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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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| 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. |
| 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. |
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. |
| 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. |
| 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. |
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. |
| 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. |
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. |
| 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? |
| 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? |
| 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. |
| 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. |
| 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. |
| 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. |
| 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. |
| 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. |
| 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. |
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. |
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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