100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

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Chaos by the artist, Elliana Esquivel.

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.

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.




       100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

           Faeries by a rocky stream by Francis Danby

“In poetry,
I learn honesty.”

There is a certain group of unknown creatures
that sit fishing
over my heart,
like faeries.

These are my mind.

I wheel out my supermarket trolley
and ask them
‘what are we feeling today?’
and when empty,
They dive inside and appear in the nerves of my forehead.

My mother says
‘it is because you are not drinking enough water’
and it must be true
for the pond where they fish
has terrors inside
and we must not let it dry up.



100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018


I had intuition around things.
My hands would fall recklessly around me
And they knew of
The world that touched them
And clucked like
Scattered mothballs.

At a pool table,
I knew my game
And when I thought I was writing to you,
I had already written my hundred poems
Long before this page.

Where is this place?
Where the things have already happened

One morning though,
I did not know why there was a heavy fog
My windows all
In depth
Of improbability—
I cried
And could not contain me so,
From hallucinating a reality which cannot be predicted
Because it simply
Does not exist.


The tree inside my forehead

100 poems/52 weeks challenge

Poem 1:

Prompt: “Without warning, you lose your eyesight. You don’t feel any physical pain. The world around you goes dark, but all your other senses become sharp. Write a poem about how you react in the immediate aftermath.”

There was a tree
that spoke in thought-clouds,
when the lights went out
when the lights went out.

In the simmer of his afternoon heat,
I half-boiled like a sleeping frog
kissing a lady under the sea
where sands crept in shape
of abstract time
of neither noon nor night.

I gave up
then, to think of old dreams I would usually forget
when I had to tie-up
collars that were graves;
an old theme.

I gave in
to the fall that was in my mind
and even though, only blind I was,
I also stopped speaking.

Of pictures and no words
Of trees and no birds
I weaved a world
of mornings lit with moon
under the old willow above my eyelids.

Author Notes: Dear reader, most of my poems have deep metaphors and often happen to refer to literature, psychology and even popular events. For example, a reoccurring symbol of an egg which I have partially mentioned in this poem, is a signature of  a surrealist writer and refers to the unconscious mind. In this poem, I am particularly referring to ‘Mentalese’ that means concepts inside your mind which can exist without words. If you happen to have your own opinions and references that you would like to share with me, do write back! 


Law of attraction 

Of a neon glow

Traveling throug a space-tunneled gullet

Into a bloated starry sky

Where to each eye

Her own reality.
Billions of stars looking down from the sky.

Billions of eyes looking up to the sky.


Because she is never stationary

And always moving about like Van Gogh’s winds

Whenever I stretch out my finger into the cold dark night

She stretches in a great cosmic yawn

To caress my arms

Until we melt in our atomic marriage

Of neither star

Nor human.




There is benign strength 

In my poet’s legs

To keep my words

From falling off in a dishonest dance routine

Noted among people

Who even served worms 

in gourmet,

With candlelight.                               


I pity 

the words stuck like phlegm 

in their throats

Dying in the purpose of throne-making 

for a self in state of decline,

Reciprocal to

Each bite in the name of ‘taste’.         

Then in death

There is always a radioactivity. 

The charged words bump against the glass

Like a moth or a housefly

Like a lover or a businessman 

And at last

The mind breaks with its own ambition. 



Mariano Peccinetti, Mount Moon

As I must grow old 

And wilt

With the laws of gravity;

The horror is surreal

Of balding the moon off her throne

Into the sterile. 

How is that they must define us as a lack 

And in the same breath

Call the lands which could not bear the life

A null 

A void? 

So must I be

Either empty or full?

I wish I was easy as the glass. 


Set of words 

Let me read you
 the opposite of poetry.

I pull out a letter knife 
And toy with red-lettered words
Till I no longer have a thirst for the apple juice
Or the Antarctic sky.

Whatever comes up
The blood or blues
I gulp it down with white wine
Until my feet are cold, enough for sleep,
I dream 

And then I weep in poetry.