mentalhealth

Plato’s anxiety

 
Image result for platos academy
Plato’s academy by Raphael

I have been waking up
and trying to fine tune the breath
in the belly
before the instrument goes out to play
on office desks
and impostor-ed classrooms.
 
They tell you
they tell you wrong,
the spirit does not
reside in the shell of the language,
it has to be summoned
in the body
and its word.
 
I try and breathe
to summon myself.

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.


Cold water

15/100

       100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

Image result for water photography surreal

There is some respite in early morning
like the deep of the night,
silence is at its tooth–
the sober cold marble.

In the eve,
the motor with its vehicles
violates the road,
with a devilish groan like an eternal fever
at a path that was shod in the stark of the noon.

Being lulled back to sleep,
now
and as in sleep
all the banter recedes like waves
and the mind is saved from sickness.

Abandon not, yourself
give not, your sleep
or there will be no water for your heart to hold itself to its feet.

Offering

8/100

       100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

Related image

Chaos by the artist, Elliana Esquivel.

Dear
Chaos of mind,
I sit with you at a chess table
and you gamble like a pirate king.

The negotiations are let out,
and it is a dance of seduction
of an exoticized Spain
where bleeding roses are championed
because they fight against the brutality of white noise.

But I have to sleep
and the mattress seduces no allegory,
for my reader who traverse these words
and so I wake,
allowing you to condense my peace,
all in the name of poetry.

Dear
Chaos of my mind,
lend me demons of an emotional excess
that may sprout into a poem
of exorcism rites.

Author Notes: This one is to refer Wordsworth, with my own finishes.