beware
of comrades who
consciously withhold their
company when hardships halt to
hurt you
Tag Archives: writing
Household Songs: The Brief and Unremarkable Life of Joseph Clarence Strauss/X
A corrugated carnation
attempts to coax stubborn antagonists
out from the moist recesses of a
commuted cavern.
wiggle – jiggle – aah!
Warriors clad in ivory overcoats
solemnly prepare for the long-awaited successors
to ascend.
Klin
Even though I am the wilted white owl that you now
see before you, when I close my eyes tightly, memory’s
magnificent and destructive spirit, once again, brazenly
advances across our land. I will never forget.
A wet, hairy ice cube grazes my cheek as the morning
is conceived. Evening’s wounds are still visible on
heaven’s forehead whilst ashes gracefully float down
from incandescent feathers.
At first, she comes like a cautious vulture, circling, stalking,
searching for signs of life below her ample wings,
determining just when she should strike. We observe
convoluted flightpaths with apprehensive joy.
Into the sugar sea we plunge, swimming in
the sweetness issued from above. Flapping and
squawking, Sister and I are swallows wading
through frigid rivers of crumbling milk.
Beneath an alabaster cloud, we collapse in laughter.
Drooping limbs sink into birch as warm talons rake across
fragile bodies. Behind fluttering tents, salmon as long as my
legs leap from salty waters into our yearning mouths.
For three days, the world is hidden from us. Four
become one, huddled tightly within a tepid blaze of
cruor and serpentine cipher. Voices, low and uneven,
cry out to ancient skirts and beards.
Suddenly, the rage stops with one cluck of Father’s
tongue. Have his coarse lips vanquished the conflict?
Under a scornful moon, frozen fields are embedded
deep inside glittering achromatic lacerations.
Long raven locks bleed between Mother’s trembling fingers.
Rough faces look to a star-studded sky for blessings as their
owners prepare for a cheerless journey into the flatlands.
A shivering infant howls from a lightless corner
The dust which falls today shall neither hatch swallows nor
bury ravens. It will vanish with the midnight visions that
transport us to those imaginary, fanciful kingdoms, which
we often have difficulty remembering. But oh, that tempest
of my youth – I will never forget
*****
Eskimos have at least a hundred different words for snow.
Klin–the title of this poem–means “remembered snow”. The other types of snow which are described in “Klin” are shiya (snow at dawn), tslslo (snow that falls slowly), talini (snow angels), intla (snow that drifts indoors), tlapinti (snow that falls quickly), tlun (snow sparkling at moonlight), mortla (snow mounded on dead bodies), and naklin (forgotten snow).
untitled dirge
neurons seek solace
in silk envelopes,
soft and tattered,
they gasp and pant
for minutes-now seconds
salt grains in time,
imploding faster than
blemished back legs,
seasoning the shadows
with asymmetrical eyes
Canine Calamity (a Clogynarch)
I went to London with my hound.
She ran away on foggy ground.
I questioned and cried.
Alas, my voice died!
Has her hide
found the pound?
Household Songs: The Brief and Unremarkable Life of Joseph Clarence Strauss/IX
Coarse cobwebs, cradled in cotton,
divide sunshine and
smiling spies from a rambunctious band of
miniature moppets.
Skin, spinning in the wind,
grazes daffodil silk;
from two callow hearts, sharp auric arrows
are pulled.
Striking Out
Please claim the words that will fix this home.
Please-do it now-before I walk away.
The wolves of December slice silence from my skin
and carry it towards a vast, foreboding sky.
Guttural whimpers herald a welcome separation.
Still, my heart hungers for our flame.
Do you remember lighting that flame?
We were so young and so very far from home.
That day, now stained in memory, was a critical separation.
We loped further and further away
from wisdom until we stopped under a counterfeit sky.
Unlike now, I could not recognize your skin.
Pale as pearl was my once youthful skin.
Yet, beneath your body, I was a garnet flame.
Nothing could stop us…not even the sky.
Here, beside my beloved fig trees, we fashioned a home
and tucked it neatly away
inside a perfect storm of separation.
But within our peaceful tempest sprouted a sinister separation.
Night after night, it gnawed at my amaranthine skin.
Wounds will melt away
with spring’s advent; an all-consuming flame
shall continue to warm your home.
Or, so I was instructed by a cunning sky.
Tonight, I plead with a most impotent sky,
asking for a final stroke of separation
to raze the awful duplicity of our home.
Bleak answers from heaven soak my skin.
They extinguish my wavering flame.
From my side, you step away.
I too, slink silently away,
forsaking the walls and suffocating sky
which fomented our separation.
A few miles down the road a flame
from a streetlamp shines upon my skin.
I seek out a more loving home.
A buoyant flame emerges from separation.
It burns brilliantly, far away from that dilapidated sky.
Only within this skin, am I home.
Cinquain/LVII
pixies
prance ere cockcrow
amidst fine sterling trees,
but, dreams will come when morning’s glow
is known
——
57 is an older cinquain.
Household Songs: The Brief and Unremarkable Life of Joseph Clarence Strauss/VIII
Strutting secretly by my side
in his thick
licorice coat, King had been a most
loyal friend.
But, when summer sang, he
abandoned me at
last—or, was it I who had
abandoned him?
Cinquain/LXXXII
those beets
smell foul, like feet
encased in dirty sheets;
thank you, but I’ll just stick to meat
and wheat!
—–
When I was a little girl, I really disliked beets. Now, I will consume them with pleasure. I suppose that my taste buds had to mature in order to enjoy them.
Is there a traditional Thanksgiving food that you have/had an aversion to? If you eat this food now, what swayed your taste buds into liking it? Merely the passage of time? I would be interested to hear your stories.
Happy Thanksgiving to my fellow Americans! I hope that you are able to spend the day with loved ones–whether that means family, friends, or both.