read some of my poems
and then head to "photos" to see the words come to life...
I want to
lay beside you,
and count the different shapes
the clouds will permit us to form
in our minds,
as we hold hands,
fingers intertwining like roots
a glove that is sticky to the touch yet smooth,
like hugs our hands give each other,
sliding palm across palm
until our fingers are tight
and we both feel
we couldn’t possibly be squeezing
I want to stare at the stars
at the hour that only crickets chirp,
when bees are asleep and the light
is a mere smudge of orange glow,
that warms our bodies like a fireplace
in the bitter cold.
I want to remember the moments,
when we were both young.
in the heat of the hot summer sun,
partners in crime
to the mistakes
we committed against ourselves,
which burned our skin,
two stolen cookies and three late nights deep,
lectures we received from our elders,
and lopsided smiles we shared in secret.
In my right hand
I clutch the phone,
my eyes squint at the font,
at my words;
The words that tumble,
rise, crest, fall
from my ample fingertips.
They cloud the screen
like a storm.
Perhaps I wrote too much.
Maybe I'm being silly.
I think our relationship
I think you don't love me.
I think I'm being needy.
I think, I think, I think…
as I lay on that hard bed
in my semi- lit room,
it is the weight that roots
into the tightly knit crevices
of the knot in my throat
that makes my chest ache,
and it is the blistering fire
that spreads through my heart
with shaking wings,
making me wait for you to speak,
that makes my eyes stay open.
But when I stare at my
"I love you"
and your automated answer:
I close my eyes
in silent defeat.
I often find I think most,
when the water is beating down my back,
and the steam is a white swirl
that fills my ears and nose.
When the only sound beside the crashes in my head
is the slow trickle of water pooling at my feet,
becoming a gentle pendulum that renders me lost
in my own mind.
I find answers here.
Here I can sing my heart out,
but every crick in my voice
will be swallowed by the mess of towels near the door.
Here I can cry at every mistake I've made,
but than each salty tear will become
a pinprick, a dot on the glass, individual only for a second,
before it slides away.
Here I can write my doubts
on the tile,
but my pudgy fingers will only
leave a trail of vanishing pixie dust.
My shower is the lost and found of my soul,
a hidden cave
in the Bermuda Triangle
of my consciousness.
Rose in Milk Jug
Words curl into drops of water that rejuvenate me
like the red rose drinking from its life juice
out of the milk jar that’s cloudy and faded,
its number eight greyed and worn
and peeling out of the edges,
green leaves beaded with condensation,
clamping against the sides of the jug
as they stay steadfast, so strong, so delicate.
The sturdy light green stem reminds me of life and youth
and my own seventeen years on this earth.
Seventeen years having loved this world
full of colors and shapes and sounds.
It reminds me that my life is slowly curling
at the edges one by one,
like the shiny, velvety petals on the rose in the milk jug.
So fragile, yet so strong.
Stop, for a second.
See the mountain.
Hear it. Feel it.
This is your existence.
You who has been,
who will be.
Listen to the gentle heartbeat
of the earth.
Stay calm, focused,
ignore the din of the people,
of those who do not know.
Do you hear how the earth suffers?
How it groans
when starry skies become smudges
made of graphite on paper?
Do you feel the wet rain on your back,
sticky and salty like the tears
the moist soil breathes one last time
before it is burnt into ashes?
Listen darling, listen.
You are the mountain now.
You are the beat.
You are the earth.
Learn darling, learn,
so that you can save
paper mâché smile,
apple slice eyes
holding back tears.
Creases on their faces mark
the eyeliner smudged
over rosy cheeks and outstretched fingers,
like marionette dolls.
End of an era
Always the piano changes,
and like dark incense,
our words float into an air
that tastes like . darkness.
The tears that I shed
when I hear one last Laudate Pueri
will never stop carving salty crevices
into my cheeks
and my hands will never stop dancing
under the paper starch drenched in black ink
and the leather of my binder,
cold and smooth against my skin,
reminding me to sing.
I can hear the crescendoing passion
that rises from my chest
like an unquenchable fire
settling slowly to the beat of the drum,
searing the inside of the white church,
leaving it charred and smoky and warm,
blackened with the words of permanence.
Skirts woven of licorice layers,
topped with a cherry made of cinnamon,
our bodies dance to the pine-sap glow
of the room mottled with shining faces
everyone together for the Christmas spirit.
When I was younger
I would play with my grandfather’s
that lived on the shelf by the piano
that I wasn’t supposed to touch,
high up, on the second glass rung.
I would sit there on the brown leather couch,
caramel curls coupled with white chocolate skin,
my grandfather’s navy blue sweater,
draped over his soft and sleepy shoulders.
The first doll was always the prettiest.
I would peel her away and set her apart.
Run my little fingers over the curled edges
of the red and gold paper that clung,
along the thick parts of the wooden curves.
Head tucked under my grandfather's
I would dream
of the pink tinge that would line my lips,
a long gold pendant
that would adorn my chest.
Pink bows in my hair,
my own matryoshka:
the outermost layer.
The second doll was the strongest.
Something about the brusque blue and black flowers
that decorated the purple bonnet,
the painted red cheeks
and the squinting eyes
that smiled dully at me,
A knight with armour
that glitters in the afternoon sun,
riding on a tall white horse.
His strong knuckles tighten around curving metal
setting up a double edged blade.
to its simplest form,
in my five year old mind.
A shaking girl
stood in front of a crowd
of sneering faces,
ready to expose the secrets
she holds in her throat,
entwined in the words
she will spin into sounds.
A layer thick like leather,
a boldly coloured matryoshka,
in my nineteen year old mind.
The dolls in the middle
were the ones that made me think.
yet distinctly something else.
Their small smiles
and yellow dresses,
half closed eyes,
graceful ballet flats.
soft footsteps that would crunch
against my grandfather’s carpet,
creating semi-circles that grow bigger
every inch I move with outstretched arms
fluttering like I am a butterfly.
A thin layer of grace,
of baby pink skin that covers my shoulders
and forms me a ballerina,
a fairy princess,
my own middle matryoshka.
The last doll,
the littlest one
at the core of it all
would be the most boring
yet the most wonderful.
And as I would hold that heavy grey figurine
in my outstretched palm, I would look at my grandfather,
pleading with shining eyes:
“Can we play again?”
Wishing I could shove
the doll that reminded me of myself
and my secrets
under the protection of the other dolls,
My very being
melting back into the happy middle dolls,
into the brave doll with the high red cheeks,
into the beautiful doll with the curling flowers.
All of my layers,
my matryoshka dolls,