Silent Night: Sleep in Heavenly Peace

Brass knuckle keys clutched in her trembling hand
thin stilettos clicking quick down the street.
The cocktail no longer tasting so sweet
vision going black, getting hard to stand.
Bartender's face, smiling, was taunt and tanned
she didn't see it, when blushing at her feet
thighs weaker when standing up from her seat
cursing herself, learning that it was planned--
thick fingers planted on the car door.
Her jaw slackens, knees collapse, passing out
he grips her wrinkled blouse to hold her up,
drunk whisper: "You wanted this, you whore."
In the hospital, her friend had some doubt
"Are you sure that it wasn't just a hookup?"

Passerine

"Hope" is the thing with feathers -

That perches in the soul -

And sings the tune without the words -

And never stops - at all -

-Emily Dickinson

In the darkness of mid-winter

when shadows mar the ground

the tree that homes the sparrow

shivers snow from its arms.

The spruce protects the innocent

shrouds the one it fathers

needles prick away at prey,

blankets those that matter.

Together they will last the weathers.

"Hope" is the thing with feathers -

Small enough to brave the branches

quiet enough to sit,

overlooked until it's needed,

calmer than the ebbing tide.

Sleeping in the frozen winters,

patient to fulfil its role,

it feeds on love and cherished hugs

starving day by day.

Peckish thing, not quite whole,

That perches in the soul -

It wakes in fleeting moments,

one eye open to the chaos,

weaker than the sickest dog

while stronger than all hate.

Friends flock to form a force

courage shepherds all its herds

the strong, powerful, and kind.

In the solstice of the winter,

the sparrow leads the birds

And sings the tune without the words -

Sweat and tears melt the snow

sunshine parts the clouds

seen at last, beneath the cloak

of pine and thorns and chill.

Fingers brushing plumage,

antiphon to despair's call,

a song stored within our heart,

the chorus soft, but ringing.

The melody is bright in squall

And never stops - at all -

My Love,

Your eyes are like the stars:
big burning balls of gas that vanquish
any nearby life--
(with their beauty, of course).
Your voice is like honey
dripping in my ears.
Your skin is wondrous to touch, like...
like that material George Costanza
always wanted to drape himself in.

Your hair is like corn silk:
yellow, with the occasional white streak.
Your body is like an hourglass--
your weight trickles to the bottom.
Your lips taste like green apples
(before they rot, darling).
And you smell like the bouquet of roses
I found in the dumpster behind
our favourite restaurant.

Midnight Swim -- Cento

Behind the sky there’s a storm

of one snow fleck

and plunged into distant regions,

hands, woven of water and logic

spilled gradually, flooding

a typewriter on fire, like a hundred

birches dance, and they 

taste the air, the morning and the evening,

the new blue light of moon and ice

the dormant field, the snow

shiny as the coal under the railroad bridge

or a shell beneath the moving water.

The chrome surface of the dream’s lake

within a stone’s throw,

coarse salt and silver-wire hair

cut through thickening dusk

while hound dogs bark underneath

being serenaded by crickets singing the blues 

(Plenty, Offerings, Death of a Young Son, These Poems She Said, Hanlan's Point,
Sweet Like a Crow, 400: Coming Homes, Fear of Snakes, April Iceberg of Bragg's
Island, They Are Hostile Nations, Mount Vesuvius with Lips, I Have Not Lingered Long,
Dear Updike, Fire Watch, Burnt Pot Riverbank Indifferent Sky, The Suburbs,
Not the Heaven of Raccoons, the knowing.)

i LiKE HOW YOUR EYES ADJUST TO THE DARK

                _{you become more aware of your other senses}

_{you stretch out your hands}

                _{run your palm against the wall}

_{slow your breathing so that footsteps}

                _{their creaks and thuds}

                _{direct you:}

                                _echolocation

_{your pupils expand and for a split second}

                _{you understand how cameras work}

_{but the lights come back on and your arms drop limp like a ragdoll's}

_{your eyes tell you all you need to know}

_{sometimes you forget how blinding it can be}

                _{but you adjust}

                _{as fast as you adjust to hot water in the shower and the cold air}

_{when you exit in december even march because no matter what winter is too}

                _{damn long.}

_{i enjoy that moment}

                _{before my eyes absorb enough rays to form images}

_{before it calibrates itself to suit my needs}

                _{there's fear at the back of my throat}

_{my hands don't know where to search like i'm a}

_{zombie (sleepwalkers that freak out their spouses a lot}

_{both somewhat bleary as they couldn't see in the dark)}

_{when the lights are out}

                _{we connect by touch}

                _{bumping into each other}

_{after a while you work out little details about someone}                                                                       

                _{like how they always lisp their 's' when they're impassioned}

                _{the light might cast a shadow over their dimple}

                                _{but you never noticed how they hum themselves to sleep}

_{the darkness lets us see things in a new light.}

Public Poetry

Despite the powerful prowess that prodigies possess,

and our defined, refined, confined but blind education,

humans are traveling down a one-way path,

and we've won the way to self-destruction.

Long before Adam and Eve,

our primitive primate ancestors

goaded their grey matter to grow

by nibbling on their neighbour's noggin.

Munching on a little meat

enabled bigger brains

with advanced capabilities—

who cares about better bodies?

In these temples,

we have mazes that amaze me

and tracks that trace routes

faithfully without fail.

What's wonderful is what's inside—

not the tangled strings of emotions,

or the puzzling parts of personalities,

but our bizarrely beautiful science.

There's a stigma surrounding mutations,

that altered DNA is always bad.

Humans could be more efficient,

identical, perfect drones.

The Kitchen Boy

A lad with tousled hair tossing shortcrust pie,

with hands as cracked as the skin on his forehead

when he says 'ello to the princess's maid.

Fig juice spilling down his chapped knuckles like blood,

staining his face as he wipes off the sweat caused

by the oven; he can't stand it. Escaping

to the familiar bales of hay never masks

his fennel fragrance; his anise aroma.

He leaves a trail of flour through his matted locks.

Working so young and eating the rejects—

gruel.

Social Commentary Poem

Encapsulated in my memory,

for no stable imagery exists,

homes a lush, roadside grove.

Unnatural.

Mother Nature never called

for rows of trees.

She doesn't bother

with order.

In it bears a modern house,

worn dirt paths find their way

to unsightly gas guzzlers

sitting on the dried gas.

No, it is not true nature.

No, it isn't located

in the middle

of nowhere.

But the rows are uneven,

the spacing wrong,

frequent gaps

and rotten apples.

The house is built from

its surrounding neighbours,

true.

But large, ungainly pines

shield their friend

and block the enemy.

Years pass.

The orchard flourishes.

Families drop by,

grabbing apples

that are too small,

eating apples

that don't

even

shine.

Years pass.

A parking lot is built

so more families can visit.

Gravel is put in to lead

to the house for

easy access.

The pines

are

chopped

down.

Years pass.

'The Orchard
Coming Soon'

The sign looms

as if to say

there wasn't

an orchard

already.

Months pass.

The trees are

slaughtered.

The earth is

mulched.

The house is

not a house.

Weeks pass.

The dirt is gone,

replaced with gravel.

The trees have returned,

transfigured into lavish huts.

The memories remain,

as does the sign.

The only real orchard

is the one

in my mind.

Intertextual Poem

The mourning-dove mercilessly

coos my sentence in the woods.

They are the hangmen

pronouncing my sentence

in the suitable language of love.

And I'm missing you.

With silver bells and cockle shells,

the big ship sank to the bottom of the sea.

The gravel and stone will be washed away,

and the silver and gold will be stolen away.

I found them indeed,

but it made my heart bleed.

Punish me for my irresistible beauty.

Punish me for my desecration.

Foolish men sought me out

to earn their reputations.

The old gold of the stunted cedars,

the horizons,

the chilly gullies with their red willow

whips, intoxicate me

and confirm belief

in what I have done.

To look upon me was to turn to stone,

for no mortal can withstand the direct gaze of divinity.

Iron and steel will bend

and break.

I am the thorn in her side.

I am her reverse reflection.

Your back was a firm line of eastern coast.

I'm just missing you...

Rogue Fairy

Preceeds Titania's lines in Act 4, Scene 1 (page 125)

Enter Matchbush, Peaseblossom, Cobweb, and Moth.

Matchbush: Gentle fairies, gather 'round

for the noble king ye hath crown'd,

mine eye spotted hoisting with utmost joy,

an addled Indian changeling boy.

My father thought him wholly shrewd,

but in truth his duties were eschew'd.

Thus have I resolved against my stay

and wish instead to join Titania's fray.

My guardians hold opposing views,

yet have granted me the honour to chuse.

Tired of my listless ways,

they ended my namikle¹ days.

Mayhap here I shall find direction

and fleetingly, true love's affection.

Peaseblossom: Didst thou expect their feud

to last as long as thee dost conclude?

Come hither, if thou wilt, discover

they are each a lover,

yet my fairy queen hath taken another.

Matchbush: What ho! This neither man nor beast,

nor e'en a fairy, at least!

Thou belovèd queen hath had her brains

stolen, for but a spoonful remains.

Thou art as foolish as she

if thou believes Titania loves he.

Cobweb: Fie! out cur! knave!

Flee now if thee wish not an early grave!

Thou churlish, dallying lout!

Thou art vile, but a pig-snout!

Moth: For thy discourtesies

we represent thine enemies.

Thee, we shalt banish

unless thee quickly vanish.

Matchbush: N'er did I desire

to turn myself a liar.

Nor was labour but an irk;

I n'er did wish to work.

King Oberon, I prefer,

hath plenty more sense than her,

but, i'faith, I desire neither.

My land of birth

nonpariel upon this earth,

filled with bare blanched limestone,

mountain reaching, age ripened trees,

mindless, buzzing humblebees,

serving golden liquid from honeycombs-

ay, this paradise is my home.

I shall transgress my parent's requests
for life with king or queen holds no success.

I was told I have a lovely voice,

and thus, this is my choice-

I could pass as an Athenian eunuch,

and in time, live by the Aegean Sea.

I could live off of an olive tree,

and though it may be unwise wishing,

I might eat plentifully by fishing.

I shall bring books to read,

and at last, be finally feeling freed.

Moth: Then return whence thou came,

return to the land of the shiftless laggards,

and insult our fair queen no more.

Peaseblossom: As thou wilt, Matchbush.

I bid thee luck on thy travels.

Cobweb: Avaunt! Get thee gone!

Hie, aroint thee!

Moth: Fare thee well,

Matchbush.

Matchbush: God save ye!       [Exit.]

¹=adj: lacking motivation; not caring; shielding self from responsibility 

Dawning Remembrance

In an L-shaped room

a familiar man directs me to the second-floor.

My path is covered in glass,

and the bodyguard at the base of the stairs says,

"Now I have no escape."

I tiptoe past the shards

to the upper unwalled floor.

I speak to a short girl,

blonde ringlets framing her porcelain features,

wearing a Victorian-style dress—

Ozma.

She opens her fairytale

and we begin to read.

Breakfast for Naiads

The pond's still,

shallow surface

curtained by branched

               intertwined ballroom dancers

shelters a nymph

with glowing hair

and skin stretched thin

from her last meal.

Speckled flowers

pale greens soft pinks

               markers travelers follow

where she can feed

from their greed,

drink from their vanity,

consume their sins.

The unassuming paradise

               a specious graveyard of vice

Barbara Millicent Roberts' Rebuttal

I have a need to address

society's constant worry

over how I should dress

to make my curves less.

See, I'm pretty old, but

I haven't any lines,

nor wrinkles or sags,

on this body I've been assigned

from the factory.

Is there some kind of official

to judge my appearance?

Why am I being assessed

based on the skin which I was blessed?

What about my job as a vet?

I know how to take care of pets—

babies and children, too,

but apparently it was wrong

for me to be a mom

(while looking so young).

All those years in med school,

to be a surgeon, all that time in uni,

to be blasted into space, from education

to politics in our nation, I have so

many qualifications, why don't

you take a look at my resumé

before you take a look at me?

Can't a girl be smart

and pretty, too? 

Whales, Dolphins, Sharks

When the seas are as red

as God's calamity on Egypt,

when the liquid once giving life

stains the shore's rocks,

when lifeless corpses weigh down your boat,

why continue the massacre?

We should not be those

to decide the fate of another.

The blood filling the oceans

blossom like our sins.

Afterword

After two solid hours

of flipping, turning, and scanning,

my emotions have been sautéed

in a pan of spicy conflicts

and sweet romances.

The pages are dotted with tears

of both laughter and sadness,

and there's one streak of blood

from my paper cut.

The nice guy was killed off,

the ditzy blonde got pregnant,

the quiet ginger was sent to jail,

and the protagonist lived happily ever after.

Until the sequel comes out, that is.