
Even with a light conversation, all your worries are gone.
When you feel the chemistry and vibrant energy of that someone,
A sizzling sensation of floating on clouds uplifts you,
Just by that love, it’s sweet, loving, caring and tender,
A longing to feel like there’s no tomorrow exists.
All of your wishes and dreams to come true would be wonderful,
Inside of your heart, you know it, from dusk till dawn,
The sun and the moon will turn day into night and vice versa,
It’s the synergy between two people in love to last forever.
The experiences of the presence of true love is there,
Memories are made as keepsake momentoes of two combining hearts,
As one entwined and beating deeply inside, it’s profoundly real,
Even with your five senses, the scent is strong and alive, primitive.
A taste of paradise’s perfect ambrosia is electrifying,
When raveling a rope made for a couple, lovers- knot is a feeling to die for,
Just don’t let it get twisted and tangled into many hard knots to untie,
Knowledge may be power, when their understanding is wrapped in gold.
Red Dawn
Red Dawn
Red sky at dawn, another hot day,
Too weak to do anything, but to cool down,
Temperatures hot with the blazing sun,
Time to turn on the electric fans and air conditioners.
Replenish the thirst with water and ice cold drinks,
Stay inside, and wait for a break in the climate,
The hot air front might collide with the cool air one,
Possibly cause a blackout and power outage.
Listening on TV and radio weather forecasts for its endurance,
Outside the window, plants, flowers and trees have wilted,
The green grass is now burnt, and in the shade of black-brown,
Heat stroke, heat poisoning, and heat exhaustion are imminent.
First Aid might be needed for sunburned blisters on the skin,
Hypothermia could be possible, if medical need hasn’t met,
Best to stay inside, cool down, and be comfortable,
Hopefully tonight’s red sky would turn into a cool night’s sunset.
Hardy Begonia
Hardy Begonia
Alternating coiled leaves, thick, shiny, sticky,
Toothed with rough verdant color,
Ruby-red veined stems and leaves with blooming florets,
Elongated green stem clusters grow in large clumps.
Fresh baby pink flowers’ arrival in garden,
Wakes up in late summer solstice and fall equinox.
Sending messages through its fanciful nature and presence,
That although a beauty, it means to beware of its deformity.
The Drowning Bee
I once stuck my hand into a kiddie pool to save a drowning bee.
It’s black and yellow fur was waterlogged, legs kicking frantically.
It was trying desperately to breathe.
I saw it’s pain and plunged into the water.
I thought that it would see my intentions.
Not much smaller than my hand, it wrestled into my palm.
I pulled it from the water, wet and frantic, and it surged its stinger deep inside my flesh.
I cried.
Sometimes I am still that little girl, plunging in after those who are drowning.
It is hard to breathe when life is so exhausting.
I can see their legs thrashing, faces contorted as they slip beneath the surface.
I forget that they may pull me under.
The bee will sting upon the saving of its life.
The ripping of its stinger means certain death, but it will still attack.
We are no different.
It is easiest to hurt the ones who are closest.
The water feels no pain as its pressure consumes us.
We sting the delicate flesh, so innocent in its approach, because we are afraid.
The Man Who Is A Rabbit
Just because your hands are calloused does not make you a hard worker.
The roughness does not hold meaning, depicting tales of glory, or battle, or righteousness.
You are weak, and small, and nothing. You are neither friend nor foe.
You would rather bear a trophy than your soul, calculating your self-worth on the opinions of others.
You are a game-hunter, shooting lions trapped in pens. In the jungle you become all but prey, naked and alone.
You are not a man but a rabbit. You cannot think for yourself, always running and hiding. The only words you spew hold little meaning.
Your fur is shiny and beautiful but your presence short-lived. There are many like you and you shall flock together, desperate to define yourselves with worthless causes.
You shall run freely, unaware of the predator behind you, always afraid of what could be. Your own weakness shall destroy you.
