POETIC THERAPY

Suffering does not always give off

airs of being painful.

The body has

tools for masking that which it

houses within.

Can carry

sorrow deep in belly

like womb swollen big

without benefit of children,

strong in back, though aching,

sore in feet, yet standing;

a cloak to belie the dust of

aches settled upon

ribs and hip bones.

Horrific truths exposed only

when ripped from deep interiors

like aborted fetus discarded

premature,

tossed aside remembrances

hurled into heaps like laundry,

well worn and dirty;

hidden between lines in palms,

between stanzas of poetry.

Heard uttered from trembling

lips into mics, whispered

to audience as though

they might have the ability

to cure those who spit rhymes

for the purpose of therapy,

searching out eyes in

darkness, coyly seeking

out a returned gaze which

offers back understanding

and the possibility of

one night of connection/

temporary release of the

frustration of silence,

so hands grip mic tight

imagining soon it will be fingers

upon eager thighs

absorbing the shock

of depth, of hurt explored,

between shots and groans

which stifle the moaning of

a temple in turmoil,

betraying the foul taste

of loss upon bitten tongue

held captive by the one

who only lets self come

undone on paper,

on screen, but never

gives self a reprieve

from the constant

grieving

it never is able

to escape from.

Sink down like sand,

fall in like ground,

cave further away

from the sound of

your voice, from the wrong

of your choices.

No followed through

promises of calls

once you've gone, just

moving on from city to state,

from the hate you'll leave

behind between the sheets

of a bed which held in it

a fugitive of truth, a survivor

of lies.

And the hallow eyes

of a woman who for one night

tried to soothe

that which

ailed you, but knew not that

deep within you was a pain

she could not reach

and though she was touched

by the words in your poetry,

you never once felt it.

SHIVERING

Threw my dreams onto the lawn tonight,

thought perhaps the rain that floods the

grass would wash away the presence of you,

but the watered down desires only grew

out of the ground you've yet to step foot upon.

With you, the rain has lost its power,

this electric sense of company

remains even while longitude and latitude

lies like stone between us,

leaving me to reside in residual darkness,

though yet I never feel alone,

as your shadow lingers in my home

to remind me of what could have been.

Like when you're desperate to eat so

you reach your hand in a hot oven

with no thought to protect yourself/

the burn still doesn't rid you of desire

to eat and I want so badly now to sleep,

but this heat doesn't distract me from

the hunger I have for your touch.

I would stage a hunger strike,

if the emaciation that would follow

would be enough for you to stop

running bases like you've gone afoul

of the desire you once had to kiss

only my lips.

Rain wets my head, these arms,

my hands

/my body are angered from the

lack of common sense my mind lacks

in not preventing you

from entering into my dreams/both

of which leave me shivering, cold

and lonesome for your arms to warm

me like hot stove, like stolen goods,

that that which I so want to consume

tonight.

RESURRECTION

She told me her extremities

had never been more than

extensions of the depths of her torso

which served only the purpose of

pleasing men.

I wanted to trap her arms

in the constraints of security,

to encase her frame so tightly

within my grasp that she felt

no need to reach her limbs

out like twisted tree, like

broken branches supporting

he who lacked the assiduity

to be successful without her

lifting him up.

Like corpse on display in state,

she laid before me, eyes closed,

breath stopped, said "If I could

choose the moment God ended

my days on Earth without taking

my life myself, I would die here,

lying peacefully beside you

just so that I could be

resurrected into a body

which knew not touch

before."

I could smell the scent of coconut

when she reached her fingertips

up to brush aside the hair in my

eyes, whispered

through her battered lips,

and shaking teeth,

"I only feel conscious these days

when you read poetry to me,

so please write a poetic eulogy

for the life I'll leave behind

and one day I'll sit

smiling from chair in front of mic,

listen to you recite and know

that these extremities had

no need to move tonight.

I just want to feel alive."

TEMPORALITY

Like the reflection of lights upon waves,
I feel refracted by movements of you/
bent, yet beautified within the rays
held within your vision.

Beneath the coolness of your shadow,
I am diffused within the depths
of your restraint in not touching
fingertip to water, as you bend
down upon knee to peer as though
parishioner upon alter.

How I pray for that touch
moving me ever towards
free falling destinations.

Yet I am lost as wind carries
vibrations, swells consuming
the loft as I am taken
out further, incapable of
preventing the rolled plunging,
orbital motions exposing
the circular tide that I wish
to depart from.

I am eroding under
damage of clapotis,
the constant of rise
and fall, the dip of angle
contorts me until I am
deconstructed,
left frustrated by the
temporality of your
pull upon my waves.

BORDEAUX

What strength we attach
to Bordeaux of wine,
personification via
comradely relief with
each sip, flavored
with the essence of resolve
we lack, sweetened upon lips
who whisper to both port
and God for mercy.

Sips of attack,
vengeance desired
for having submitted to
that which wine has no cure,
for tasting that which is
not of fruit nor notable
characteristic, but rather
just cool to taste
and quenched, if only
for the briefest time,
a guarded pallet.

What tainted manner
of consumption is this that
floods lips and tongue, yet
leaves both heart and throat
dry from lack of indulgence?

Does this vice for that which
is not spirit,
though ghost,
lust for the consumption
I can not refuse,
concerned not that I
lack no will to stop,
though sure that head
will hurt come dawn,
as heart did with dusk?

This is not taste
for what
I had then,
nor drink
of what
I thirst now for,
just stem
in hand
awaiting
a sip
just
one
time
more.

SPEAK (NOT A POEM)

I do not express well outside
the boundaries of these
poetic walls I have constructed
so that my heart might
be protected from that
which I am far too sensitive to.

Eloquent words might be
in my vocabulary, but rarely
are they verbally shared
with someone whom
I care deeply for.

I stutter, my pulse races,
and I am prone to bite
my bottom lip to the point
of wincing. It's not a
romanticized image of a
girl, but an honest
reflection of a woman
who was willing to
try to change just so
that I might hear
your laughter
in my ear
once
again.

And while I'm typing
this confession,
I should mention
that when I knew you
hurting,
I was wishing
I could bind my tongue
so as to prevent my mouth
from speaking unknowingly
hurtful things to you.

That though you failed
to realize that I was hurt
too by your statements,
that it seemed only
you and what you needed
was important.

If it required me to be mute
in order that you might
feel free to share that
which you desired to say,
I would consider it,
if only to make you happy.

But I don't have it within me
to make you happy,
we both know that.

I am stubborn and well worth
leaving, as I don't like to be
prodded into the responses
you're expecting, or urged to
be silent when I am
also hurting, as it seemed
that my pain is less
important than your own.

You prefer silence
when you're speaking,
so that you might safely
share your thoughts with me,
but who was listening
when I tried to tell you
why I held off?

So, you ignored the words I was
whispering to you behind these walls/
and failed to note the sound
of tears falling upon the
phone/preferred to focus on your
own feelings & what you wouldn't take,
rather than what I was giving to you.

Ignored that I'd spent hours
in laborious effort penciling
my heart to you in rhyme,
that though it wasn't
given to you in the time
in which you wanted it,
that perhaps I just needed
to wait for the perfect
moment to tell you
what you should
have already known.

But you preferred my silence
over poetry, scrutinized me
for a moment rather than
waiting for the hour
of unveiling, so now...
what have we both
but yesterday and
the possibilities
of tomorrow with others
who will never touch us
as we did each other.

You have what you wanted;
I have listened as you've
expressed how you were
feeling & without any
inkling as to your
doing exactly to me
what you wished not
to be done to you.

I have gone unheard,
as you wanted
immediacy & misread
my hesitancy to give
you what you wanted,
when all I wanted
was for you to give me
a moment in which
to speak.

FIVE

Years since last I'd done so,
I took leisure at leaning back against
the only remaining oak tree
left standing in front of my
grandmother's house.

I've often returned to this place
in hopes that her spirit might
somehow impart wisdom
unto me, whilst I stood
beneath the branches
which shielded me from
the sun of so many
youthful summers.

I took note that
the winter winds blowing my hair
across my face reminded me
of a passage I read
just hours before,
so I closed my eyes so that
I might have a few seconds
to take in the sensation
of being connected to
the author.

My pleasant musings were
interrupted by the sound of
dozens of geese flying overhead
in typical triangular formation.

Quilting was Grandmother's passion,
with the "goose triangle" being
the pattern she most liked
to utilize in her designs.

"Quilting is an artistic representation
of the relationship between
love and life, not just fabric and
thread; warming you from the
love put into each stitch, not the
heat generated by the covering
of the body," she wrote beneath
a colorfully decorated sketch of
a quilt she didn't live long
enough to complete.

As the geese passed without
taking note of my pleading
gaze, I whispered into the
chilled air "let the Dakinis
guide you," and hoped
Grandmother would
also pay heed to my request.

The sky cleared of the passing
birds and I waited still
for an answer. I noticed then
a lone goose circling widely
above me, left behind by
the others. I forgot for a
moment my want
for answers and instead
took pity upon the creature,
relating how I, too, often
felt lost in my solitary
travels.

Connectivity in experience
of both animal and man
is ever present, though
our eyes have been
blinded by our own conjectures
of dominion. Yet had
Grandmother often
directed my sight towards
proof that our
steps are in unison
with the movement
of the Earth and all of
its inhabitants.

I silently prayed then
that the abandoned
traveler would let
the winter sun
act as compass and direct
her towards those who
had long sense flew into
distances unseen.

Hearing then a single call
from the direction of the
deserting flock
came one single bird.

Her wings rising and
falling in what I
imagined was fueled
by both instinct
and divine purpose.

Both geese began circling
the area just above me
and i left the protection
of the familiar tree.

Stepping out into
the clearing, and with
voyeuristic view,
watched the dance of flight
between the two.

Only seconds fell away
as the birds came closer
together in flight.
Then, without sound
of call heard, the two
took leave into the
opposite direction of
the gaggle of geese
which now they were
separated, albeit
together, from.

I watched as they closely
raised wings and height
in unison,
in search of waters
and refuge and smiled
at having witnessed
their elopement.

After coupled minutes
elapsed, I walked back
towards the Oak, put
gloves in pocket, then
placed my fingertips
upon the bark and felt
a sense of peace in
knowing my answer
had been given.

If we are ever to find
the partner which
leads us safely to
water, who forgoes
the safety of that
which is the norm
just to ensure we
are not lonesome
nor without nourishment,
we must first allow
ourselves the freedom
to fly alone in deserted skies.

Faith that our wings
will not tire before
we are joined in flight
will grant us the pleasure
of feeling the warmth of
sunlight upon our backs
as the wind carries
us onward, if only
until the moment
when our companion,
at last,
arrives.

MISUNDERSTOOD PRAYERS

My accent has never been indicative
of the location in which I was raised.

My tone inflections have lead others
to mistake my identity, at times
even my ethnicity, until such
time as they laid eyes upon me.

So perhaps when I prayed,
God didn't recognize my voice,
confused me with someone else
or the droning noise
of a demanding world
discomposed his comprehending,
as it seemed he confused my plea
for a "happy ending," to mean
each time I loved, I would
invariably thank God
it was "happILY
ending."

Certainly God could not have thought
that I prayed for this solitary
existence, that what I desired as
that happiness spanned such a short
amount of time. Or perhaps God
thought he knew my mind better
than me. Though I focus on
introspection, I've never really
got comfortable with myself
internally. So maybe God put
his plan into action rightfully,
without my consent nor my
approval.

Or perchance God didn’t want to
be responsible for my downfall
from grace or wrongfully thought
my heart was invincible, but his
faith in my strength was misplaced,
as I truly am not that strong.

They say you shouldn’t
question God’s plan,
but I confess, sometimes
I wonder if tales of his omnipotence,
failed to take into account that God,
like so many others,
simply didn’t understand
my accent.

Bali Coast

When weathered skin marked like scars from age
is stretched across arthritic bones,
I still will want to warm your fingers
with the heat I've known
from clasp of hands in silence.

When pillow rest beneath grayed hair
while you dream of youth and spring,
the sunset upon your face
will be as breathtaking to me
as those nights we spent off
the Bali Coast when first we fell in love.

And though my heart might fill with grief
as our life together comes to a close,
I will voice no regrets, nor goodbyes,
rather I'll whisper to you the poems
I rehearsed while you slept
in my arms throughout these years.

I will shelter you from every hell,
I will wet your lips with ice,
No outer hate will affect us,
As we'll be hidden from the world,
Lost within the gaze of each others' eyes.

ONE PIECE OR TWO

Looked up from the pan of fish
I'd been up frying until nearly 3am
to ask if she wanted one piece or two.
But before I could smile, she said
"I can't stand bitches like you,
thinking we need for you to save us."

I looked down at her two sons,
about the age of my own daughters
and back up to eyes filled with disgust,
trying to diffuse the situation
and asked if she'd prefer to get it herself.
Turned the tongs backwards & reached out,
and she slapped them out of my hand.

"See, that's exactly the shit I mean. You can't
explain yourself so you just pass it back off
to me." So often we are steeped in our
own histories and too consumed by animosity
to eat what's given to us by those
who can't see beyond what they're offering.

I thought to tell her I'd been on the receiving side
of a similar shelter food line, but there are times
when trying to identify serves only to further
divide the lines between yourself and those
who are in need

So rather than turn it back to
a story about me and what I'd been through,
I simply picked back up the tongs and said
"I'm just here to serve you, so ma'am
what will it be, one piece or two?"

She bitingly asked "why can't I have three or four?
Your fat ass planning on taking some of this home
with you?" And I thought to tell her how I'd saved up
money for weeks, went without life's pleasantries,
took food from my own freezer and
cabinets to ensure a shelter with no funds
had enough to feed everyone in the line.

But the point of servitude is not
in attempting to garner the gratitude
of the people in your line,
rather it's to give selfishly and many times
there will come no time for hugs and thanks
no photo opportunities, no warm feeling
from the community that you feel led to help.

So, again, I said "one piece or two,"
as I placed four pieces upon her plate,
whispered to her "now this is just
between me and you" and winked.


She smirked at me and took her time
to move down the line,
before she took her tray
and sat down in the corner
with her two young kings
following closely behind her.

I looked from pan up to
the next woman in line
and asked "one piece or two"
and the line moved on and on.