Friday, December 28, 2012

My Pen Bleeds

I think to be a poet, you must have no identity. Your existence should be fluid enough to flow into all matter and become it, momentarily. Pouring yourself into the wind, into the sounds of emotions, into others…should come as naturally as leaves to a tree. This then makes the poet her own nemesis because inherently we are programmed to be somebody. Perhaps if she can learn herself well enough to realize she knows nothing then she could become ,well, everything. Somehow in between the smoking guns and clashing swords of that internal conflict, nothing short of amazing could erupt. That’s where I want to find myself someday but in the mean time . . .

My soul drips at the tip of this pen
Like a knife having walked across my neck
It is painted with life though fleeting but undiluted
Thus I curve my humanity on this paper, seemingly motionless
But can only be interpreted by the nudity of Michelangelo’s David
Or the evolution of the deepest rivers
Where there is nothing and everything to hide
Where existence is a war for peace
A war and peace, the faces I wore to appease
…to up his, the load I stole from his shoulders
The ice I warmed with soothing smolders
That I may bask in the afterglow, feeding off the radiance
Of his lips stretching across his teeth reaching out to me
Like diving into a warm sky as the sun sets
Like tasting the light from the moon’s kiss
Yet in all this I know I could live without
On a need to breath basis I would be running out
But am down with a kind of illness
Fevered by its conversion of a fickle mind into an anchoring stillness
That changes how you wake up in the morning
And adds a depth to your inherent longing
The distance has been questioning how long loneliness should last
See I forgot how to look at me and not see you first
Retracing the steps in my mind . . .mentally inclined to find
When it first happened . . .
When I could hold you even with folded arms
And see you with closed eyes
When I first caught a glimpse into heaven
And all of yesterdays were forgiven
When my visits adopted a repeatity that would shame infinity
And plugging in emotionally became a pilgrimage tied to eternity
With your embraces as my mecca
I attend to a pillar molded in me by my maker
as there is a holiness to a hearts affection
that is far beyond slippery blisses
that grasps ceaselessly to butterfly teases
that is half in love with an easeful death
that mimics the horizon in broadening its breath
that drips like blood from my soul
like ink from this pen dissolving the surface that licks this paper
absorbing will like the tune played by the piper
changing everything …but like the paper looking to the pen
I question is your tip any blunter, did you lean when I folded
Does what I take feel stolen
Would you stand in the count of the fallen . . .
does your sun light up the same
Burning steady with a numbing flame

In undressing my fears and clothing yours…stirs a kind of factual sensation
That we are all but flaws stitched with good intentions
And like these homeless words I pour out now in pounds
I shall conceive others perhaps of a different sound
And like now I will guide them into this tube of ink
And like now, into some ocean ill let them sink
Saving nothing but the last words for memories sake
So then. . . a fool, a kiss and a promise I take

Wednesday, October 10, 2012

IF I DIE OLD . . .

Dear life,

Am looking into this mirror glass…. I counted my freckles here once, imagining a time when I would be righting my wedding veil then grow on into a frazzled young mother before the betrayals of my body sink in and id be counting my age spots in this looking glass, still.

If I die old, if the spores of time silently slipping by, lodge in my skin to wrinkle it with my face deeply lined, deeply inhabited by the history of a thousand journeys taken and bruises from failures, regrets deflected and extra love given then let me grow fonder of my dimming sight and deeper sighs, of my fainter laughs and careless styles. Let me grow wise with a calm incuriousness. Let the mysteries be settled and haunting questions answered. Let my writing not acquire a stalling stillness but an ache to be stirred and birthed in classical glory .  .  . .

If I die old, if my traitorous body withers; if my organs fail and my limbs become weaker; if my beauty fades and senses grow dull then release me from the scrambly madness of the unfortunate habit of ceaselessly  thinking. Though my skin may collapse let not my thoughts follow. Let me grow into tranquility and shade the immediacy of my youth .  .   .  .

If I die old, then may my aged presence still sermon a fondness in someone else’s gaze. Like faded paint in a beloved room, let my beauty be reflected in the familiar eyes of those I’ll have grown to attach to the bu-boom of my heart’s beat.  .  . . And if my loved ones must go first, if death must tear them from me – loss is singular, let it be one at a time that I may bleed drop by drop revisiting memories and reciting details but not in loneliness, oh Lord, not in loneliness .  .  .  .

If I die old, let not my soul depart at once but there be a succession of separation that I may have time .  .  . just time, a little bit longer to write a last song, a last letter or to right a wrong .  .  .and when the cold wind carries me off into dust, let me not be forgotten.

Looking into this mirror glass I wonder, will I shake down all the grains of time or is tomorrow not even mine .  .  .

Thursday, October 4, 2012

Poetic Existence

I woke up , only to find that I had crashed in the night. I don’t know when or even how it happened. Mostly am amazed that I didn’t see the signs. Stranded, now am stranded with this brokenness of mine…wondering if I should start the fixing or just wait, wait for something or some time…the right time maybe(?)

I must have been careless with myself. It is the only explanation I have got. I crumbled without a sound and slept through and betwixt my rubble…not even aware that I needed saving. But I had told me to call, said id be there. I told me to cry out, said id show. That is the crippling sadness of this ordeal, that all I needed was myself but I really didn’t know…

So I think I will take that time after all. Wait a while then start the fixing…so ill just sit here, desolate as it may be…atleast I got me, still…

Tuesday, August 16, 2011


It was brought to my attention recently that collectively, the posts on my blog paint a rather abstract image of ideas- a vague reflection of myself. I cannot say that I agree yet I am not out rightly disagreeing either. There are fragments of me in every written idea, some hiding behind words and some simply forthright. I share a fragile relationship with some posts and a strong one with others. The point is I am in there somewhere but I guess it would make more sense if one would know some of the things to look for, right? So as difficult and uncomfortable as this was, I wrote a ‘selfporait’,a sketch with a few details in the fabric.

I am just the girl next door who often takes every opportunity to play. Everything is relative, sometimes, that includes myself. There is always two sides of a story, occasionally three and I tend to reside on the fence. Probably every animal in my neighborhood is my friend, except for the cats-they do not like me and the feeling is mutual. I change my looks like a channel, appearing different often but never changing who I am. Similarly it has been said that my moods could shame a sine wave. However the changing speed of these moods is too fast for anyone to keep up with so I try to only display the more elaborate/semi-constant ones. I am quite the klutz and as embarrassing as this is, I cry at sad parts in a movie (no matter how many times I’ve seen it). I can get distracted by my little toe in the midst of something ‘important’ and even stop at mid-step to simply day dream. Speaking of dreams, I like my sleep. Maybe not so much the sleep but it’s the dreams I crave. I am that girl you send for a packet of milk to the shop and I come back home with a stray puppy, or a random homeless kid or a chameleon or a scorpion which I’d feed with cornflakes (probably without the milk too). My favorite place is the shower but if I had an ocean as my backyard I’d be willing to reconsider. I hope to camp in the desert someday and go scuba diving-my one chance to feel at home. In my list of 100 things to do before I die, the 99th is to discover an alternative to death. (the 100th –is a plan B lest the 99th doesn’t work out)
Music is life. Sometimes, ok fine a little more than sometimes, I forget my age and I hate it when somebody asks me what it is and I don’t have a calculator near by (not that id tell after calculating anyway). Stuff like hiding from me, though to most people they’d phrase it by saying I lose stuff a lot-same difference. I am not really smart or really gifted but simply very very very curious. One of my favorite aphorism, ‘Curiosity killed the cat’ ( can you guess why??). As na├»ve as this sounds I believe EVERYONE has a silver lining. There are allegations that I am ‘secretive’, well, I am not telling what my response to that is. My opinion on ‘karma’- its like Santa clause, people are expecting gifts based on whether they have been naughty or nice, but Santa aint real my darlings!!My opinion on love-it is never having to say excuse me when you fart (in a nutshell). My opinion on politics-it is important gibberish. My overused word: “OKAY”. What to always keep in mind: I rarely speak what really is on my mind.If I could contribute anything to humanity, I'd find a way to insert background music to life, every scenario! Fact: I think alot. Fiction: I am not shy.I like open windows , moving motor vehicles, crackers and turbulence during flights. I don’t like (cats), routine and pineapples. I am good at confusing people. I am bad at ‘opening up’ or being so direct when referring to myself- having established that, this brings us to the end of this post that is in itself too long.
The hardest thing I have done today: pressing ‘PUBLISH' for this blog post. I did it though, gave it my best shot too!

Wednesday, July 6, 2011

Stealing Touches

Restlessly drumming
Constantly humming
These fingers I wear
Feel the music in the air
Moving to the samba drums
Blood rushing to its tips
As they ride on a palpitating beat
Dancing, on the desk, the book, the seat
Stealing touches…
Itchy and willing
Curious and seeking
These fingers I wear
They see, they stare
Like two eyes that wonder
They neither sleep nor slumber
Strumming colors, skin and where sight has been
Stealing touches…
Drawing and scribbling
Erasing and rephrasing
These fingers I wear
Leave markings everywhere
Tickled while telling
Stories worth sharing
They converse, they talk
Voicing poems, fiction and reality’s walk
Stealing touches…
Secretly and quietly
Often absent mindedly
These fingers I wear
Inadvertently flare
To quench adventure
To put out wander lusts’ nature
By stealing touches…