Adonis' songbird

Adonis is ill tonight, bleak is this music

devoid of any meaning, it is the songbird's fault

the songbird cuts her vocal cords

one by one, two for the lumps that grow on throats like cankers on trees

the third for the leftovers of her voice

she hangs them over Adonis' head, like washing  to ward off the evil eye

far from his hay-and- flower ornamented bed, she tries to restrains

the pairs that give him their blueness and gradation of yellow

Adonis is ill tonight and she pleads with her body;

pleading cranberries, pleading the river, pleading the tunes she sings

for a calmer woodland and a softer moon. Adonis may sleep well away from the wild boars.

 Her Adonis is ill for the night and she can only squeeze his hand 

and dance around the fire they light, together at many instances

Adonis is terribly ill for the night and she's already given him her voice

because she had nothing better to offer, nothing more precious to the

bright-feathered, bedside tethered songbird.

Picture credits: Peter Paul Rubens c.o. Google Art collection.

Feral Feline

A cat can spot danger at an arm's length

she can tell from afar when the world tumbles

like little stones skipping over a pond, she anticipates the fall

as she licks her paws and arches her back

waiting as the dart comes to her

comes over again

and disappears like it's never existed-

the cat knows who shoots at her with one blind eye

and turns the other towards where her black hairs land. 

We Learn by Watching.

I.

Be gentle. Stay calm. That's the what I learnt by watching them

watching me, as if I was an episode in a long saga.

I always had that face for the public.

A mixture of repair, disdain to my very eyes.

II.

When he brought Cindy home, I felt my face tighten

a dancer's bun, I had seen him fail responsibly before.

When Cindy came home, he swore to watch her,

tend for her needs: wash the hair gently like it was his own.

Walk her daily. Feed her and be company. Be a world in one body.

He made manly promises that were womanly executed.

He made the same promises before, I was the main witness-

I continued to stir the daily soups in silence. I watched them, a world of their own.

I never understood Cindy's secret, his blossoming

I stirred, silence.

III.

It was the dog show, I still recall the October chill

the chill that wrapped me in the light brown jacket

before I stepped out into the fog, he said

he hated my jacket and the way I wore my hair-

I only said he looked childish in square jackets.

A jacket insult for another, another passing note under a long margin of thoughts I complied by watching him move, inside and outside my life.

IV. 

The car next to us, like her house had Jackie, Jackie of sprayed hair and short light skirts- she greeted us and led Bruno, her mutt out. Cindy howled, and ran to Bruno

He ran to Jackie. Cindy was her owner's responsibility

I restrain myself, marched light-footed.

IV.

He smiled once her way, shame on him

He barked in my face but smiled twice at her, shame on him

he smiled the third time, but it wasn't short-skirt Jackie

it was the cameraman- what does he see that I don't?

Damn Cindy and the courtesy of dogs, and dog laws and owners!

He smiled another time but I couldn't look him in the eye

this time it was Jackie and Bruno-

I stroked Cindy's hair, asked him if he needed anything-

shame on me.

V.

I sat watching the sun across the sky,

fading in early on a fall's night and they were late that day,

but the winds, my distraction- rushed with pairs of green and red socks

the children rushed with their kites, the day rushed while I stayed inside

and across the wind and the windows

the tardiness unveiled beyond the blown curtains

the marriage of Bruno and Cindy

All dogs; copulating animals, copulating arms and legs and faces that forgot

their owners, faces that left their owners hanging in sheets

by my bedroom window,

A dog walker's evening; not a woman's delight-

We only learn, hard by peeking at the life of other people

the life we think we own

what we patch perfectly,

Be gentle. Stay calm, again. I was watching them

glancing at me, all owners and dogs.

Another poem published on Visual Verse. You can check it out here:

http://visualverse.org/submissions/learn-watching/ 

The art of mimic

I learn the art of living by mimicking
by following what others provide: an intelligent conversation, a look or
a way of life. An easy three step recipe for a dish
it is falling in the cracks that others imprint
a tracing of steps, while I discover a free way to fall
defying gravity on my own-
the key is in looking closely then sniping the bare necessities from the noise
 filter by spinning cobwebs, tight threads- whole houses out of raw patience.
It is the art of life I learn in portions like I learnt the days of the week
Sunday is for laundry then rest
Monday is for work and Thursday for thirst and party, the days into another week
along the ride, what I see becomes part of me
how close a dancer steps,
how tears form, how to break and fix-
long equations, smooth balance.
I have tasted softness on my tongue, like cotton candy
released the harder edges like boulders, whilst watching the world
go, spin in its daze, I create my own place-
for we become what we experience
we are what we see.

Fear itself

There is only a small space that lies amid fear and the jump
thin like a hair, wide like a gap of two rocks colliding  to drift apart
further away from their expected place of rest
the space is big enough for fear to open the doors and tiptoe
into the main halls of the house-
the living room, fear sits in front of the fire place
cross legged first, allowing you enough time to reason with breath
then, like a house owner it pulls out its shoes and rests its feet up high  roasting chestnuts
on the opened fire and humming Christmas melodies that cause mayhem, like the Grinch
stealing joy the way winter steals summer's lilacs
in total comfort, fear stews its food.
Like guilt, like shame, like fire consuming wood
fear stays, as fear only resides in those who live on the edge of the gap,
 before the jump like rocks that collide
only to drift apart, leaving madness to answer to the nagging questions of
the sane.

Howling

It is common, she thought to herself

the change from her skin into a wolf's fur

underneath the silver moonlit sky, she can howl, four times 

for the different winds and elements 

everything that is under her skin is reason enough of care 

like the spots over her arms and the shadow behind her lip 

she howls again, everything that's been broken was once built

and every night that's been dark is a result of snippets of days 

and so is she, pieces from things little, things strange, things unknown

herself, howling. 

Equinox

Today all is equal:
the day and the night
the sound and the sight
the dream and the fury
man and his woman
we know today all can be equal
it is the equinox of the hours, a natural call
for the leaves to fall and for the hearts to crack
gently at the coming of storm
the reception of winter.

 
-Photo is credit of Google search.

Swiss Chocolate

Three chocolate cubes sit on my dust filled desk
they are from Switzerland, where I've never been
I shove it away as I look at your picture, human
you are from a land where the desert runs long like veins
too bad I am from Mars, but Swiss chocolate appeals to
those who taste bitterness first.

Delay the universe

Valued is the time for the stretch
between a leg and a cover, sacred is
the freedom of a swan to take flight
heed to the water bellow her wings
that the ripples may delay the softness of the universe

so slow, so fast

Trickling, ticking, testing

Defies your sense,  stretches your body into numbers

Don’t try to touch it, don’t try to go back- it bites

Just observe as it nudges the seconds:

One after another

One after the other

Remember?

Memory is funny
ask me, I will recall  history
broken into little mini-chips
like a puzzle, a picture complete
fractured.
We remember what we cannot overlook
a scent lingering, a pressed rose, a word
promises of the same result
one end and a few clues for
memory. It is funny what you can recall
when you least expect-
impatient remembrance,
is a long story like
 you and
what I now call me,
It rings in my head, words, instructions I give to you like begging
remember to call me when you fall
just moments before you break
remember to allocate me a space between the fold of your eyelid
and its opening
isn't this what romantics do? fear for the heart they discovered
walking out of their chest?
remember I am made of blood and bones too-
Do you remember the summertime?, the prime?
 I now gather the remains of broken fusions of images, ours
like the moon gathers the tide
We are what we keep
mottoes, sticks and stones, favorite thread loose blouses
and heavier things: things unspeakable, things inaccessible
we are our memories
because we now can no longer be anything else-
and as I sit and marvel
I turn to where you once sat,
asking you like the wind that bangs your eardrums
Do you remember
 the picture I gave you?
You must
because that picture I left,
is where I smiled last.

carpet pattern

pierce my lungs with a thorn's blade

my air, is the world's oxygen

hesitate, it's a fraction in movement,

a normality

color the scarves on your chest with

shades you nicked out of my head

but when you hallucinate, recall me

I'm not  another drab carpet pattern

license to breathe

Allow someone a license to breathe
to stretch from the inhalation of vanilla scented mornings
to the exhalation of a sound like the closing seconds of sunrise
allow a license to breathe
all those who lost their voices
chanting for the next sunrise

Affectionate Donation

Relief, relief

papers screaming out and I, like flower am slowly dying with grace

with time

with all that dies, leaves, pets and people

of the flood, the people of the sins and the people of the drinks

So donate for my cause

please contact your local community center, 

the one edged near the pub and out of sight of all those whole

pieced

we request donations 

a few minutes, nothing else than a friendly hello

or a two seconds text message that costs few pennies 

a question is always nice, add to that concern and care

subtract the amount of tension and distress

we request donations of affections 

to the case of one tattered heart 

mine

affections are requested

donate today and receive what I send

your way.

That's all for now

New news by the minute
this just in
flashing signs, blaring eyes
Headless longing
That's all for now
Over

Not anything in particular

Grey is not a particular thing by itself
But the result of all spots of shade and light
A mule is not a creature of its own will
But a breed of a jack and a mare
There are some things, and some beings- touchable
Some untouchable
Like air, like pillow-talk
that are not anything in particular
Not definable, deeming or destined to take a form
For themselves into the vanity of other shapes
And other beings
Some thing simply do not fit in the mixture
Of particularities
not puzzling some places are misshapen and some simply lost
others lack care or genuine will, make gaps in their place
the gaps in the jigsaw are the only natural part of its
existence,
Resist the blanks and your fall will bruise
resist the color and fear your one-shaded skin
it is not an equation of perfection, the art of making life
A possibility
But it is an effort of understanding,
things that do not fit any particularity
And by this there are entities
Like me
that are nothing in particular
perhaps, a thread of all generics

Porcelain Mask

Nothing is more perfect than the face of a porcelain doll
Eyes round and gazing
Lips red and kissable
There is nothing like a doll for perfection
Slim waist, full covered lashes
A doll is yours by your touch
it is it's owners property
yours to do as you please
Shake it, break it, walk over it
Or place it in an old trunk
display it like candy to mark others jealous
All yours is what you can control-
Nothing that's lifeless is beyond you
and so is she, who lives behind the sycamore
And wails atop the river
For she, like a doll, you claim yours

What a doll, they used to tell her
And she'd wondered why
Would someone compare her to something so small
So inanimate, so plastic
But it takes her long enough to dress
and long enough to realize
behind the cold porcelain
Lies the answer.

Standing straight

Don't try to work from point A to point B 

if you still cannot stand without crutches

those who'd unassumingly stand too close, 

are shadows in disguise

wary from their pushes, sideways.

These hold your crutches 

while you access the disabled toilet

a place you've reached solely by yourself-

but they'd leave your wooden leg carved in initials

by the front door of your car- be careful with your step 

even if its a one legged hop by now-

balance on one foot is better than a curse of the

evil eye 

Procrastinating tunes

On the tape, some words and humming -the list

past midnight

these tunes

a possible reality, a possible compositio

tomorrow.

Findings

Material is never lost

it changes form, it takes 

the shape of other items

rocks, lights, sounds.

Opening a sock drawer is her relief

a can of worms, like rush

like rain swivels round her

insignificant realities:

- a stone from Wordsworth's garden

- a pinch of dirt from Shakespeare's house

- an old pen

- an old notebook, half full, half expecting to be touched

- a lighter and a smell of someone, a man, miles away

it is all the things she finds that refrain the tune of 

 her north, the time of sailing

the time of living, 

a time when she was removed from time

from the claws of all the steps she lost and still loses

every moment she glances back when she sees terror's red eye

flashing

like a bear on a hunt for sweetness.

  

turn of rain

She knows the trees start dying

like everything else, she only knows the leaves start

dying with a little mercy each day

with the change of hours the leaves just

turn void,

it is the turning of the season:

it is the turn of rain

flood, mercy

The singer at the closed rooms

He twists
and shouts
and twists
and shouts
to the rhythm of one two one
three four bars in a minute
faster than the drapes on the walls
all shutting the lights away
faster than the claps, louder even
the singer at the closed rooms knows too well
that the sound of his voice never leaps beyond the walls of the room
never leaves the beat at
the dancer's heart.

the daily situation

 slightly drifting

rolling with the time, at last

like tide, like dead, buried corals

Dedication, forbidden tears

Part of a longer work's dedication:

For strength benching

lifting weights and shedding skins

all  effective adjustments

to the broken, effective packaging of the whole.

For it was a long

candy-wrapped dream, peeling slowly

truth reflecting

truth  reflecting

 echoes.

Like a badge

Poets wear their pain like a badge
seen by others, only the wearer feels
the tip of the pin near its breast
under his shirt throbbing, it is a reminder
of existence, a marker of the fight
for a slot among the normally unnatural
those who hear music and interpret it into words
those who hear words and interpret them music, lyrics and light
All one shade of mad, poets make of their pain a shape,
give it a false name, smile at it during cocktail parties
and store the sting away, for lighter days

Fished out

You tell me you do not fit
between the bubble
and the tide
that your skin stiffens under the algae,
I rub you in coral
but the sea never washes into you
You are too solid for water
and I, like you despise the scales
the shiny blades I earned without contact with air
breathing is difficult when you inhale
processed oxygen, true we've both despised the sea
all that comes from it, the broken glasses rounded to a new shape
the shark's tooth, my sunburn and the salt into
our mouths water-washing our words
we leave what we do not understand,
and now, sitting near the fireplace bathing in October's thrill
and the biting chill you tell me again
how you do not fit between the foam and the sand grain
and I nod, I'll never let you know
how the sea creeps on you,
I'll keep my thoughts to myself
A fish out of water
is dead, anyway

Tardiness

Nothing justifies
tardiness
like a late morning coffee
like a missed alarm beat
it is the other end of waiting, tardiness
call it lazying, call it asking for time to extend its wing
into another flight
but never stopping, never fighting
nothing justifies your letters arriving late
your answers shocking up
nothing justifies the running fingers of the clock.

Bicentennial

So this is
the second hundred in the turn of days
the turn of events
and the blossoming of words
how do we celebrate?
by smudging old paper
with new ink, more creation is
our celebration