The Sweetest Eve

Lightning struck
a sugary apple tree
on a snowy mountain.
The hungry flames raged
as they sought to be fulfilled,
trees went ablaze.

The snow kept returning, kept falling,
in the ebb and flow of the rising flames
and the falling snow
your image appeared.

You are the mistress of the elements.
You are the embodiment of love.
Your touches bring life . . . .

A half eaten apple lays at your feet
with our bite marks on it.

Mr. Unknown

Mr. Unknown
his flesh is composed
of twisted and crumbled paper,
which interlock to form his body,
a body, which is covered with a wrinkled skin of glue.

Mr. Unknown
his veins are a bunch of pens
burned and fused together,
twisting and turning within,
they are stained with ink,
not blood.

Mr. Unknown
his fingers are ten crayons,
his tongue a paintbrush,
and with them he scribbles and paints
images on the blood red canvas of my heart.
The images transform into sounds,
the sounds transforms into words,
words in my mouth.
I try to speak the words,
but I am silenced
by this system, by this censorship.
Mr. Unknown is poetry,
Mr. Unknown is a part of me,
Mr. Unknown is poetry,
Mr. Unknown
is a part of me….
Mr. Unknown, or better yet poetry,
is a dying artist
lying in my soul,
hurt,
wounded,
and decaying
because of this system,
because of this censorship.
We can’t speak words,
but they will paint the walls
with our blood . . . .

Feathery Skies

On a clear day
if you look at the sky
with imaginative eyes
you might see
millions of blue doves
lined up in columns and rows
with their wings spread wide apart
and sewn together
feather with feather,
one blue dove with another.
I shall return,
return from my journey,
I shall return to your arms.

On a clear night
if you look at the sky
with imaginative eyes
you might see
millions of black crows
lined up in columns and rows
with their wings spread wide apart
and sewn together
feather with feather,
one black crow with another.
Their eyes sparkling white.
I shall return,
return from my journey,
I shall return to your arms.

I shall return from my journey
holding one blue feather
and one black feather.
I shall return to your bed,
I shall return
holding the feathers in guilt and shame
knowing that parts of the day and night
are not even great enough gifts for you
so I drop the feathers
and make another journey
for another gift . . . .

War-Paint

Stained flags drawn
on her eyes.
Red blood-painted smears
on her lips.
White gun-powder smokes
on her face.
She fixes her skirt, picks up her briefcase . . . . loaded with pens.
She is a Woman.

Without You

Without you
I am an incomplete poem
left on fate’s desk, untouched.
Take your pen
and ink the painful verse of my heart,
ink the broken verse of my soul,
ink fragmented sentences to capture
the shattered lines of my mind . . . .
Go ahead write me.
You are the poet . . . .
I am the mouth,
you are the voice.
I am the mouth,

you are the voice.

Do not let me be silent.
Do not let me be silent .

Deer One

Deer One,
lost in the forest of my soul,
drinking from the puddles of honey-water,
that rain from the clouds of love,
which have become sore and swollen under
my skin . . . .

Deer One,
lost in the forest of my soul
amongst the trees of desire,
which are rooted in my spirit . . .
my soul slowly closes like an open palm turning into a fist,
the trees engulf her, embrace her, those green fingers smeared their red sap on her,
the smell of their pines intoxicated her,
putting her to sleep in the green cradle of my soul,
the birds of lust in my spirit, make their nests,
interwoven,
all over her naked body,
forming a blanket to cover her body,
they give her warmth and security,
she becomes their breeding ground,
she sighs,
her breath flies,
in the forest of my spirit
like a draft full of seeds,
pollinating my dreams,
the mother of life in my soul . . . .

When the cradle breaks, she will arise from this green cocoon,
with the red color of sap,
with the baby brown of the nests,
with the vivacious green of the trees
all blended to become the magical color of her wings,
she becomes a monarch butterfly,
my monarch butterfly,
my butterfly,
butterfly.

Phoenix

We are the fire under the ashes.
One day we will rise
and burn you.