Poetry/Prose

From Now On

Photo credit: Mine

Photo credit: Mine “Red Woman” (Salvador Dali’s house in Figueres, Spain, holds this, one of his works)

(This is from a writing prompt, issued through the Write Yourself Alive workshop I am participating in this month–today we were instructed to write a poem without punctuation, then take the words and punctuate them–I have always found the enter key a statement in itself.)

Just give me a chance

to feel you might

lose myself

in your voice

and the workings

of that windmill

channeling air

into water

that drips

into shadowy cracks

of dry bread soils

my soylent green

it’s made out of people

Charlton Heston said

to a wave of high-minded

stoned

seventies fans … of cinema?

back in time

when it wasn’t so good

but now we see

what it was worth

and the sublime

curls its fingers

around now

as I turn again to you

ask if you are ready

for an adventure

of such proportion

that nobody would believe it

if we told them

and we mayn’t even believe

when it starts

so hold onto your hat, they say

if you are, indeed

ready

or not

here I can’t turn away

not just yet

because we need time

to taste this, don’t we

feel it suck away the past

and blow it out the other end

as a field

of frosting-colored flowers

that taste to the eyes

like the childhood sweets

that drove our obsessions

yet nourish our soul

like that last bite of food

our mother murmured

a wish for us to finish

this could be

an endless stream of reasons

that cools every passion

washing life’s driftwood to shore

to start fires that burn

in sequence

forever

this is not an invitation from me

it springs from life itself

and I just can’t hold it back

this advertisement

because we may have always known

every day of disappointment

or a triumph

in those moments

when we would be walking

pause

and scream in silence

“where are you for gods’ sake!”

and whisper

“where are you”

and whimper

sometimes through tears

“where are you”

the one who seeded this desire in us

and made us crazy with a hunger

and rarely panic

that we may not find us

in this lifetime

before peace

in knowing

we would be worth waiting for

a million lifetimes to find

and if this life is just a spec

let us polish our journeys

to recognize each other

someday

so you, here, now

just let me know if …

and maybe

just give me a chance to lose myself

if you did

in fact

I would have to say

next to nothing

from now on

next to nothing

from now on

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Poetry/Prose

No Time for Tea Time, Mouse Man

tiny tea time

I’m not afraid of you, my Sally-friended member

So take apart that gaping, rusty sword

And join me for a cup of tea

Before the world explodes

From the furious wick

You lit on the night

Of the first temptation

Of true love

Nobody wanted you

That’s all you wanted

When someone actually did

So I’m not afraid of you, my sorry-faced man hater

Oh, and just kidding about the tea

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Poetry/Prose

Because Sugar is Sweet

Image courtesy: rarityguide.com

Image courtesy: rarityguide.com

We all have to let go

Of our religion

Someday

 

The candyland that bred us

Birthed and licked us

With its sugary tongue

Must melt

 

The way we thought we dreamed

Must succumb

To a bigger fantasy

 

When I say I’m happy to see you

I tell the truth

 

When you ask me if I love you

I go silent

Not because I don’t know

But because I know

And so do you

 

It’s so much bigger than that

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Poetry/Prose, Sugar Free

Derby

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Propositions

Emails

Innuendo

 

Rising into the sky

A joint venture

Until it’s not

Anymore

 

Hired

But …

I didn’t sign anything

Wait a second

 

Why are French kisses

French?

And the contract’s

In Arabic

And your thoughts

In Spanish

Or whatever

I almost learned

 

And my music

In English

Or German

Or Dutch

Or Italian

Or anything

 

Except what you can hear

 

Feelings

Sometimes

 

What will it mean

In a thousand years?

In fifty?

In two?

 

You were the boss

Until I learned

Everything you knew

 

You were cool

Until I noticed

You were only ever looking

At the inside

Of your sunglasses

 

Points of view

So many

 

Reality

Mine

 

Violin songs

Everyone’s got one

 

Just like power

Just like power

 

Everyone’s got theirs

 

My project’s a secret

No matter how much

I talk about it

 

It will rise

Like the sun does

With or without you

And your silly, breakable toys

 

 

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Poetry/Prose

Inventing a Stranger (two assignments)

During a creativity workshop I recently attended, we were instructed to study a stranger at a cafe or restaurant. Here is mine:

IMG_5100

Image/editing credit: mine; subject at a favorite spot in Barcelona

Exercise 1: We were to look at our subject and imagine their body telling us a brief story about itself, as follows:

There was a time when I was very naive. The world was soft, and not much penetrated my skin. But then it all started. A fall down the stairs here, a trip along the sidewalk there … a food allergy, a motorcycle accident, a half-dozen surgeries.

There was a time when I didn’t understand the importance of all of my parts. Now, I do.

Exercise 2: We then were to invent a soul for this person, and give it a voice, as follows:

I’m a tender, open guy. But as you can imagine, life isn’t always so keen on my type. Even of women, it demands toughness–a ‘get over it’ kind of mentality.

I was a loner at school … luckily, I was not really hankering to integrate with other boys. Girls, on the other hand, always seemed to want to integrate with me.

Indeed, in many cases, what many men begged to have, for me came very easily.

Still, as I aged, I wanted to know what this tough guy gig was all about. I wanted to test myself, my masculine side. So I bought a motorcycle. It was love at first ride … a love that lasted, as many stories go, until I found myself flying 10 feet in the air, landing on my head.

Six surgeries and unspeakable bouts of pain later, I understood why cyclers were considered tough–the types who fought many battles in past lives.

I also knew I wasn’t one of them.

I must have been a scribe or horse tender. But I was hardly–at least in recent past incarnations–a man on a sword-based mission.

Nevertheless, I still needed to feel protected and strong inside myself, so I got into tattoos–designs with a bit of simple class and enough weight to say “keep out unless invited,” i.e., “no trespassing.”

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Poetry/Prose, Yoga & Spiritual

See

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There is a sadness in true love. A sadness I have come to depend on, inspired by separation. The closer we get, the more we realize we are somehow apart, and yet we strive all our lives to overcome this.

The meantimes, the space, fills with sadness and longing. Why are these feelings like bastard children? To me, they are at the table, feasting on my adoration and, in turn, feeding my dreams, my art, my imagination with all of their truths. Sadness reminds me we are born into duality. Longing reminds me have the capacity to see beyond this–into spirit–through the eyes of the soul.

Our unity.

We grasp for each other. But there aren’t enough kisses. There aren’t enough words. There aren’t enough tender touches. Silent moments. Shared breaths. There aren’t enough poems or paintings; songs, plays or films. There never will be. There never should be.

Look into my eyes. Stay. See. Now. Only now. There is enough of everything.

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I want so badly to tell you

With your mustard stains

Awkward eyes

Bootstrapped breath

It’s okay

It never wasn’t

Unmatched socks

And the more you try to hide it

The more everyone sees

Did you hear me now?

Sidewalk tripper

It’s okay

Somewhere inside you know

Disheveled

Inside

Nonsensical

What you know

What you don’t

What you wish for

What you can’t have

You can drink

You can smoke

You can lie

You can cheat

You can run in circles

Jump Jacks and Jills

But you don’t fool me

You don’t

You know

It’s okay

One day

You will

Lonely groupie

One life

You will

Watch checker

Let life

Take off your clothes

Save you from shame

Kiss your chest

Wrap its arms around your waste

Run its hands down your sides

And slap your ass

Awake

One day

You’ll know

You know

 

 

 

 

Poetry/Prose

Ode to Anyone You’d Best Forget

Image

Seventeen times a day

I almost think of you

But

The stoplight turns

Bird shits on the windshield

Changed billboard

The phone goes off

Discovered cat puke

Buzzing dryer

Online billing

Ingredient labels

Water-cooler discussion

Flossing

Tortilla chips

A hand shake

Zoning out in traffic

An obvious look-over

Long smile exchange

Deep breaths

Work e-mails

What I mean to say is

That anything, really

Would be better

Than that

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Poetry/Prose

The Ticket

Image

 

Milk and honey drip

Like constant rain

From invisible breasts

Clouds of compassion

Unfathomable mother

Embracing blue sky

 

Breath

Like a thumb

Pressing softly

Between a cat’s eyes

Moving

Up and down,

Up and down

Your whole life

 

The music of our minds

Blends and finds discord

But always wants to marry

Unrequited compositions

Satisfying duets

Sacred, confident pauses

Silent meeting points

Intense recognition

 

Why fear anything?

When the sky offers its hands

Invites every concern

For safe keeping

Automatic shuffling

 

The wheel of time

More like a filmstrip

Rewind, fast forward

There you stand

In the projection room

 

Laugh when you can

Cry when you need to

You are only ever talking to yourself

Making movies

Cradled gently

Loved completely

 

Don’t you see?

Your ticket was free.

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Poetry/Prose

What if We’re All Adopted?

What if I’m like the most people in the world who was raised in a broken home or broken country or broken economical system or broken broke festival?

What if not being raised in a broken home was a handicap that caused one to live in a delusional state, expecting everything to be within a relatively rigid set of norms their whole life long?

What if when you got older, you stopped calling the humans who gave you their sperm and egg DNA, love and attention (no matter if they were coddling, attentive, overbearing or sending you to a baby sitter, drunk or self-absorbed … whatever they gave you) parents?

What if you started calling them Mary and Jack, or Peggy and Martin, or, in my case, Alesia and Gregory?

What if the words parental figures meant those who supported everyone, constantly?

What if you had an epiphany that the Earth and Sun are actually your parents?

What if you suddenly realized yourself as an adult and Alesia and Gregory became people instead of what your unconscious was programmed to think of them as: gods?

What if Alesia faced overwhelming odds against the development of her self esteem to create a colorful life for herself, even if she couldn’t be there as a mother in many ways?

What if Gregory came from an academic home, wherein his father was a renowned and well-loved professor on campus but a cruel and ruthless grouch to those closest to him, behind closed doors?

What if Gregory raised his kids mostly by himself and sometimes had an Irish temper but really, over the long-run, did an amazing job?

What if all the ways that Alesia and Gregory disappointed their kids was a story that could be dropped when the kids became adults? Even the most disappointing things?

What if the kids decided to hold on to the stories forever and expect these people to be more than people, in fact, to be like gods so that they could worship deranged stories based in the past and never come fully into the present or envision a future they could create?

What if you thought of everything/everyone you eat, wear, walk around on and in, look through, watch, listen to, soak in, bump into, lie down on, make love to, sing into, drink, breath, type on, kiss, pet, touch, see and smell as a gift made by the Earth and the Sun.

What if you are old enough to see that you write the story of how life is?

What if life is asking you to be its co-author?

What if you decided that the story you started to write was too much like that of people like Alesia and Gregory or Sarah and Jeff or …?

Wouldn’t that be plagiarism, anyway?

What if you wanted to write a different story?

What if you wanted it to be a damn good story?

Like a Pulitzer?

What if those people who gave you your genes and tended to you while you grew were also children of the Sun and the Earth?

What if we did a super-conscious dance with them whereby, over the years, we turned with the table, became chummy and then assumed the role as their caretakers?

What if humans found a million lines of conversation unspoken in nibbles on raw spinach … the unscripted cacophony of birdsongs … the foam and tiny crab dens left just moments after the retreat of a broken wave … the movement of clouds that almost makes us a bit dizzy as we relax into the grassy earth under our backs … ?

What if the Earth and the Sun produced the perfect food for us?

What if we didn’t need to refine, fix, package, market the perfect symbiosis we enjoy?

What if we did it anyway and the sense of separation made us instead feel like we had no parents at all?

What if this symbiosis surpasses any form of true love?

What if this is a necessary prerequisite for the luxury of thinking hours on end about what true love is?

What if us making it this far, with intelligence in tact, was against amazing odds?

What if just our zygote form was millions of times less likely to happen than a baby sea turtle making its way through trappings in the dark to the sea and growing three decades old through constant threat of predation?

What if you realized that the Sun and the Earth would never judge you, or anyone?

What if you recalled every time in your life where you felt alone and realized that they could never leave you … and you could never leave them … that you are inseparable? That we are all of the same parents, in the end?

What if we’re all just adopted?

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Poetry/Prose

Lunchtime

Is there anything quite so intelligent as the dawn?

Pastel hues step aside and bow

The earth, about face

Witness

A star is born

Into a holy free zone

Not war

Nor technology

Nor dictator

Nor saint

Nor god

Nor fantasy

Can stop it

Yesterday’s worries cower

In west-side shadows

It could be a fresh start

But for the rising

Pulling us up

Slipping our grip on sacred time

The orb moves higher, relentlessly

Horizon lost to its spectacle and blare

Any other day touches our shoulders

Whispers

“Like yesterday”

“Like tomorrow, will be”

And, indeed, yesterday returns

Just as tomorrow fades away

Just as the shadows disappear

Lunchtime

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Poetry/Prose

Magic Pen

Cacophonous scribbling

Emblematic pen

Whisked and rescued

From noisy room

 Ritz Carlton

Singapore

Owes me a freebee

Yet

Pleasant ink cartridge

Outlives

Disposable slippers

Cuddled

A high fever

I remember well?

Merri-go-round

Sweat

Chills

Bad TV

Good room service

Listless soaks

Hot baths gone cold

Appointments

Kleenex piles

Be-germed business cards

Dizzying carousel

That was then

This is now

A custodian walks

A cart full of gossip

By the present moment

In a hallway

On a workday

Through students

Who don’t know

Can’t remember

That they are young

Butterflies cling

With fresh-dried wings

To my stomach’s lining

Set aflutter

When you emerge

From the bathroom

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Poetry/Prose, Yoga & Spiritual

For the Love of the Unreal

Set the phone on the bedstand

You vanished

Folded into covers
So did I; into dreams

What is real?

Are these thoughts …

… happening?

Souls slip
In and out of bodies
In and out of time

On status-symbol,
Fake,
Antique,
Invisible,
Imagined,
Watches

Vocals

“Hello.”

“Sweet dreams.”

Imaginations

“When will I see you again?”

Of course

“Tomorrow!”

Tomorrow?

Memories
Decadent desserts
On TV shows
Commanded by
Red-faced

Master chefs

Screaming
In the shadows

Massive hourglass

Spinning infinitely

Strung cherry
Drooped, dropped

Heavily perched
On sugar-laden cream
The last touch

First member
Down screamer’s hatch

Vanishes

What remains

Is all that’s real

Nothing else exists.

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