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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/books/item_id/830415-Mushrooms-Splinters-and-Thorns/sort_by/entry_order DESC, entry_creation_time DESC/page/2
by Joy
Rated: 18+ · Book · Women's · #830415
a journal with poems written on the fly without much ado
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Just a journal
with everyday verse
mushrooming all over

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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 *Laugh* no poetic intent.
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October 13, 2009 at 6:45pm
October 13, 2009 at 6:45pm
#671618
Haiku

a moment before
there could be another life
now your chance is gone


Seaweed

Seaweed on the rock's crust
swishing around
within the upside down reflections
of grey hair
and eyes like olives.
One woman wondering how to
shape-shift into sea-grapes
and reflecting upon herself,
a reflection
all mine.


Buses

I rode the buses once
and watched the traffic outside
stop and start,
from their windows.
When rain conquered the city
and the land swam,
fat black wheels doled out mud
from the puddles
to the pedestrians,
to bestow upon them
the dirt of the streets.
When snows came,
buses slid backwards
and riders twitched
like caged cheetahs;
yet, akin to mystics,
they sat with frozen gazes
until the next stop, and
after they got off,
the fragments of their lives
washed out on me,
glinting like broken glass.
Now, when I visit the city,
the buses pass me by
their headlights like searchlights,
but they do not spot me
on the sidewalk
with mud on my coat.
October 13, 2009 at 6:41pm
October 13, 2009 at 6:41pm
#671616
Driver

I am the driver
fighting off sleep
on a lonely highway.
I look in the rearview mirror
and I notice
my mussed up hair
that only obeyed the wind
and my bloodshed eyes
like binoculars
peering into
the long distances
I have left behind.
It is no hard science
to see I am a woman,
a fact my mother
omitted to tell,
but still, I sit up straight
and drive on.



He Who Doesn't Hear

He doesn't hear me.
He just doesn't hear
anybody, but
he listens
with his sense of touch,
feeling the stones
and the thorns
on my path.
He tastes my ramblings
and tells me if
they are sweet or sour.
He observes the colors
inside me,
inside my liver, my heart,
with the kind of dedication
only I could imagine.
October 13, 2009 at 6:39pm
October 13, 2009 at 6:39pm
#671615


Thoughts Wide and Far

No end to the cosmos, the galaxies, the stars
or no end to the black holes that could take you
on an infinite journey, but you never think of these things
when you eat, sleep, go to work, have children,
lose a job, find a job, fight or make peace.
There may exist one universe or many, it does not matter
since there is only you, no one like you, and
you may as well be more than you
or you may not be who you think you are.
October 13, 2009 at 6:38pm
October 13, 2009 at 6:38pm
#671614
Family House

We do not replay errors
or hide inside a bubble under water.
We do not dine in candlelight
or dry ourselves with designer towels,
but we make love to our memories
locked inside our poetry in a hutch
that opens to a desk that opens
us to each other. Then,
we pass the nights, back and forth,
as if sipping beer
from the same cup,
rejoicing in how
we built our family house.

Unspoken

A ghost paces the room at night,
drifting away from the truth
like the wind that tears the sails
off a boat suffering a vague existence.

A ghost floats at night when
a dark moon hides its eyes
like a tiger waiting until dark to hunt
on the other side of unspoken words.


A Greeting of Sorts

You found out about the stalking
a sense of fear overtook your heart
my voice floated like a storm cloud,
"Hehehe! Hello. Jim Willis—are you scared?"

Then, with my hook tearing into you,
you turned, but could not find the courage to flee;
then brutal vultures from nowhere
descended upon your mind.

Down you sat, and your bleeding heart,
decided to take whatever I might
bestow unto you for no other talent
you ever had, and with a half smile

You acknowledged my greeting
that, like a plough, I had driven into you
akin to the words I stabbed you with.
You nodded back, something like consent.

October 13, 2009 at 6:36pm
October 13, 2009 at 6:36pm
#671613
Beach

When the young woman appears,
like a shadow in an empty mirror,
the breeze on salty water
brings in the sea foam
on to the sandy beach.
To her, turquoise waves,
dunes, gulls, crustaceans,
all speak of the same thing,
and she kneels and digs
beneath the sand
for sea shells and memories,
something to keep for eternity,
something that floats and glides
far over the horizon
to the other side of the ocean
where warplanes burn,
rumbling, roaring,
high into the red sun,
where the one who left
does not hear the surf anymore.
March 9, 2007 at 10:38am
March 9, 2007 at 10:38am
#493685
Today

Today is a gift;
Today you bought me “Amore”
the CD of my desires.

My happiness tonight is not
because of the CD,
but because of your
pulling the moon down
to light up my heart.

March 8, 2007 at 9:14am
March 8, 2007 at 9:14am
#493357

Night Letters
.I.
How terrible to fear the darkness
when night opens old notebooks
in giddy intensity?

No doubt dismal dreams
spilling over wrinkled pillowcases
invite deeper examination of self
or an avalanche of denials.

Yet, Yours Truly here, possessing a pencil,
diminishes the white space on sheets
and calls it night’s poetry.

The pleasure, if any,
aside from complacency,
could be communication
with the thing inside
for I am my only real audience.


.II

I thought I saw a shooting star somewhere around where
the bears dipped down and a night bird sang
in tuneful confirmation of one fragmented moment
--I am not sure existed-- like the time when
one hot word after another left his lips
sounding like my name.

.III.
Once in a park, at night, we tangled as lovers,
unfurling certainty and brave flesh; although we
never knew what was needed to last a lifetime.

The naked branches of the winter trees
must have blessed us, then; because, forty years later,
our fingers’ shriveled tips still touch
as we sleep side by side like seeds
about to burst open with the full moon.

.IV.

I don’t care anymore when people protest when I make
a mistake. This is guaranteed: I’ll always make mistakes
and the protestors will come after me with their silence
or with their savage words, not knowing I now possess
the hush of a ghost, a night ghost, who doesn’t care
where she haunts.
See, I am determined to go through walls
with my back full of knives.

.V.

Why this hurt
-akin to night fears-
visits me so often?

So far away you are
in the next state,
and our no-more home
turns into a crate-like edifice
tacked down by the loss
of grown up children.

Broken off my stem,
we chased after them
through light years of distances,
without looking over
our shoulders;
even, while knowing
they’ll never be back.



“A moment that changed your life.”

I remember the red dissolving the edges of her eyes, as her gaze locked into mine. The tears swelled, trickling out on her cheeks, drifting on to her ebon dress; she wiped them with the scarf that covered her hair. When she opened her lips and spilled out her whiny words, my heart grew hard and thorny. I felt she was campaigning for my true involvement, but I resisted in disbelief, all kinds of suspicious things tossing and turning inside my head, cramming this moment into the vault of my mind for the safe keeping of one bulging fact she uttered. My grandmother was telling me of my father’s demise; of the bullets in his brain, not by other hands or by accident.

Family Feud (Maya's Poem - from a novel to be)

She appeared at the playground out of nowhere
just to see me --the mother of my father-- after he died,
not by accident. I remembered Nana telling me
to run away and hide from her, but there was nowhere to go.
So I played leap frog and jumped into her view, just like
a mistake that can’t be hidden, me being the mistake.
I was glad to have seen my grandmother
one last time,

but when this was found out,
Nana’s claws tore at my seven-year old body.
I still can’t understand, how she expected me
to vanish from view just like that.
And the feud continued all our lives.
When there was no Papa to fight over,
they resurrected me in his place to tear apart
like vultures fighting over a carcass.
But I was not a carcass.
They never saw that.


January 22, 2007 at 9:33am
January 22, 2007 at 9:33am
#482890
Cold Dawn

The sun drills holes in the skyline
for tipsy lights to swagger in,
and I wake up from dreams
destined to be untold.
I will hide them in the dumpsters
and cover them with amnesia
so they don't reek.
Nothing captures me today
although I could do a million things
to betray any illusion
on the horizon.
January 1, 2007 at 1:19pm
January 1, 2007 at 1:19pm
#478297

My hand that holds the champagne glass trembles, and I spill a few drops of some precious liquid. We all say, "Happy new year!" And drink some more. I am not a drinker, between spilling and acting as if I am drinking, I am trying to make it to the morning. "Think of something nice, something of importance, so you find it in 2007," someone suggests. I think of a night of shooting stars, the lapis lazuli realm of old mountains, walking after a full moon, and…I open my eyes to my husband saying, "Food glorious food, what else can one wish for?" "Everything else," I think, but I don't say it.
My mind wanders and I think of writing, poetry, pictures of mountains and rivers. A friend's studies in engravings. The golden Aspen with white pencil-thin trunks swaying in the autumn breeze…All that jazz that goes with being human. I pour a cup of Chianti for someone who prefers Chianti to Champagne. She thanks me and says something I equate with a Zen koan.
Most anything people say becomes a riddle for me anyway. Luckily, no one has started talking about Bush, yet. My husband always steers the conversation away from unpleasant stuff. Maybe he is afraid that I'll hide under a table or something.
Crowd, eating and yakking. If I did really hide away, who is going to serve the food? "Glorious Food!" A la Charles Dickens, recalling "Oliver!" on stage in my son's school, after which we traipsed the school grounds in the dark.

October 3, 2006 at 9:05am
October 3, 2006 at 9:05am
#458858
Insomnia (Not Mine but His)

3 AM, taps…bladder duty!
I wake up to find the spot
next to me, empty,
bed covers tossed aside.
I wonder what dragged my lion
out of the dream jungle.
Was it a yen for a mouthful of gin?
I capture you in the next room, watching
TV with sound off, captions on.
It used to be, when we were both awake,
we'd dedicate the night into
stashing away kisses
to give us wings to a paradise aflame.
Nowadays, the question is:
Are you okay, or is this
your normal weirdness?



October 2, 2006 at 2:52am
October 2, 2006 at 2:52am
#458600
Dreams

Dreams reign in underhanded ways
inside the cavernous structure
of mind's geography, where salt
and water create a bottomless ocean
on which a frolicsome zephyr
can cause artistic wrinkles;
so, waves,
bobbing and weaving,
can come back from the depths
to bond with the sand
and craft a poetry of tides.


~I rhyme when I'm silly.~

Defense

Yesterday, feeling as heavy and gross as a ton,
my toes hit the pavement for a ten-feet run.
Some blisters, chronic cough, asthma on cue,
I rely on hubby's rapid relief and rescue.

I do not gravitate to “No pain, no gain,”
my defense rests smugly in “No pain, no pain.”
Exercise sits inside a dusty videotape;
you see, I'm already in shape. Isn’t “round” a shape?


October 1, 2006 at 9:42am
October 1, 2006 at 9:42am
#458408
I have an idea for a novel and also I have another novel waiting to be finished in my port. In this level, however, we are going to write a little over 10,000 words. I would like to start and finish something in one month. I can't do NaNo; November is too busy a month for me. I'll save the NaNo idea for later. I think, here, I'll just write from prompts or whatever pops up inside my head. Now and then, I may write some poetry. In the beginning, poetry will be okay since the word count is so low.

February 25, 2005 at 9:00pm
February 25, 2005 at 9:00pm
#330687
Dolphins

When oceans whisper tales,
you dream dolphin dreams
and swim through life
with grace and compassion,
yet so free, almost restless.

My heart heals itself
and beats amazed
with the thought of you,
your track of love
expanding
from top to bottom
over the earth.

From the depths
of quiet moments,
from insides of a blessing,
spurting droplets
as pearls of wisdom,
you leap into the mist
to touch the sky.


Your Substance

Ossified into a rut,
you think in your reckless fashion,
“My dowdy shadow is my substance.”

Then you endeavor frumpishly
to promote that two-dimensional shape,
while the precious pearl
sits inside the shell.

No wonder you’re cooped up
inside a confusion.

Pizza

Apposed to its overseas kin
I could argue
-here in USA-
even the décor
inside the aphotic trattoria
augments its aroma,
even if, the pie is limp,
complex, chewy,
too arranged,
and the real thing is
fresh, simple, rigid,
with a delicate crust.

Blessed with profound affinity
and deep insight into the subject,
I can safely say
that the apparent difference
is in the tomatoes;
still, my taste favors
the familiar
with a low blow to my vanity.

February 24, 2005 at 6:19pm
February 24, 2005 at 6:19pm
#330485
In the Woods

No news from the affairs of the world
and no signs of anyone,
but the shimmering silk rays of the sun
threading their way through branches
to witness a million hues…
and marching with the seasons,
bird songs
like markers of time;
so I can still sit
on the same log
-inside my mind-
with forest all around me
thick and green,
to find my place
as a person who lost her way,
shattering words
for the sake of poetry,
to cause a rebellion
among true poets.


Fireplace

Passage of time
with reminiscences
of the bits and pieces of living
flickers
like a fading fire
towards the camera lens
within me,
like a sip of warm tea
for my thirsting soul,
as reflections soldered together
with my clichéd words,
and time stands hand-cuffed,
while I still breathe and blink
at the ashes
in my fireplace.

February 23, 2005 at 9:23pm
February 23, 2005 at 9:23pm
#330258
Dust Devil

The dust has to blow
in frenzy,
one way or another,
going in circles,
swirling,
like everything
nervous
about fading away.


Dust

Don’t choke poetry with dust,
for dust shuffles
through the air,
falling and rising softly
like a con artist
working his way
into your goods.

Form your eyes in slits
and look into a sunlight,
not to see the dust,
but to see your dreams.



February 15, 2005 at 4:06pm
February 15, 2005 at 4:06pm
#328588
Dance of the Minuscule

Once in a while.
in a dream of this earth,
I see myself as an ant
or maybe a moth,
just a tiny wave of life
lured by the aroma of devotion,
adept at experiencing one flame,
with an all-pervading joy
through joys of many.
And my dance knows no void
or loneliness,
before or after
its existence


Sparks

Although the quote says: “Man is born unto trouble, as the sparks fly upward” (Job v. 7), there is a very upbeat side to sparks.

Sometimes, the tiniest thing can spark a huge life changing event, just as a spark can change into a fire: a fire that purifies, a fire that kindles perfectly positive things.

Did you ever notice how a spark trembles? The spark trembles not out of fear but out of joy for its momentary life, and in hope for what it may start.

By definition, a spark is a flicker, a delight, a momentary flash of light. Sparks often happen after two objects are rubbed together. The rubbing gives an electric charge to both objects. Sometimes a spark is produced by the jumping of electricity across a permanent gap. That kind of a spark is called a jump spark.

A spark can be a lover or a flash of insight that may make a person sparkle within. A spark alone is transient light, but when it catches flame, it can last forever.

A spark is a feeble germ: an inspiration, a first word in a poem, an indication of humor, a start of an idea or an interest that can kindle into action, into posterity.

If a spark can be an inspiration, where does inspiration come from? Inspiration comes during times of purity or internal silence, when the mind and the heart is purely focused in our awareness, when the intellect rubs with an outside suggestion or when the soul can delve into a universal source open to all human beings.

Even when we are far from the ultimate source, sparks are sent flying our way all the time. Those sparks are jump sparks. When such a spark hooks into the profound nature present in all of us, it draws us closer to our essential being, kindling a significance that expands beyond its boundaries, from the concrete to the abstract or, once in a while, vice versa. When that spark starts the fire, there is shift in our consciousness in order to connect to distinct and fascinating ideas or objects.

To ignore a spark is to ignore our higher nature. One moment can spark a song; one word can spark a poem; one smile can ignite a friendship; one embrace can lift a soul; one thought can start a prayer. One person can change the world.


February 14, 2005 at 3:41pm
February 14, 2005 at 3:41pm
#328387
Fire Hydrant

One single universe
screaming in red
of diminutive stature.

In your arms
you hold life
like a secret.

When
your time comes,
sirens will wail and
moan with yearning
for the reward
of your waiting.

February 13, 2005 at 12:35pm
February 13, 2005 at 12:35pm
#328158
Sandhill Cranes

up making noise, that’s all.

Tearing away the morning mist,
sunrise from the east,
the flame of life,
perfection divined,
in spring-scented symmetry.

Heralded by hyacinths,
the joy of the soul
teasing reason,
on hope’s meaning.

The passion of being born,
pre-curser to pain,
stretched along a lifetime,
from mortals expecting
love everlasting,
as if flying in dreams.

Yet, the only thing predictable
is change,
to be met with humor,
through the choreography of living,
without any rehearsals,
in a heartless world.

The intent, no doubt,
is to be human,
but to be like a bird as well,
a prophetic beauty
sailing in the shifting wind,
without flaunting
arrogance.


Dreams

What are dreams anyway?
When we are too tired to walk,
they are those that carry us
on their backs
and they enter into
every place,
even the stone chambers of the heart,
so, we can clutch on to them
as if life savers.
Dreams are the mirrors we look into
to witness
the beauty of it all,
if the wind catches our fancy
and ripples it
for savoring,
even if
for a short moment.



February 12, 2005 at 7:25pm
February 12, 2005 at 7:25pm
#328050

Searching for Power

Strolling down a midnight beach,
damp shadows among the dunes,
each owned by the night,
nostalgic for lost power.
One crystal on a golden chain,
a useless venture in the dark,
stubborn pebbles etch through the soles,
salt-water, a nocturnal cure.

The rudder of thoughts steer
creeping words from the deep,
lining up, in defiance
against suggestive sleep.
Boneless waves on sand,
confidence clad in black,
silenced visions crawl between sheets,
while recurring dreams blindfold.

As light and shade rotate,
life to a full circle comes.
A soul’s greater than zodiac’s shield
if forgiving nature hangs on.
A straw in the wind, a stray spark,
when a reddish star ridicules,
a hollow lie, a dizzy rambler.
For perfection, we’re made fools.


February 10, 2005 at 4:55pm
February 10, 2005 at 4:55pm
#327672

A Tale Rewound

Twisting the embolic knob
on an aged short-wave radio,
she listens with
bliss, brute and thorny,
loving her wounds
fed through old tunes.

A stone-carved image
she buried
-as if a corpse-
inside her charity plot,
covered with pansies
like explosives.

Now, fluent only in tears,
she's comfy with
tyrannical regret,
since it is the power
behind the throne
where the heart rules,
when common sense
isn't that common.


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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/books/item_id/830415-Mushrooms-Splinters-and-Thorns/sort_by/entry_order DESC, entry_creation_time DESC/page/2