Day Four. I dreamed today you died. the hollowed out belly of the earth was not a great enough grave for you. Tulips with streaks of unknown hues planted in every corner of the world just so every time I saw them I knew it was a part of you.
Day Two. cage confined and cradled tight the canary couldn’t find the voice to sing as the woman wrapped in wrinkles kicked the cage again sucking in on violent air that ends a voice before it begins. ashes tapped into the maw of a porcelain tray brought to lips again a kiss of death placed upon your own lips with a falsified promise to be made new. the canary lost its voice in the labyrinth of the woman’s smoke so even when the cave comes crashing down the canary could only let out a smoky whisper to lead their ghosts down the tunnel’s solitary way where once was solid, returns to the unformed void.
Day Three. she never knew what her summersong sounded like until the drifting harmonies where swept away with the fallen leaves like old headlines faded on newspapers smeared by autumn rain that unlike spring brought a downpour with no pretense for blossoms
Day One. Trap snapped shut Bones crack like the crackle of fire Hair bristles like a soldier’s salute to the grave Arms folded like American flags Trying to pull in the pain Gathering it slowly like a child to your chest Cradle this cacophony of chaos Like a bullet ricocheting in your brain I am the fox with barred teeth under snarling lips Peeled back like onion skin from the bone white beneath With frantic eyes and fearful heart Waiting for the hunter to find me.
The month of April is poetry month and to celebrate I am taking up the mantle of a challenge to write a poem every single day of this month. Be it short or long, I will try to put something poetic up everyday. I am going to try out short poems which I have never really done before, so bare with me as I try something new.
This day marked the end of the first leg of our journey in Israel. We woke up early, bags packed, and lined up on the curb like children waiting to board the school bus for their first day of class. We ate our last breakfast at Nof Ginosaur and watched the waves lap on the beach, our last sight of the Sea of Galilee. It was a sad and exciting moment to leave behind the place we had called home for the last three days in order to branch out and find a new home in Israel. We had one stop on the way before out final destination for the day could be reached; we had eight new members to pick up and join our merry crew. ...
The robins came in the rain To take the worms away. Mother told me they were drowning And the birds lent their wings For a rescue mission That taught the creatures Of the earth, what the sky Felt like beyond just a dream. That the robins whisked them away From mud puddles deeper Than the well I watch Father dig That seemed to stretch from earth Back to sky all over again. Mother told me worms couldn’t swim Because their arms never grew right. Kind of like how I never grew right. Will the robins save me When the waters come too high? Of course they will honey, And they will teach you to fly. ...
My mind is full of egret eyes. Swiveling movement like the weight At the end of a fishing line, Pulling the hook serrated and sharp Into the darkest parts of the sea That only fish with grey translucent eyes Can see with something more than sight That illuminates the darkest parts of this world. I feel disturbed like the jellied eye Of a fish left too long in the sun; Poked by innocent hands seeking fun. My mind is pierced by shrieks of delight As children run away, cringing in fright; A game played by children in a twilight too dark To be anything else but night. ...
I always cry when I read poetry. Oh, you must read very sad poems then. No, I just forget to blink or maybe I am afraid- In case a word slips away like a ship into the sunset That can never be returned if lost at sea, Or a love note burned so that it will never be seen. You see poetry is elusive, And we must keep a wary eye upon it at all times. This watchful gaze cannot be pried from the page- Just in case a word tries to escape, Like a fox willing to bite off its foot for freedom You see, I am diligent in my reading, like a hunter in wait. ...
Picking apart the pieces of a pinecone Digging with fingertips sore from the pain From the sharp edges of a hardened core The consistent pulling apart to pry open The heavy wooden doors of the heart Individually plucking the pieces like the strings of a harp Angels screaming when the pluck turns to a pull Like a sharp withdrawal of breath That doesn’t belong in your lungs This poison of decay Not the decay of fall Like the slowly drifting leaves that cascade From heights unattainable by man That can only be felt by the swift sigh of the wind Between your grasping fingertips Like the grasping fingers of your love That slips away because you weren’t strong enough To hold on to them as they begged with teary eyes Looking up at you from the great descent And you let them go, knowing you couldn’t bear the weight Of both of you and the love that was creating a canopy Over your heads and compressing your hearts And lungs until even the soft scent of fall could not revive you On this cold winter day As the last of the fall leaves are being swept away down the stream Where you once cast little paper boats Wondering as you held hands where they would land Hoping for fantasy but knowing even as your fingers unwove That they would end caught in the dam of nature Of things never quite meant to be But it wasn’t enough to make you say no Even as you plucked the ribs of a pinecone Asking whether she loved you or not Like petals of a daisy that have atrophied and petrified Just as the bitterness of the question has cemented in your heart Like a cancer hardening you from the inside out Until you are as purely petrified As the dissected limbs of lumber left for dead Each band stands out, creating a carousel of time But the Braille of years gone by has become illegible Leaving you to remember the lost sound of symphonies Music notes echoing into starless nights Caught in cashmere skies cascading with rain Where only the earthy smell of Petrichor remains And the scattered scales of the barren pinecone Left in the fall foliage like spent shells of artillery Even these bullets cannot stop the pain in you As you abandon the stripped pinecone And begin to pull apart the sharp edges of yourself To find the hardened core within Hollow it out until it is empty And start over again