Category: Poetry

clone

God are you out there?  I can’t hear you right now – feel you.  I’m throwing punches in the air.  Feels like cutting through nothing. Completely unsatisfying. Like painting with the color: clear.  I’m living the soundtrack – Atonement.  There is an unsettling.  I pray you settle, dust.

People.  In and out like tides – I, the moon pushing them back and forth.

Lasso me – buffalo gals…

What draws them – only to wane them away – away with you.  What purpose do the start stops serve?  I’ve many half read books lying around.  Always coming – forever going.

you cannot come this time

instead you will write

type

send me a love poem

the “oh but if i coulds”

you will not

you will never be mine

valentine

cut from the same cloth

one with you

one with me

kid, you equal everything

i’m feeling strong now

we have to stop

just ten minutes more

no more

and what is it all for

the thrill of the

pretend i can have this

laptop lover

discover

we live inside

a fiber wire

carry me home now

my home is in you

we are the same

we are alone

clone

unavailable.

romantic a.m. car rides through the fog

you could show me how to work my electronics

buy external hard drives

paint

silk screen

we could make a movie together

shot on a flip cam

the soundtrack would be epic

night time beach walks

then sits

then lays

farmers market together

get some veggies

grill and drink wine

get all tangled up

braid our hair together

knock knees

beneath denim

sit on leather

together

dialogue about art

argue about art

then make up

wink wink

pick out hard wood floors

furnish the home

argue about that

and make up

could you please put your dirty clothes in the hamper?

sorry baby

wanna make up?

flower surprises

chocolate on pillows

love letters

poems

baths

for two

go to me

I’ll come to you

lets make waves

the ebb and flow

of how we do

each other

let’s sync up

upload me

in

to  you

what’s left.

I’ve scraped the bottom for every last remnant–with the same measure of effort it takes to squeeze blood from turnips.  Diluted, diluted, then double diluted again.  Stretching it–making it last.  But I can feel the dullness setting in.  What’s harder: the initial shock of loss or the realization that you might finally be letting go?  Its slipping away now and on the outskirts of what was once vivid.  Felt moments of ‘reliving it’ are fewer in the far betweens.  I know where this goes–it has to go for the story to work.

for you to know.

i’ve saved every single one

the moments

like snapshots

filed away in a cabinet labeled “good”

no – i will never forget

the looks

how you curled your tongue

and packed it in your cheek

as if to say:

IM HOLDING BACK

BUT I GOTTA PUT THE TENSION SOMEWHERE

tongue in cheek assertions withheld

but easily read on your face

and its appropriate

because some things

are better bereft confession

like how you held me

during that jazz standard

we were supposed to be dancing

its okay

i preferred the right-left-right-left

shuffle

and anyways

its all i could handle

since my coordination

was spent juggling

the million and one feelings

you’ve roused in me

for you.

 

-ml

Still I Rise

One of my favorite poems…

 

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I’ll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
‘Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I’ll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don’t you take it awful hard
‘Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines
Diggin’ in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I’ll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I’ve got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history’s shame
I rise
Up from a past that’s rooted in pain
I rise
I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

-Maya Angelou

Something New.

Note to Self: Steady manifest that destiny

I haven’t been on here in a bit but felt I needed to offer and explanation no matter how vague…

I am working on a new project right now of epic proportions.  No-this is not an overstated delusion.  Although, given my history, it would be well within your right to initially assume so.  Whatever.  Regardless, I wanted to let all of you know that I may be absent for some time but upon returning their will definitely be “more intenserty”.   Exciting and unimaginable things have been happening in my life.  I accredit this to total surrender and favor.  So for now, I’ll leave you with a poem I’ve recently written.  Completely unrelated to anything or anyone…of course.   ttyl.

A poem for you.

I like that part

on your upper lip

i can smell

when we kiss.

denim knee knocking

when we sit close

let’s examine

eachothers features.

i’m delighted to meet

your acquaintance.

Now quick!

Lets get acquainted!

Tell me one thing

two things

anything.

it’s nice

the way your mouth

moves

when you speak to me.

go ahead,

enunciate.

give purpose

to your lip pursing.

and while you’re at it

kiss me again.

i want to smell that smell.

-ml

A Particular Kind

The Kind

I want the kind
where you hold my hand. Tight.
That gesture
when you guide me
through the crowd –
No body checkers allowed.
Yes, a man has violently kissed me…
once in a while.
Grabbed my waist and other stuff.
But I really want the kind
where you race to pick up
the objects I drop.
Because I saw you point your finger
to graze my wrist
when you gave it back to me.
I want to sit at the so-so diner
and fiddle with s&p shakers.
I’ll keep checking
that my straw is still in it’s glass too.
I don’t even use a straw.
Nervous.
I will constantly return
to the smell of your car.
Even how you’ve dripped coffee on your console and left it.
I like your busy messes.
And I’ll let you take me for coffee,
over and over…and yea? Totally.
But what I really want
is to make coffee.
So that I can pour the cream.
Prepare it.
Present it.
Taste this – is it okay?
And can I borrow your chapstick?
Because I want to mesh cells.
Yes, I’d rather have this kind
than the other. Fin.

-ml