voice, women, faith

A woman's voice
moves mountains
so does faith

wedding rings, not needed

No wedding ring
on her fingers

incapable of loving
herself first

maybe it is not about
loving what's inside for once

maybe all this love
has to be splayed open

for the world to see it.

Aradi: Territories

Call it peasantry, the practice of hands turning the soil for air
dirt capsulated under fingernails:
a primal attachment that keeps you standing

gone is the old wind trapped under earth
leaving a new face out sunning
the arriving faces, like soil and oxen, turn over these small pieces of ground

Read the rest here: https://crevice.ro/a-game-of-hands-rock-paper-scissors/ 

after the heart is open

After the heart is open
I tell her, a wildfire

sweeps around the edges of the room
taking with it, the clothes

the photos, the gifts,
all physical beatings over memory

after the heart is open
a hurricane storms

in its belly there is a calm
unlike a storm, safe from a rain

of stones and waters
things taken from other people

after the heart is open
there is a vacancy

like there never was
wildfire, hurricanes and earthquakes

all forms of natural disasters
caving at the touch of a lover.

Daisies

Ring around the roses
but you pick daisies

not in season, these flowers
that are a wild spring breathing

daisies, daisies
denting on your window

this is age, you sleep
with the daisies looking after you

breathing.

minimal life

Try looking at the things you keep
unlike humans, you are able to discard
items that are shelled-out

fished from other people's pockets
or dreams, broken up stones
end of evenings, boring conversations

try extracting the old
out with it and in with shiny things
against the rule of your head

try looking at things you keep
to add onto you, like boulders
on your shoulders 

Inappropriate time

The open curtain lets in the wind
her bare body baring itself on the bed
you leave to pick up a call.

After the music, bodies

Your body, left like yesterday's clothes
old music, neither indie nor popular
some form of a symphony that bridges 
the space left on the bed

a writing in the head

How frustrating
is the process of writing
something that you cannot hear in your head

a battle against tongues

I feel like I am running a battle against tongues
one my mother gave me that contains
enough expressions to make possible, life
with the others I have gained along the way

collecting like star-dust
meaning, word after word to make sense
of other ways to say the same things
but with gentleness, with vigor, with insanity

I feel like I am running a battle against tongues
that get out of the way when I love
because I lose language in seconds
before I fall

stammering at my basic ABCs
that are replaced by music,
butterflies and somber lyrics
one I call softness

I feel like I am running a battle against tongues
as one leaps to the front at the very minute I push it backwards
biting down on sailor language, wrong adjectives
in fear of the sharp blade it has

making peace in a battle is impossible
but living like siblings has proved a good use
for you cannot hate on your own blood
even if it flows through different veins.

what does it mean to not hold a destiny?

it meas another definition
of the verb roll

like throw carelessly into the pit
where you cannot see the end

this is what it means to not hold a destiny
said the beggar who sits on the doorstep

facing fear

like the start of a new month
like standing on a high tower
this is how we face fear

with a head that's never ready
with a heart that's careless

words or selves

I got written a poem
to save my soul

you tell me and I am not surprised
you feel touched

I haven't written
to fill your voids

but should up at your door
wearing all the past you don't even remember.

the rule of three

the rule of three tells you
it is better to have only three things arrive
like lines in a haiku

a nightmare of hallucination

There's a jaguar that follows your son
into a mouse hole, same available in cartoon
but you are real, flesh and blood in my arms

there's a daughter holding a teddy bear
crying about unborn children
yet she's unmarried

there's you, Kohl filled eyes
brown like pine cones
caressed and written for, for years

there's a moment of fear and love
wrapped like a blanket at once
like it's a thing we cannot deny

existing in the midst of all unexplained
switches, trees swishing over in seconds
transported into another space

that has no bitterness
you are real, flesh and blood in my arms
the jaguar gallops
your son goes into the mouse hole and wildly I wake up.

noise licking my ears

I can never get used to the sound
arriving after glory of silence
with many tongues licking my ears

with driftwood

We drift, each talking at a higher wavelength
call this another form of love
I call it another form of painting with blood
we call this a family swayed with driftwood

dandelions, or mixed names

what do you call it,
she blinks at me

the flower that you puff
the one for the horses

we call it horse flower
what do you call it?

a dandelion, with mixed names
clear genes to hold its spine up.

the poet on the job

There is always this fear
that you will get caught first

writing poetry, a virtual nonsense
or dreaming in a language of speed

type one word and quickly hide
as if lines were a bad reputation

that will follow you everywhere
that open you up, like a second tomorrow

there is always this fear
that you will have to recite verse

like you say your prayers
in silence or before everyone else

a new stop to shaky tunes
this happens when poets do work

manual in dirt
or in offices

this is the fear
that only stems from an imagination that knows

to write in short lines instead of long ones.

gems, music

There's gems in music
how a breath plays
over a warm arm