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 |  a journal with poems written on the fly without much ado |
 Just a journal with everyday verse mushrooming all over Read at your own risk. The poems here are of personal nature, more about me and of what is around me than those in other books and folders. They are usually written in a very short time with practically  no poetic intent.
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| Morning Deluge I awake to the tatting drums of a deluge, crushing a thousand forests as my hands shake remembering your warmth and my blushing face since of all the storms of my life this one is the fiercest. --- At the Capitol Heavy jowls, thunderous voices pursed lips, all the yeas and nays banging gavel and fists to the imperious waves of enormous heads all that jazz! Except, just don't expect any miracles! --- Full Moon That moping ancient lantern riding high in the sky its distance not a problem for transmission of moonbeams while under it, sedately, without looking back, you tiptoed away in your archaic garb like new wine in old bottle and I, the baffled, unobtrusive woman trailed after you a few paces behind, until you ordered firmly, "Don't follow me, anymore!" |
| “can’t stop the feeling” for you, my magic genie, you dance and dance electric, wavy, and too close your brilliance brimming melting the stars in my galaxy spreading the sky in flurried flames while I try, flying high, to keep up with you, my magic genie, “can’t stop the feeling” ==== Prompt: Justin Timberlane's "can't stop the feeling" |
| On the narrow path west, cool wind, fast moving Cirrus high above the flat land facing the pool, as I walk round about the stone circle like the Druids administering spells for the dark halves of my days, listening to stories stones tell of beings that wilted away due to overcrowding inside such a tiny place, my weed-covered flower bed surrounded by stones. My head lowered in shame, I plead guilty. |
| Surfing my dreams over artistic waves in white berets, I dip, slide, splash. With symbols trivial listening to no rule yet, demanding respect, in the dark of the night such discreet puzzles my dreams... |
| When you look away... not even a savage sky to brave as refuge |
| .I. “Shut up, Bobby Lee,” The Misfit said. “It’s no real pleasure in life.” Ending of A Good Man Is Hard To Find by Flannery O’Connor Hear the big idea bubble, the lightning flash inside your head? How can you with closed eyes, limp hands, and snores like steam engines? When you wake, the pain will soak in, and you’ll grieve your broken heart, your nightmare’s hints. Being the misfit that you are, you’ll wonder if it’ll be worth it, this struggle to remember what dreams tried to tell. .II. The wake itself remains, etched out across the water’s surface; then it fades as well, although no one is there to see it go. Ending of The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald You pushed too hard, I’d say feeling the weight, as the current took you. Between liquor and youth, you threw it away in a flicker, instead of singing in the sun, just to avoid searching how to awaken and listen to your heart. .III. “Lastly, she pictured to herself how this same little sister of hers would, in the after-time, be herself a grown woman; and how she would keep, through all her riper years, the simple and loving heart of her childhood; and how she would gather about her other little children, and make their eyes bright and eager with many a strange tale, perhaps even with the dream of Wonderland of long ago; and how she would feel with all their simple sorrows, and find a pleasure in all their simple joys, remembering her own child-life, and the happy summer days.” Ending of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll When you and I shared midnight giggles in our kiddie pajamas, who’d know we’d soon leave our magic funhouse in the wonderland of lands and omit looking through time’s telescope into future… Later on, we perched on verandas with babes on our laps to forget the other side of the moon so dark, and today, we still smile together at grandkids at play. Awesome, isn’t it sipping Earl Grey, spurting the liquid out in a sudden burst of laughter? .IV. “Yes,” I said. “Isn’t it pretty to think so?” Ending of The Sun Also Rises by Hemingway Isn’t it pretty to think so like the boy who believed he could fly then fell off a tree, breaking his arm? I wonder what he thought, at the instant when rotting leaves and damp earth stuck to his face and extremities. Fearing mutilation for life, how he cried in pain two hours later, amidst the cracking sound—crystal-like-- and the stench of medicine when the bone was set. You’d think he’d lose his swagger afterwards, but other illusions strayed in the back of his mind past wisdom or light. Another noise rang in his ears, sending a powerful shudder through my spine, and another omen surfaced from his tectonic plates to quake my calm existence. |
Where are you going, tiny winged seed? You transplant yourself, hoping for utopia when, at best, you might land on pebbles and dirt, then stay for the love of sun. |
| First try, scared. Mistakes, yes, failure, no. Same curve repeats beginning, end, the grind. This will be like holding the moon in my hands and not knowing what to do with it. I remind me of latitude. direction, anti-gravity, unrestraint, hunger, and I lean on other shoulders. Funny, how some fears take years to accept... |
| Inability A part of me wants what I cannot have, like the emptying of my heart, cleaning of all spills known or unknown, and the uttering of words I should have said. On the other hand, I know for sure that all misfortunes cannot be contained. |
| Sci -Fi I wrote Sci-Fi as if thousands of suns burst apart and a new spectrum, a harsh light, confused my universe, or as if the traffic of mind found an alternate route for the intergalactic travel, but a raw universe is nothing to take for granted since this neophyte has discovered fracture rips in her new truth. |
| The Dressmaker's Bust The dressmaker's mannikin is a bust without a head, limbs, and feet; more matter than mind. Matter or mind, to strike up a conversation, nothing is too small for me. What if the mannikin spoke? I bet it would chide me. " Just a chest with a heart will do; can you say the same thing for yourself?" |
| Same Spot When a child, my shoes always got holes under them at the same spots. It was the way I stepped, the doctor said. so they restrained my feet in kiddie boots with laces all the way to my ankles, but that didn't help even if I learned how to tie things up. Now in my sixth decade, I step the old faulty way, putting holes in everything except the shoes, |
| She Let Her Garden Go She let her garden go to the weeds, rising over her head, to the moss and the mildew, invading the stone walls, as she sat among the reeds because her world fell for he just couldn't listen to what she was saying. Missed He gave her the moon then took it back and hid it behind the clouds. Poor fellow! In the dark of the night, he missed her curtsy as she left for good. |
Kudzu Kudzu, here you remain suspended and wait, hanging in all your hideous independence. No water, no roots, you get everything you need from the air. Unfortunately, for me, poems do not come from the air. |
| Venus Night sky…Venus on the East like desire, standing put and coming back again night after night, altering her position just a bit, as if repelling risk. Its light, the brightest. Yet, in the neighboring houses, one foolish person coils in smoke; another hides in his Scotch, not understanding the eyes of the night sky, watching us, Venus threading her way with the luster of hope. On Holidays Some of us do weep on holidays, some as they search some as they wait for those who’ll never come. For the lonely and the lost celebration is pain with a savage taste. Yet, memories strike like lightning, melting iron fences, and we hold hands, smiling through tears. Reflection The colors you spot in front of you reflect your colors, and the farther you can see, the wiser you are. The sum of your years may lead you to the end but life will expand as large as you have loved. Behind You Where the sidewalks curve at each corner, tenements like giants, their windows blinded by dark curtains, will fill you with fear drop by drop. You’ll walk fast without turning to look back toward the place where pitch black begins as if you’ll catch me there. The sound of your footsteps will amplify in the night adding mystery to your mystery and you’ll search for me without grasping that I’ll always walk behind you. Learning To see the arc of the backyard, I climb a tree, feeling like Tarzan. The ants are tigers; a caterpillar turns into a caiman. And I swing, holding on to a branch four feet above the ground, with a savage cry to tumble in a heap, to end up bawling, with scraped knees. Sixty years later, not much has changed; I still fall from high and low, except my wild self knows how to rise again. |
| On the Starbucks Line "Double shot espresso and two chocolate grahams, please!" Complete with adrenaline, I listen to the orders as I wait for the seven in front of me, and not care about waiting, a fool so pitiful, but Banana Frapuccino and my net-book are chums; plus, the young man in front of me-who said, "The name's Felix"- is trying to pick up the girl with crimson curls in front of him. Then the woman with long sleeves sitting at the table to the left signals to the grey-haired man in summer shorts and flip flops behind me, mouthing "Mocha Latte!" Stacked in line, I mark my spot and claim territory; so afterwards, I may compete for an empty circular table, flinging my knapsack on top of it. My Table Technique tangoes with the pace of the stampede, since a stranglehold on a table can be as tricky as the brew, and so I shall act when my order is filled. For now, toward the end of my life, with a steaming cup in my hand, I can promise nothing to no one. |
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