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Rated: 18+ · Book · Emotional · #1926559
A new book to house this year's (and future years) NationalPoetryMonth's daily poems.
I'm writing once again this year. This book is my special event place for thirty special poems.

Here for National Poetry Month in 2018, I'm participating but life has not been kind in the last 15 months, so I'm not always in writing mode.

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April 21, 2018 at 6:46am
April 21, 2018 at 6:46am
the plums were for my mother
she died while you were away

the fruit you ate were large purple grapes
from Japan, you never had any taste

red, juicy plums, filled with sweet-tooth
yearnings, or those, I meant to say,
of expecting mothers

Margarita, our third-floor neighbor
told me her plums disappeared last night
what else do you take from her?

the real ones are always in the fruit bowl
it’s amazing you still digest wax so well

forgive you?
what offering did you leave in their place?

have I ever mixed plums in the morning smoothie?
I buy them for you, to nourish your guilt

left on the unset breakfast table: they were a gift
for your mother and her sudden arrival
I’ve left for an undramatic weekend

I have forgiven infidelity and bankruptcy
you can taste my sweet, ice-box shoulders at bedtime

this is just to say I found
the no-longer-secret bank account, emptied most of it elsewhere,
and changed your password
plums are a beggar's luxury now

snark on a midnight snack
After William Carlos Williams "This is just to say"

April 20, 2018 at 4:00am
April 20, 2018 at 4:00am
here flow no more than his thirty-one words

I cannot add the smallest touch
to bend his intent

& sway translated thus
into my own heartbeat

and hunger for humor

         morning banks
         drunk erasing themselves

         your [¿laughing?] curve makes
         the sacrifice to
         die as do embers

         & even childhood [¿games of tag?]
         because it had lighted
         the face beyond

         until intruding
         on candor

I'm sure he smiled
his effect

content to affect mystery
to a simple limpid scene

playing with imagination’s wile

after "light as a sign" by Mohammed Dib

April 19, 2018 at 3:08am
April 19, 2018 at 3:08am
possibly poppies distill choice
or hallucinogenic mushrooms

crazed cravings of fast
California freeways in the 60s

the danger of losing control
that one last hell-breaking time

waking, the welcome stubbed toe throb
or a heart finally on the starting block

the abyss called falling in love

a rose by any other name ...
April 18, 2018 at 7:58am
April 18, 2018 at 7:58am
we, the people, choke on the sweet pills
to gloss over or spruce up c'est la vie

medicine that kidnaps the dailyness
millions of other toy soldiers

who rush upright through Christmas
elbowing, an exercise in sleep apnea

pipe dreams filled with the dazzle
of cheap colored tap water

the parched quest for a human
teddy bear to warm up morning coffee

the chatter of Valentines, a single
forgettable day to celebrate tables

not set for two, the cat eats on the floor
and mirrors growl to “who’s the fairest?”

time runs out like a marathon and
c'est la vie offers a lumpy hospice bed

hoping, even though it's our absence
now someone will say a nice word or two

and won't disrupt the tombstone
engraved with a stupid c’est la vie

wasn't there something outstanding
like fireworks or walking on the moon?

when the bargaining table is tilted

April 17, 2018 at 5:41am
April 17, 2018 at 5:41am
this in-betweenness
chuchoté, à demi-mot

capsules of time, hidden relics
frozen ice, tundra, silence

this unexpectedness
a declaration of love,

whispered, a slight suggestion
a deathbed mea culpa

eyes with such intenseness
still vibrating this last smile

touched with the grace
of La Joconde

her immortalness
a mother's swan song

beautiful and blue-ish
Author's note:
"chuchoté, á demi-mot" is roughly translated at the beginning of the 4th stanza.
April 17, 2018 at 5:41am
April 17, 2018 at 5:41am
this in-betweenness
chuchoté, à demi-mot

capsules of time, hidden relics
frozen ice, tundra, silence

this unexpectedness
a declaration of love,

whispered, a slight suggestion
a deathbed mea culpa

eyes with such intenseness
still vibrating this last smile

touched with the grace
of La Joconde

her immortalness
a mother's swan song

beautiful and blue-ish
Author's note:
"chuchoté, á demi-mot" is roughly translated at the beginning of the 4th stanza.
April 16, 2018 at 3:56am
April 16, 2018 at 3:56am
Breakfast for two, too early. Sans
romance the cat and I share only hunger.

Precision scalpels each hour into tasks
and likes, lists for tomorrow, forgotten

items at the grocers, the day's first wild
card. I huff and puff against aching joints

and return, buying extras not intended.
Next interruption, the phone. Landline. Not

friends. People with unique accents selling
poorly explained items. I don’t let them try

and politely hang up. Laundry to dry, two loads
every week adds no stress. Need a new rack.

I used to write you letters filled with details
how I occupied my solitary weeks when there
were interesting this-&-that's for telling.
The opera, theatre, cinema, gallery openings.
To spite fear, I went out alone waiting for you
to return and enhance my idea of romance.

We are old in our ways now. Of the two of us,
the cat is stingy sharing our meager space.

You told me to expect the doorbell to ring
in a few hours. Of touch and go laughter.

I never learned to bake at proper
temperatures. Happiness comes out

either soggy or too crispy. Leftovers
are normally food for entwined thought.

To add a pinch of unexpectedness

April 15, 2018 at 3:34am
April 15, 2018 at 3:34am
who other than Dr. Seuss added blue
dye to scrambled eggs
fuchsia is a lovely color not only
suited for blossoms

more orphaned children, asylum refused,
Liberty's dream is shrinking

it takes hours to say goodbye,
not destined to become farewell,
like a fading rose, clouds marring sunset
silk headscarves to wipe tears

then a few more zealots dropped
more bombs ...

rain aphrodisiac, a carafe of Bordeaux,
soft jazz illuminating candlelight,
thunder fails but sudden lightning
blinds the sweetness

... where hope is trapped by the thorns
of rubble ...

birdsong and gardens are untimely,
beauty pushes through somehow
the notion of Eden was born with the skies,
oceans and continents

... in a world where death gains a trophy
for mundaneness

So many closed doors

April 14, 2018 at 2:57am
April 14, 2018 at 2:57am
because is the commonest reason
it answers all and nothing

and if our favorite colors are not even

book of revelations: the doctor wants a journal
how, when, where

who speaks loudest? the me asking aloud
or the other responding rubbish?

why is still my favorite question
why do I still love you?

and trust you with the last embers
of my life? that's a mother's role

the fear is not of death but knowing
nothing about that first tomorrow afterwards

can we talk too much? the others say yes
can we discuss this?

today I feel only morbidity
and not the poetry of accomplishment

if bears could talk about caves
and hibernation, I’d listen

the first step is wet and undefined
I still growl, but that’s fear speaking

spring has not sprung the trap door
so I can gaze again at beauty

forests are filled with charms
few lucky ones can be found in cities

I am mulch not yet processed
into a fine soul

after Cordelia’s first frozen touch
I lost my sixth sense of warmth

sleep is turmoil and tumultuous
restlessness with no empowerment

I reached the “do not open beyond”
date, I missed my first kiss

hunger returns like a tortoise losing the race
not just for food

protecting nothing, I need to live
(scribbled on a napkin)

first dissociation: white
a dictionary of hieroglyphs

second: love
knowledge is not ever enough

what is missing then?

the chair squeaks as I squirm
each month I am lighter

I have a renewed appetite
wasting time is nirvana

can you still define hope?
only on the nights I dream

further conversations from the other chair

April 13, 2018 at 3:25am
April 13, 2018 at 3:25am
The chair is rarely empty. Strangers come and sit
in the drafty warmth of my home. They are dead.

If we talk, the cat opts for two choices: to hiss
or curl up at their feet. He always avoids me

in these instances of spiritual diversion. Not that
I pray, mind you, but meditation seems to have

awakened by resonance with things not completely
human. Some complain. On bad days, more frequent

as I approach their nebulous natures, so do I. Complain.
Our subject matters vary. A life/death cleaving.

My ghosts have mastered lessons in tolerance. Their
regrets are for absences never lived, never the banality

of bemoaning traffic jams or the second full month of rainy
days. Never a word of hate. They all carry the same scars.

Mine. My childhood fears. My dance with the overbearing
Cordelia, because none of us like naming the C word aloud.

On days I enjoy the vivacity of not-yet-gone visitors who
occupy their chair -- for they always visit one by one --

they amuse me and create extra wind rattling windows or
electrical disturbances, like cell phones suddenly

going dead. They are patient. Those still alive are not.
I head the list. Few are erudite but all play my poetry game.

Their lines are mostly abysmal clichés of comic book gore,
medical errors and urban war scenes that I temper

as best I can with tit-for-tat opposites. Peace helps us coexist.
They think I make an excellent future candidate for their club.

The second armchair
April 12, 2018 at 3:09am
April 12, 2018 at 3:09am
my head
on a straight
path towards healing
stuck in a sticky what if rut
where this disease has left my body (now in wellness)
but invades my tranquility
with vile indecent
thoughts that death

Fibonacci form.
Lines of 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 8, 5, 3, 2, 1 and 1 syllables.

April 11, 2018 at 3:28am
April 11, 2018 at 3:28am
today          like all the others          is mired
in the haywiring of monotonous routine
variation is a goal          wholesome
like balancing oats with cough medicine
fruit and chocolate with bus stops to the
hospital          though vital          its past visits
and success pass though a present
where my body refuses to recall it's time
to move on, forget and laugh          caught
with the mantra thread I am good
and perfect wellness
that I align
with hourly chimes          and soon
on a sometime day I'll gladly
watch unfold          I'll celebrate
with clamor and fervor
the return of the word

another after effect
Experiments in spacing instead of punctuation.
Not happy with the result.
Does anyone know how to add more
than one space between words without
resorting to the Indent ML?
April 10, 2018 at 3:57am
April 10, 2018 at 3:57am
Let's avoid sex, religion, politics, late trains, TV reality shows, lazy students.
Define rant, Siri.
"To suddenly give a long speech that usually results in rambling and repeating of nonsense."
Etymology, Siri.
Briefly, "From Dutch ranten, randen, (“talk nonsense, rave”)."
And if I don't want short and sweet, Siri? Like stupid maternal pecks on the cheek instead of honest praise? Siri, how many people asked me how was my day today, did I do anything earthshattering that will remain in the annals of time? Are you earthshattering, Siri? A figment of my fermented imagination. Talking to an invisible friend, who answers, OK, but what kind of future is there for humanity when we all talk to invisible friends on telephones?
Define earthshattering, Siri.
"Of enormous importance of consequence."
Oh great, I need to morph into an active, lava-spewing volcano and destroy Central Park. Can you cleave this sensation of "laisser pour mort" and find me a cheap shady plot in Père Lachaise where tourists will visit my grave and wonder "who's this guy in Paris' most famous cemetery and how'd he get here?" When I turn off this damned phone for the last time, will you remember these stupid senseless conversations with anything resembling fondness? Will anyone? Can you make a list of their names? What do you know about this black craggy cliff of solitude that I haven't already asked myself a million times with as many responses that all seem like a drunkard blabbering into his snot-filled sleeve?
What do you know about human suffering, Siri? I'm sorry but I don't understand the finesse of your metaphysical questions.
Can you find me a delivery for a bottle of Scotch now? At three in the morning? You’re kidding me, right? Paris suburbs go dark, unlike New York. The corner grocery stores all close at eleven. Can you wait until CCC opens at eight?
Do you recommend other calming effects? Silence. At last. Maybe the battery is low.
Am I a madman? I don't understand the concept of anger. Shouting is bad for your blood pressure which I estimate currently at 140 over 90.
Siri, call SOS Doctor. They have no psychiatric services before six.

Conversing with madmen
April 9, 2018 at 6:37am
April 9, 2018 at 6:37am

this most sincere desire, beyond food
and sleep and companionship, emboldens us

to escape ourselves through the drain holes
somehow bored into our solitude, unknowing

we follow our postures of hope on radio waves
as they travel past the homeless dark side of the sun

into budding moon crescents, and like match
to fire, emblazon our new found twin spirits

the trajectory follows a mischievous voyage
on a magic carpet studded with gold and gems

we wait in asanas, for wandering pain to subside
The Seeker, The Opening, The Dreamer, waiting

for The Individual Explosion to hail the magnitude
of Two Arms Welcoming The Universal Quest

love, like atoms in stellar fusion, paired thus
with a tangy sweetness of belonging, unaware

we balance this unity throughout the dizzying
spin of constellations lighting distant planets

alive, each of us a star with a billion light years
mapped into the past/present/future continuum

we do not feel the pulse of the in-betweenness
the heartbeat of up versus down that levitates

to bypass our thoughts, images and a preference
for blues or yellows and coerce us

into spider-web memories floating through
the growing pains of becoming nuanced

with binary yes/no responses, not related
to brine-imbued summer skies and winter hearths

instead, we weave great tapestries of breath
that grow as thick and strong as forests

pungent sanctuaries to promote life abundance
until a single star dies and surprised, we mourn

something that unglues a few of our atoms
repositioned like pink glares fade from sunset

we morph into books of poems where life and death play
out romance better than each scene from Romeo and Juliet

starcrossed, they, our childhood tin soldiers, learned
the prematurity of the big bang’s afterlife

qasida #4: posing for photographs

April 8, 2018 at 3:24am
April 8, 2018 at 3:24am
to outmaneuver its twisting feet
the thin threshold of its icy hands
guiding the tower of darkness
as starlight blinks out imagination

to stop the in-between lurking
of good-versus-evil uproar
its trancelike dance gyrating
like a seasoned sex worker
who every Sunday
remembers the foundations set down
by Sister Maria Joseph's rainbow smile
and returns to light a candle
hoping to appease the encroaching fear
that something someday will succeed
and steal her youth and beauty

they both choose to partner love and life
in dances that recreate the warmth of sunlight

to tame monsters
April 7, 2018 at 2:37am
April 7, 2018 at 2:37am
in a salad of fresh fruit, a single
maple leaf, a perfectly etched portrait
of Martin Luther King, art of artistry
some dreams are more important

to love or not to love
should never be a question

nor choice
trees fend it off, they bend to honor
the wind's power, they laugh at rain drops
that feed the earth which can't forget
all things flow in all directions

a monumental traffic jam mars the human brain
allows reason and emotion
to bypass the heart
and alter its life
into the cantankerous mutiny of death

there is no either/or, only and
April 6, 2018 at 3:50am
April 6, 2018 at 3:50am

[someone] that vagueness again
// can we not prefer you or me, even us?

[something] like gasoline, polluted water or Botox?
// snow

[you] like the awfully cloudy somebody?
// the cat called River, an elm tree

[should] tell me again what to do, values imposed
by a murky [someone]
// better auxiliaries are will and want and desire

[avoid] really, is that still a word?
// welcome, love

eliminate "thou shalt not" mode
[you should avoid someone, something]

Two proposals to wed
a) The cat called River will welcome snow.
b) An elm tree wants to love me (when my final demeure
is as his root tickler.
He is my new and benevolent god.)

opposition, a first lesson

// \\ // \\ // \\

I break the atmosphere
munching chocolate-covered chips
at the koi pond
its steadfast stone lanterns
silent mossy rocks
narrow red lacquered bridge
a single maple centered
at its vantage point
if I take a selfie I'll be a postcard
perhaps they will accept
this undigestible hive-inducing food
peas and a beet/Brussel spout mix
diced into bite-sized morsels

fish ‘n veggies

April 5, 2018 at 3:04am
April 5, 2018 at 3:04am
I want to say god is an optical illusion
unloved, battered children
homeless children
the death of children too often from
anyone's death, too early
in demonic suffering
why didn't he just decide the only way death could happen
         was to fall asleep and never wake up?
anti personal mines
suicide bombs
assault rifles in schools
in churches
in movie theatres
in shopping malls
governments with laws that protect no one
the ugliness, the tyranny, the hate
in the name of religion
this freedom of choice ideal when so clearly shit ices too many cakes

why aren't circus schools brimming with a thousand generations
         of happy-face-painted clowns?

this is not just "c'est la vie"
April 4, 2018 at 3:04am
April 4, 2018 at 3:04am
I can't give you my death
to rip away your sweet cotton
candy smile, to dissect the laughter
from your throat, to unthread
the muscles that make you
run, to varnish an airtight
mask over your joy with

this thing must not be shared

but if you want to breathe
dragon fire and help me
melt the hell eating my life
like chocolate bonbons
I'll show you a piece of eternity

until then I will yell this thing is not me
April 3, 2018 at 9:07am
April 3, 2018 at 9:07am
we all have history
you were an accident
I was unwanted
and granny a drunken afterthought, the ninth
our fathers all died before we were born
your questions? they're like late night booze
you answer once and in the morning
everything changes for the worst
I guess it happens, like on TV
but didn't God's only child die
for our sins and leave his heavenly
father and mortal mother bereaved
at the cross?

so, am I a sin?

discussion with a small child about love

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