Sunday, December 31, 2017

When it falls

When the snow blankets earth above our heads
when it is the edge of December
we wrap around a year
to receive another
without knowledge of what the days hide.

The ringer of the bells

"All Paris was spread out at his feet, with her thousand turrets, her undulating horizon, her river winding under the bridges, her stream of people flowing to and fro in the streets; with the cloud of smoke rising from her many chimneys; with her chain of crested roofs pressing in ever tightening coils round about Notre Dame. " Victor Hugo, Notre Dame de Paris. 

Notre-Dame's old bell calls me
around the end of the day I wait
to see Paris give me a sign

of a new beginning
but the story is the same with all graygoles
that they speak only the truth

there is no problem
to wander without finding a way
just assure you are not lost

I can feel him in my bones as I walk the stairs
where he swung rope to rope
the ringer of the bells

Quasimodo, the laid, bete
the ugly, the stupid,
the one who fell for a woman with a voice like crystal

with a tambourine and a smile
the ringer of the bells who announced the news
talked to the shadows until he even fell shadow of her heart

Quasimodo, my enemy, myself.

Friendly advice

Talk to him, you have the words
to make someone fall at your very feet
but use the words that do not mark expectations.

this is how you see her

A person too short on life.
I fear that you see me just like all of them
A woman, no different. 

these tears, dry

Where do these tears come from?
I thought I was dry
questioned the barren desert is cactus.


The gifts are wrapped under the tree
bought with a love that will go unappreciated
for the lack of sight in the effects of your little words
on my skin, like daggers pulled out of the sheath
the day will open with your hand
touching my back for confirmation
you hold me just long enough
before we open the drinks up and  clink the glasses
in celebration of another year of life

calling to a new lover

I find your name,
like the flicker of an old tune playing
on the doors to where I stand without looking behind

I call your name
a little after the dark descends where I am not the same
a ball of blankets and lonesomeness

I call you, my lover
when you extend your arm toward me
wearing a smile, after a cigarette and keep talking

till the night ends

white hair, the days

The days teach you
to be the same
but with whiter hair

Saturday, December 30, 2017

He is born

The stars align like soldiers
the exhalations round with jubilee notes
for He, was born in a manger in a small town
to show empathy to those who force us to cry

here, fell my head

Here, between two sheets
fell my head as I crawled out of my mother's womb
fresh of knowledge, skin white like a lily
eyes, brown like hazel and no hair
here, fell my head when I was born
and there was gas in my lungs before I had the words
for here I was born, would this city not hold my falling body?


I repeat
the words you say, all the adjectives, all the names, the letters
line them up until they become mine

I am mary

who knew that it takes a little to love
despite the weather,  storm and clouds from Sunday to Saturday

who stood tall, dressed with awkwardness
wearing yellow, too big of trousers and a shy eye to life

who lives in the shadow, a castle made of memories
years swayed between self discovery and self harm

who is always someone's eyes
and ears, and the brain in between

who reads by dim light
because the shadows might have look in

who loved a crucifix
without paying attention to the blood spilled on the bodies

who carried the storm inside her body
five foot tall and still unable to stand alone

who became shoulders, body-parts,
the one who buried a secret in stone

who was the shadow of the stars
that grew from lying too long in the light

who lifted the torch, toward Fred, toward London,
toward the small cities, the rivers, the hills, toward


Tuesday, December 26, 2017

for the birds

I left the crumpets of what I have given you
wet with a lack of desire
like a bread left to crust for the birds to eat.

Holiday cheer

spread it around for all to hear
the times you are joyous can be counted like flakes on the tree
this year, spread the cheer by being the joy
you were never able to fully recieve.

Diversity pick

There is a bell sounding in the distance
when you mispronounce my name
that is as common as wind on your street

there is another sounding bell when you speak
of my language as a sister to the one
my enemy uses to force me to subdue my anger
into a little ball of stress

there is noise and hunger
when you paint my features
with lighter colors to make sure they fit
your designated rainbow

there is screaming when you tell me
you mention me to others
the way you mention a badge you've earn
running marathons for cases above you.

a different version of empathy

You tell me:
befriend your pain
but it is not your own back that has a knife planted in its center.

The TV shows me

The TV shows me fire
screams at me with slogans and rocks
all I see is mothers and daughters waiting
for their loved ones to return

a muted celebration

How to do you dare to celebrate
when the world around you burns down
you mute the noise, that is the first step
then you light a candle
then you blow it
then you wish, like a five year old child
you wish that by the turn of the year
it turns better, this,
this is how you cultivate hope

I carry the music

I carry the music in me,
to help me batter death
like an egg leftover for too long

I carry the music in me
like a faith that I had to find
missing like a grain of wheat

I carry the music in me
like an ache that has been
transported on the keys of the piano

I carry the music in me
like a shield that will keep
the march forward going steady
regardless of the rain or shine

here, in the words

Here in the words
I throw out
what I can never fully dispose of, every day.

In London, you apologize

Too many times you apologize
in London

when the train is late and you are early
because you think you've mastered the time

when you run under the July rain
three stations later to find the truth you seek, already exposed

when you accidentally race toward your favorite shop
to find it closing for tourists

when you use the old currency
that has changed while you were not following the news

when you bump into someone
who has bright eyes but thick hands

when you turn into a corner of a park
to realize this vastness can swallow you

when you stay near the roads that are lined with people
who speak your language and yet you refuse to share your tongue

when you realize that time passes and that you grew
older not in reverse to the days

when in your heart you know cities that make you apologize
have the potential to change you

in London you apologize because you are a stranger
with a most familiar face.

migraine attack

In bed with the curtains drawn
you lay and think
of pain that needs to stop, of where you are headed.

Saturday, December 23, 2017

it is not a secret

it is not a secret
the one you keep under the shirt

a yellowing of the skin
above your eye, a fake headache

we can make of the small things a map
to track your hioty

the secret is long-held
tightened hard with plaster

bridged with scars,
two operations later and you still look like autumn

small, yellow,
making your own color rub over the quiet house.

Thursday, December 21, 2017


first tasting, white like snow-caped mountains
whipped with strength, tasted with tenderness

checkpoint in the rain

The sunrise is different when you are on a mission;
the clouds seem to give way for enough beauty 
to offer other than rain and darkness, a possibilty
silver and gold lined, for the eyes 

yet as you walk or sit 
you know it is bound to happen
long lines of cars listless 
like a leftover loaf

inside, screaming children who want to run 
women restlessly switching between radio stations 
men nodding behind the windshield 
and you, between the bus chair and the novel in your lap 

there is something about forced waiting
like there is about rain, it pains the head harder 
a tinted shade of purple 
nothing happens, no one moves and yet

time is happening; 
life swinging and swishing like raindrops 
whizzing between the points of destiny
A to B, B to A, where there should never be a space 

to be forced to stop 
behind a checkpoint in the rain.

what do you tell someone who is heartbroken?

Nothing, there are no words for you to use
that are long enough to cover the ache
that is extended over to you like an arm;

you feel the breath rising and falling
on the other end of the phone
unable to bridge the distance

that is shortly compact with things
you never wished upon
a lonely hour, half-baked cakes, torn out photos

what do you tell someone who is heartbroken?
you say nothing, really
just wait for the lull that happens gradually
in between the wails of memory and reality.

Sunday, December 17, 2017


I have seen a different rain this winter
mothers' eyes clouding over
sons screaming, fainting on the tarmac where the warriors once walked
locking children in the houses
clouds lifting from earth- skyward
this is my hometown, midwinter. 

Reading this world

I am reading on how life
bends us to stand up again
the words of my heart between two pages.

The light, once more

We count backwards, 
with glitter on our lids 
the amount of times we have been good

we count backwards, 
with a sun that half set down 
the effect of sunlight on the night 

we count backwards, 
with dignity
wait for it as it approaches 

the light makes small spaces 
roomier, makes the heart wilder 
makes way for the festive season approaching.

Sunday, December 10, 2017


You waste paper
think you ruin earth with demand of trees
cutting down into sheets
forgetting that money too is paper.

a question evades her

do you expect me to answer
every time you call, while I am sleeping?

in the old country

This disappointment
like blood, lives and breathes
inside of me.

Riches to rags and in reverse

this is your success story,
you leave behind the things that remind you of home

escape the story and claim
hindrance to another space that wraps your bones

but will not be kind to you when
you grow old,

your face is too foreign
the same goes for the hope hiding beneath you high-end frames 

this is your success story,
from riches to rags and reverse

to the basic banter of bone on bone
skin to pockets full of disappointments

this is your success story, ordinary and lacking glory.

Friday, December 1, 2017

Maybe, the realization arrives

Maybe things do not get better with age
it is a mere idea hammered into your head
that wine left for too long will become vintage
and wine left in the open too long can also become vinegar.