Poetry In The Mind's Well

These Days

2011-11-07T02:07:00.000-08:00

my language
is a diminished shape

repeated
more than breaks

and when alone
none at all

Blue Angels

2011-10-08T22:38:00.000-07:00

Those hard engines
and sharp wings,
they are flying in

low and steady
above our heads
then whoosh -

climb into the sky,
cold hard blue
and gleam of light.

Word Counts

2011-10-08T04:32:00.000-07:00

Words: 2
Lines: 2
Characters 31

Words: 8
Lines: 6
Characters: 65

Words: 13
Lines: 10
Characters: 102

I will get there eventually,
working my way towards you

Words: 31
Lines: 17
Characters: 197

Words: 37
Lines: 21
Characters: 234

Words: 43
Lines: 25
Characters: 271

Words: 49
Lines: 29
Characters: 308

From a distance, getting closer

Words: 60
Lines: 35
Characters: 377

Words: 66
Lines: 39
Characters: 414

To find you,
almost,
almost,
here.

something died inside the wall

2011-09-30T03:46:00.000-07:00

died something

wall the inside

e d

For A Story to Become

2011-09-08T02:06:00.000-07:00

For a story to become
the story in your mind,
not much is needed to be.

Four walls, a door or two,
a window that looks out,
and outside, it is night,

The dead hour, quiet
but for the desires
swimming in the room.

As such these are called -
spikes of pain
and dulled emptiness,

Oh, the things you'll do
to make them go away.
The things you wish to do...

A Polaroid

2011-09-05T04:45:00.000-07:00

A long match box.
Inside, a cocoon
gestates metamorphosis

While you watch
with chin on arms,
willing life at your command.

But in the night,
while you sleep,
the cocoon silk is broken.

A long match box.
Inside, a cocoon's
mystery stays hidden.

A Broad Stroke for Living

2011-09-04T02:00:00.000-07:00

~~I cannot write my way back to your good grace,~~

~~the line is cut, the words returned, undeliverable.~~

~~And if we were to believe we are born just once,~~

~~will die just once, and all the choices in between~~

~~are ours to make the most of what we could,~~

~~choose then, with all the~~ love ~~and care,~~

~~to give entirely - in whatever ways that we felt best,~~

~~above our fear, shame and pride -~~ ourselves,

~~so to live the questions that will be asked~~

~~as we crawl and skip and stride and shuffle~~

~~across the years - not to find the answers,~~

~~but to realize a life in all its possibilities~~

~~fully lived, never with regret, never be alone.~~

Sunday August 28

2011-08-31T23:41:00.000-07:00

A lazy Sunday, twenty minutes drive
between ranch homes, dry hills,
trees with their branches swaying
shadows on the hot afternoon road,
and I have arrived. Or,

One doesn't arrive at all, but rather
like the way things enter a house,
neglected and gathering dust,
fall between stacked boxes,
a hard to reach corner, and settled there,

In the days of not remembered,
without you, and you, and you,
without the sins of give and take,
just days passing without measure,
blending into the next, dissolving

Into scenes on repeat -
Solace in music in car,
solitary walks down crowded streets,
feelings in the colors of sky and water,
changing seasons and changing lights,

Memories fleeting, and going nowhere.

The Yard is Bordered with Roses

2011-07-17T21:22:00.000-07:00

The yard is bordered with roses
where once there was a fence.
The branches rose to form an arch
opening into the neighbor's.
And my mother is alive again,
trimming and weeding.

I do not know the significance
of the message in my dream,
a caution, or an assurance
of what I have done or will do.

I yearn for a compass,
not the constant forgets, bickers,
made up rules, made up reasons,
decisions questioned over and over.

The circle is worn to a trench now,
but I'm still fighting my way out.

The securities of fences, the limitations,
the roses bloom, possibilities open.
I know the answers to my own questions,
but why do I still fail at living?

Smooth

2011-07-04T17:25:00.000-07:00


the sea                      rolling us                
rushes over us -             over and over
wild shards of magma -       in the frictional waves

rolling us                   from the sea floor
over and over                out of the tides
in the frictional waves      onto the shores

from the sea floor           scattered about
out of the tides             in all shapes and sizes
onto the shores              now smooth as glass

scattered about              pieces of us
in all shapes and sizes      reflecting light
now smooth as glass          to be picked up

pieces of us                 pieces of us
reflecting light             reflecting light
to be picked up              to be tossed away

June

2011-06-28T23:17:00.000-07:00

Here are two poems, but the same. The first is an earlier version. The first is more condensed, while the latter was expanded upon. I thought some choice words in the first may create images that distract rather than help with the flow of the poem. Maybe I'll keep working to come up with a final version.

Don't think of the road ahead,
you'll walk that way soon enough.
Ponder the sicks caught in the now
over lunch - full plates, cold Sprite;
dig in your fork, plunge in your straw.

Our cousin's virus ran amok,
but that will all end soon enough.
And the uncle, lucky man,
snipped the cancer in the bud,
knock on wood, the curse is broken.

Would you like a cup of tea?
Have the last of the custard tart,
shrimp dumpling, chicken feet.
Morsels of flavors on your tongue
burst in the mouth, fill your belly.

Don't let them plug me with the tube
depriving me all pleasures of scents.
Shoot me then, while I'm still breathing,
before feebleness reduced me
to a diminishing of nothing,

Handed on a platter, all skin and bones.

No need to look at the path ahead,
you're already on the way.
Think of the sicks caught in the bind
over lunch - full plates, cold Sprite;
dig in your fork, plunge in your straw.

The cousin's seizures ran him down
but now at last he's on the mend,
give or take six months or less
to smooth out the l's, uncurl the r's
back to their straight and proper rhythms.

And our uncle, what lucky man,
unlike his mother and his brothers,
sister and cousin in rested peace,
snipped the cancer in the bud,
knock on wood, the curse is broken.

We should drink a cup of tea
in honor of family and good health,
eat the last of the custard tart,
empty the plates, down the pop,
savor the flavor in our mouths.

The day may come to us yet
when stale air and tap water
are the only food we taste,
and what is left of life
is fed in slow, narrow drip

Straight to our bellies
in bodies slaved to the bed,
all skin and all bones.

From

2011-06-25T04:16:00.000-07:00

From dis-ease,
bring me ease.

From dark days,
bring me light.

From a thought,
to a breath

Besides me,
love.

You Got to Toe the Line

2011-05-08T23:02:00.000-07:00

You got to toe the line,
anticipate the falling off,
go there, the edge -

Sound footing is your enemy,
so are the familiar drones
of sorrow, ecstasy, pain.

Speak devil with your words
whisper in their ears,
be the eyes in the walls.

We should all live in a jitter
loosen from our skins,
shaken out of our cores

Like the violence
from which we were born -
explosions, acceleration,

Kill, no compromise.

On Writing

2011-05-07T18:42:00.000-07:00

Everyone is going to read this poem
then ask, may I? They will take
these words bore out of nothing,
will added to, rearranged,
crossed out and replaced,
this won’t be mine, anymore.
Take it. Meanings
are nothing, can mean
a thousand things,
but not a single word here
will mean what I just said.

I’m just a mind, waiting.
Let this take life in your universe -
purposeful, and full of filigrees.

5

2011-04-26T04:10:00.000-07:00

1.

The alphabets make words
to which I live by - but should I?
I wear them because I have to -
it's social faux pas to be
naked and incomprehensible -
Most people have no qualms
about dressing the part.
But there are those who see
something's strange in these li(n)es.
Sometimes I ponder
at the absurdity of our acceptance.
But - what do you call these.
As if one can fight a system
handed down from generations,
change the rules, break the chains -

2.

Do you do this, when you write?
You start a line, and then, your thoughts
are no longer independent from what you read.
The words have hijacked your intention,
twisted away the purpose, watch them go now,
you don't know how you ended up here,
what first drove you, where did it go?

3.

Born into a predetermined logic,
the world conspires against your self definition from the beginning.

4.

(I) refuse

(TO) conform

(BUT IT IS) too late

you (ARE ALREADY)

spell(ED) out

5.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

why are you

2011-04-13T06:24:00.001-07:00

why are you
buried so deep
between places
between dreams
slipped into room
then slipped out
before I wake up
remember nothing
think of nothing
drinking coffee
sitting next to
no one then
suddenly

sun day

2011-04-11T00:52:00.001-07:00

sun day
today

yesterday
and before

but now
i see it

inside
too

Spring

2011-04-10T01:58:00.000-07:00

You want answers -
they are riding on the wings
of a moth just passing through,

You who believe
the dead, returning,
now sits on your thumb.

What reassurance does it bear,
what message from the broken islands
scattered to a thousand directions

On which each stands a mother
clutching in her hands the clothes
of children never to return.

Wails will carry far,
will carry the bones
from the Miyagi Prefecture

To our shores, will wash upon
the sand like drift woods
under a sky without seasons,

Glowing in ghostly lights.

I never wanted this desert

2011-03-10T12:04:00.000-08:00

I never wanted this desert,
boundless land of un-plenty.

No words grow here,
not even a mirage

Beckoning
in the distance.

Only the night's
cold silence,

The wind
dissipating dreams.

Absence

2011-01-28T02:36:00.000-08:00

In my dream
our mother's gone missing
for two days since,
her absence palpable thus -

First, is nowhere to be found
in an unfamiliar house
where our familiar wait
until the scene's unraveled to

Next, flying above a possible route
like a camera speeding forward
searching for her last known place
but, before a trace is felt -

Morning arrives,
in this familiar house,
dulled by her absence,

Nine years and counting.

Twilight

2011-01-23T23:13:00.000-08:00

Twilight diffuses in a dome
of rust, burnt orange, lapis
over lacquered water

As we speed forward
with the hill behind us,
windows ablaze.

And time is shining
as if on a pin
everywhere I look.

Hold your breath -
Don’t tip it
to the dark.

tired

2011-01-07T05:06:00.000-08:00

as the days are crossed off
one day then the next,
so too the words disintegrate,
becoming one less and less
the farther away from a dream.

i've kept my pages blank for so long.
now, they scatter around me.
and my eyes are losing their sight,
my head's getting tired -

and when i back out of view
no one seems to notice.
i will still be among the living,
but you will no longer see me.

in clothes of muted tones
i will blend in with the wall
in the faded picture of a room
once occupied but now,

vacant.

All We Have Is Now

2010-12-31T21:21:00.000-08:00

It's The Flaming Lips "All We Have is Now"
playing on repeat, repeat, so why
do we always take the trash out on Sunday

And let truths wait, while money's disappeared
into coffers like indulgence in days of old
when we invest in a future on a promise

And think we can get something in return
for so little effort? My love is languishing
in the procrastination of a cold argument

Gone on for too long between myself
and my unknown self, neither of whom
is brave enough to make a go at it

("You and me were never meant to be
part of the future - all we have is now -
all we've ever had was now.")

On the Moon

2010-12-21T03:00:00.000-08:00

Once again,
I watched this lunar party
streaming by.

Once again,
I met no transcendence,
only strains.

I need to break down
these walls,
the ten tons roof

My heart is pressed under
and that the spirit
can barely hold up
(the roof? the heart?)

Yet I know,
I always knew
what it'll take.

If you're pushed
into the water,
you hold your breath.

If the water is deep,
you must swim now,
or drown.

And if you let go,

you'll float -

On Sixty Minutes

2010-12-20T00:25:00.000-08:00

On Sixty Minutes Sunday
is a story on ordinary people
with extra-photographic memory,
they can recall the details of any day
in any year they've lived - the good, the bad,
and all the in-betweens we remember
only as generalized repetitions -
they got theirs compartmentalized
and can pull out on demand in an instant,
their dreams don't merge with their memories
the way ours do. According to researchers
how most of us remember
is where adrenaline marked the spot -
your so-called passages of life,
the earthquakes, floods, 9/11.
And as to the rest of the details,
well, I think, sometimes,
they're just like the pins you dropped
into a shaggy carpet in a gobbler of a room
that you don't remember ever of having dropped -
except when your feet find them.