hot streaming tears of Job ground as fine as
stardust cloud a discolored cup, constructing
a dusky cosmos fashioned from the anguish
of almonds
before the sun, thy broken body
shall be healed
Tag Archives: writing
vanished child
…time to pay the gas bill…
Yuram-Dong
August 18th, 2013 – a Sunday
ten days before my 32nd birthday
she was 16 years old, with a simple, stainless
smile…much like her pumpkin head…
those red sneakers were falling apart,
but she trudged along in them anyways
as her sloe-eyes peeked out from under
uneven and dismal bangs
that helmet haircut couldn’t protect her
from pernicious prowlers let alone
from playground put-downs
sweet sixteen
sorrowful seventeen
confirmation
In a frigid room
In a place I could not change
Out of carelessness
I snapped its handsome head off
to feel a passion for life.
Cinquain/LIV
listen
to the devout
voices, for they glisten
in the distance as they strike out
to shout
whispers of the divine
If there are whispers of the divine,
then surely they manifest themselves
in the curve of your spine, or perhaps,
through the curiosity of your
preoccupied face.
Even in the frost the tips of
her silver coat illuminate and
within the morning hush, her
steady purr sets the rhythm for
the day.
My breath slows as we stretch
towards the sun in the tabernacle
of our home.
*********************
These were the thoughts that prompted me
to get out of bed this morning. The image is
of my cat, Sorcha. It was taken in 2010, when
I lived in San Francisco. She is still with us.
silly poem
The longest noodle in the world
on polished fork was now just twirled.
This piece of pasta is so vast
that after lunch, it’s time to fast!
———————
Today’s writing post is intentionally light fare.
Mother Can Remember This
No one but mother can remember this.
No one except she, but she now is dead,
can testify about the light we miss.
A loveless breeze embraces my bent head
as lilies clad in wintertide touch stone.
These words were ripped from my chest to be read.
No one should journey through this world alone
or tether themselves to a bloodless form,
but feet almost collapse beneath old bone.
Yet, there is hope to find within the storm,
And surely we shall rise from the abyss
to go where hapless humans can transform.
That splendid dwelling where we cornered bliss
No one but mother can remember this.
convergence
Our home, which protects
us from society but not from
ourselves, acknowledges the
conversion of speech to action.
Four walls tumble down
every night, falling upon
cold, firm faces that have
not yet learned how to break.
They reassemble themselves
at dawn.
The heart that cannot remember
is condemned to repeat mistakes.
As a result, incongruous chambers
plug away despite the fact that their
desires will forever be at odds
with each other.
100 Word Story/I
Frank bounded up the stairs with flowers of forgiveness and a bottle of semi-expensive Merlot. The smile on his face was so wide that he nearly tripped over it. He fumbled with his key in the lock but eventually the door sprang open. All of the lights in the apartment were off – every single last one.
“Gina?”
Frank flicked on the lights as the silence within the room washed over him. The picture of Gina and her mom was missing from the mantle. Finally, Frank spied her note on the table.
I can’t wait for you to change anymore. Goodbye.
Five For My Eye: IV
Our Lady lights the way
as
shift is done, but before
the fun, four flagging
feet round the
corner and
stop under a streetlamp
for a smoke of
salvation.
Is that her apple
in my pocket?
Face to chin under a
shorn Pegasus,
heels scrape down
on cold curb in front of
the obsidian twin who
prowls nearby.
Fingertips graze
tough red skin
Damp bodies huddled
in doorways and
ecstasy hold down
the
night with hot
sloppy kisses; without
them this street would
vanish – but this is
only
conjecture.
Sweetness rolls over
parched lips.
What crime shall
come
to this place
when souls of
the city can
barely stand?
————–
This is the fourth installment in a series of five poems inspired by the photography of Constantine Brassaï.
sundry folly 