Creative

Holding

There is the circling of eagles
in the deep blue sky
and the sound of the flute,
as if emanating from the tendrils of
the new monsoon borne porcupine-ed leaves
and there is then,
the drilling noise
that must overpower the hum of the traffic
or the worker woman’s bangles,
clinking with the fidget of
the soul moving inside her palms

In all these
spaces
I tell you to find yourself
the emptiness
that is pleasant in the
patience of a house plant
that stares out the window
everyday
and feels the rain in
dripping shadows–
I offer you cold loneliness

for the times
I cannot offer you
the warmth
when my fingers touch the sides of your hand,
the spaces between your fingers
the moving of your neck–
the bed of your amorous speaking,
from where you will inform me of my once-again
distant absence

Then,
I give you my absence
for you to hold and believe my presence
in your palms once again.

The metaphor of the bird

Image result for Lorena Pugh Surreal Oil Painting of Sheet on Clothesline in the Country
Lorena Pugh Surreal Oil Painting of Sheet on Clothesline in the Country

How many times have I
criticized the metaphor of the bird,
when my mother would say
how free
is she
and I’ll put my hand
upon my cold forehead,
It doesn’t ring right,
I tell her,
it is a projection into
wishful thinking.

It is unruly for you, I tell her,
to fly without airports,
immigration officers,
the office cicadas,
the old regular bloated system
to color within the lines,
the patterned sweat it brings upon your back,
the despair of
the black and white, dust-colored earth
that holds your feet.

I think of the rain–
often I wish to sink
in earth, in a paradox of
feeding back the fertility
with a gift of sleep,
and perhaps the satisfaction of
a life-long debt repaid
is the final flying.

Song for one more sleep


Image result for insect surrealism morning
Monday Morning by Nikolina Petolas

There was a whistling
right after the morning fell off it’s egg shelf
and broke in the tundra of
life-leaking toothbrush basin,
like some rabid dog
tearing nail for tooth

My hands with some old mosquito blood
caught a hold of this insect
and placed it upon the bicycle of
a man selling sofa and cushion covers;
as a result,
it dilapidated
it coughed–
ousting the vigor of the southern spring
and other marooned extravagances like
political declarations, love-promises,
essence.

In a small monotone
my morning paddles with this man,
dragged into the sullen of the afternoon,
laid with the song of a distant Koel bird,
It is now
put to rest,
put to sweet-sweet sleep.












Bad days

Picture by Kiyo Murakami

Bad days don’t happen to me
with the first hyphenated
ray of the million mile away burning mine,
when, perhaps, the bed becomes
radioactive
and with an incubus-poise
presses upon with gravity,
and insists to stay–
yes, there are these days too.

But for me
it often begins with the corner of my lips
stopped amidst a curving of the smile
which echoes in a closing space
of the borders between
mockery and applause
and
then
the glass slips out of my hand
the fire would become stronger in the stove
and I won’t hold my pen still,
neither do my words
–the solemn heat sensitive bugs–
would brief my tongue with language
and so in the dying light of a “good day”
morose, I become clad
in all this good gone bad.


Horizon

Image result for horizon surreal
Photo from a song named “Stereo Horizon”

There is a closing at the door
the man stops–
the foot rests under the table,
his hands reach out to the ceiling
past the moon
past the stars
past the stars above the stars,
where does the eye end,
in you or in me?

The vicious gazing,
I wish it to stop.


The mother


50/100
100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

Art credits: https://picsart.com/mgroftedits


I wonder if
roots growing from the ground–
the mother,
relish in her own irony,
repetitions,
cycles of unabashed hubris,
that render us all in pain
and then, we are cynical
in laughter with everything that has gone by
in acknowledgement
to the mother
who took us underneath
before we could even be born
and so
we make a father out of her in revenge,
in her own clay.

Fourteen things that will completely change your life



Oh I’m sorry I cannot be of any help
I am pulling off an availability bias, my dear restless person,
A click-bait and we are in the keenest intestines of the search engine now,
Should I stay or should I go?
—Sunshine Posters, Good synonyms for Happy—
I wish you could be happy, because I am not
I wish I was in the woods, a child with Red-Riding hood
And I bled away the day I knew I won’t be set free
in the fourth shelf of the Fiction Rack.
—Ideas related to the flower pot sitting on my senior’s cabin—
Do you know how utterly boring this is?
You selfish ogling monster.
Know thyself. Yourself.
—Next up, fourteen ways to win a poetry contest!—

44/100
100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

Paranoia


42/100
100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

Image result for crow surreal


She climbs down a staircase
But in my harbor
There is neither a She nor a Staircase
And it is just the gin I drink every day, which assumes
A form of pirate’s gold smudged with the regular green muck
Found at the bottomless goblets of the brothel house.
 
I know her. I have bathed in her mind and body.
With a housefly’s busy routine,
A bull stirs me
In a jar full of magpies,
I’m a crow,
I deceive
And so I am deceived.