Tag: poem

36

My biological clock is tangerine textured and linen flavored. It ticks almost cutely beneath the kitchen sink as images of Man and his daughters dissolve in a pan of citrasolv above. My clock, let’s call her Norina, is fashionably late. My eggs play badminton in my cramping womb, and I feel the children that could have been vaping in my chest. Norina knows she will end soon, an Armageddon all her own, her own chapter in my personal book of Revelation. The greatest gift in life is life, and Time is scooping it out of me like ice cream. I have so little to offer. I was built to be soil for a generation of redwoods. Instead I’ve become the grime at the bottom of an old casserole dish, growing age and disrespect.

Christmas Eve

Salvation writes His manifesto in these dark hours of living. A child is born, light scented and perilously full of love. Salvation will begin and end in blood, in pain, in unjust humbleness. Beauty sprouts from dust, just as it always has. Just as the camellias jab their smiling faces through sheets of ice to lend the dead world their color. Christmas gleams like a gem on each desiccated year because the light of our savior shone through the eyes of a child. That light, that sweet, serene fire, is purifying us for endless euphoria.

Christmas Poem

Among the Christmas scented pines, my good deeds burning with the rest of the greenery in His all consuming fire. How paltry is my finest, purplest day next to one second of God’s goodness?

Salvation comes from the womb of a girl with a blue soul, blue as purity, as truth. Salvation that begins and ends in blood, in pain, in unjust humbleness. Beauty sprouting from dust, just as it always has. Just as the camelias jab their smiling faces through sheets of doleful ice to lend the dead world their color.

  • This poem is in progress. I am still refining it for the church Christmas celebration

Victim

Heavy happenings stain me like ink. When the clouds tease me, they rain just enough to mist my hair. I can never quench my thirst or rinse the shine from my skin. The world is a foil sparkling in my kitchen. Darkness darkness everywhere and not a drop to drink. The crashes out on the train tracks are daily now. I am a victim not yet assigned a death.

Salvation…a Vision

Christmas is a plot line in a novel I sew with the soft pink silk of my lungs. How God, as vanilla voiced as He is, could write a letter of love to a spider with a breathing addiction is beyond me. But I’m grateful. I wear my garnets to the foyer of Bliss and reconfigure my name. When the lightning bug veers too close to me, I cut him free, and I bleed.






Oh Yellow!

The grass is so unfair, blemishing the earth with shades of antipsychotic and anesthetic green. I long instead for flowers. Flowers mailing a parcel at the post office. Flowers mending my broken spirit. Flowers mining the sun for smiles.  Purple flowers purr fancifully. Pink flowers harvest at the vineyard. And yellow flowers! Oh yellow! Toying with my tresses and my head, leading me down alleys of lust.

Depression

My thoughts are gridlocked.
Red travesties everywhere,
Blue regrets blurring
Into a wistfulness that tastes
Of honey and old soap.
The dark force is here again,
Its claws reaching from my
Quivering core to silence
The voice I have watered daily
For 30 anxious years.

How can I trample someone
With more arms and legs than I?
Depression as spider winding webs
All over the courtyard of my once ebullient mind. 
Creativity needs me like the sun needs
Photosynthesis-
Which is to say she doesn’t,
But I need her desperately.

Peel the purposeless purple prose
From my prodigious mind.
Help me unearth truth,
Swimming as she does
Beneath us all
In the water table.

And I Wept

Circular dreams circumnavigate my life,
Forever rolling away to a lulling dreamland
Where my name makes love on the beach
To herself and my flagrant ineptitude.
Dreams are lavender fields,
The hand of God running over them,
Plucking his favorite from the crowd.
After that it’s all up up up.
God is height,
Is depth.
The stillbirth of my ambitions
Haunts me while I scrub the sand
Off the deserted desert.
Wind writes to me,
The party was fantastic!
I waltzed with Purpose.
He touched my clit
And I wept.
Caramel dreams stretch over my
Inebriated mind
With the same kind of power
A drop of water has
Eating at a rock,
Distempered Time,
Take me back to that first
Autumn morning
When Possibility held me in his arms.