mysterious skin

time: 2:37 a.m.
mood: irritable
place: my bedroom

the velvety darkness hides much
like a whisper of a ghost
in complete shadow

the pulse of the blade
against the nape of my neck
causes a sensation
tingling and titillating
as if somehow my desire
for this abomination
was acceptable

don’t scream or move
no one cares, and no one
will hear you anyway

ironically I open my mouth
to vomit out words of filth
but nothing comes forth

I wrestle in the sheets and duvet
trying to fend of the beast
but I cannot see what is directly
behind me I can only feel sharp
coolness against my jugular
so much so that I almost
welcome the weary outcome

suddenly I am flying out of distorted
other-worlds and spinning
in opposite directions

I see the ocean’s surface and water
fills my lungs as I take one final
lunge to distorted victory

and then I am plunging out of dreams
within dreams of dreams and I cry
please help me but I am now awake

what had just happened
was it a nightmare or just a ghost
that chose to invade the comfort

and safety of my silky slumber
I don’t have the answer
I just know that for now I am free
from this intrusion as I gather
up the soaked sheets and wetness
of the blood stained pillow cases
and rub the soreness around my neck

Unscene

It didn’t matter if I was present
to witness as the yelling escalated
to monstrous proportions, followed
by the sharp sudden slap,

and the mad dash to the bathroom
where she locked the door. I hear
the sobbing followed by his plea,
“I’m sorry babe. Please forgive me.”

I want to scream, defend her honor,
but I am fearful of being unmasked,
or at the very least, disgusted
for my allowing such an event to occur.

But this was status quo, like the yearly
migration of elegant sandhill cranes
that fly above our house in flocks
that sound like they too are crying.

Survival of the fittest sometimes means
remaining unseen, unheard, hidden,
and I freeze, crouched just behind
the sofa where it is safe to breathe.

Sorry

Sorry


When you called, your dusky voice
hesitating. Waiting for the clock
to strike one, I felt astonished.
Your abandonment from my life
was a relief, not some searing scar,
and suddenly you’re back, like a thrusting
thorn, a reminder that ghosts
do leave shadows.

I’m sorry, you stated peevishly.
I was expecting the word, And?,
But I remain constantly cautious,
afraid that I will somehow release
that demonic dragon, the one that crashes
through willowy walls, and shatters
pane glass windows, the shards
cutting me in the jugular.

Your lack of introspection
was not so much surprising,
as an abomination, because you never take
care of the futile feelings you slash
along the way. I have picked
myself up since you left,
glued all the pieces together
to make a whole, the hollowness
that remained now filled
with months of salty therapy
and bitter tears.

And, I affirm.
And what, you reply.
You’re sorry, and?
There I paused.
Nothing had really changed.

I am back to building cement walls
with prickly gates, and a musky moat,
to keep you at bay as I fly
to the moon, or possibly any puzzling
place you will not inhabit.
Allowing you back in only provides
anxious nights and breathless days,
and while I accept your apology,
you just are not worth the risk.

Escape (revised)

Escape


She faked it. It was the only way
out. As he rolled on top of her smelling
of stale tobacco and cheap bourbon,
she secretly plotted his death.
A rare poison perhaps?
What about a radioactive particle
of some sort?


Her soft moans came more rapidly
than before, until she panted, cooed,
sweat rolling down her cheeks.
Or were they angry, salty tears? Only she
knew the answer to this impossible question.


After he left for his job that day, grabbing
green, canvas suitcases from the closet shelf,
she packed as much clothes and mementos
as she dared. No need for murder.
The 5:40 plane would fly her to freedom,
cutting the plush clouds with razor sharp
wings. Could he find her? Chase her around
the mulberry bush, hoping not to get tagged?
Even gossamer truths don't speak.


Control was his even in her quietest of moments,
even in distorted dreams. Somehow,
he had invaded her soul to the point
that she did not recognize herself
in a melting mirror. Did she deserve a tyrant
who would nullify her hope, trust, and love?
It was simple; she had emotionally
collapsed, to the precious point
that she fantasized about her own death.
In fact, she had almost embraced it.
Even alive, she would be among the walking
wounded. Was it possible, just possible,
that any man would ever regain her trust
again, someone that could love, cherish,
and respect her?


But that was to be part of the a life lesson,
and new frontiers were now to be forged
by her, happily so, courage born in jasmine
fields and clover skies. And she cherished
the revelation.

Let Me Tell You Who I Am

This is one of the first poems I ever wrote. Not strong, but it gave me the bug!


Let Me Tell You Who I Really Am


Compassionate and headstrong,
I can spit nails at you with a quick glance.

But, I soften at a gentle voice, a touch.
Responsive I am, ever listening.

I venture into unforeseen jungles,
take risks that involve juggling and tightropes.

Lightening strikes with electricity,
but my veins are filled with tenderness.

My talent to engage and understand
often overwhelm me. Trust me on this.

If I shut down, it's not that I don't care.
Empathy comes in many different forms.

Other times, I just choose to let go,
fall off the ladder into cool, blue-green water,

swimming from sharks, sea lions, and sting rays.
Follow me, and I will in turn hold on to your wings.

We shall fly off cliffs and soar through blustery clouds;
together we shall move mountains, and conquer injustices,

face callous cruelties as one united front.
I will show you how I can overcome obstacles

with alabaster promises, the keeper of secrets,
the innocent whose trust you can depend.

Let me tell you who I am. Let me show you who I am,
for those who do not comprehend, give up, or turn away.



****Disclaimer: This is the first poem I ever wrote in April, 2007****

Deliciousness

His right eyebrow arches
slightly, subtly. His sapphire
eyes twinkle, always smiling,
and he whispers sensuously:

"It smells of deliciousness."

I don’t really follow,
understanding nothing,
but I beam anyway.
There’s a covert secret
there only I pause and wonder
if I missed the joke,
or if I am just a bit clueless,
or possibly both. Sigh!

Because all I can see
are how white his teeth
are, and how smooth his skin:
translucent, alabaster,
no flaws whatsoever.

His warm demeanor:
flirting, calling, caressing,
letting me in, and it’s possible,
just possible, that I was so captivated
that I missed nearly everything
he had cooed into my ear:

"It smells of deliciousness.”

I would think about that one
For hours to come, creating
my own meaning
for irresponsible ears.

Heart Shaped World

Heart Shaped World

In my heart shaped world
where willow trees and lavender,
whisk away unwanted predators,
where the liquid sky meets the salty sea,

where flying to freedom is possible,
necessary, and where all past hurts
are buried under shattered glass,
I paused to contemplate.

Is it possible, just possible.
to sleep in silken clover,
to propel into a victorious life
without needing to create

a parallel universe? Or would
ice floes carry me out to sea,
drifting aimlessly, forever lost
amongst dense fog and dreary

realities? Is it feasible
to fulfill stifled promises,
and unrealized potential
by living in the now,

or would I fall off
the Earth’s razor sharp edge,
sinking into grimy gargoyles’ glares,
and angry giants’ wrath?

The answer is:
that there is no answer,
and whatever I need to do

to survive,
to thrive,
to stay alive,

that is the true test of persevering
despite false starts,
and it is best not to dwell,

not to stay stuck,
on what could have been,
and begin to trust what can be.

That’s the purest test of endurance,
following my own path,
wherever that may take me,

to dare to take chances,
allowing myself to fall, let go,
and then pick myself up again.

I smell the lilac tree,
push off, feel the tension
of the air, and fly, fly away.

Impatiens

Impatiens

The miracle of a birth,
a baby born to an unassuming
mother. Pink petals
of impatiens
flutter by in celebration.

Planes

Planes


I would stand by the large enormous window watching
as the steel birds would steer unto a smooth runway,
and then slowly, the propeller would hum and sing,
and the engine would roar, and the plane floated
across the somber cement, before diving
into the sky, piercing the air, to lands elsewhere -
Seattle, Mexico City, Tokyo, Honolulu -
places I had never seen before. I would imagine
I was in the cockpit guiding the dragon
through the billowing clouds, tremulous rain,
turbulence, until we reached our final altitude,
and coasted over the rainbow.

I would close my eyes, open them, and look
up at my father, his enormous hand enveloping
mine. Even at five years old, I loved the art
of flying, how I could push up off the ground,
spread my arms, feel the tension in the air
as I flew up, up, up above forests, streets,
cul-de-sacs, and strip malls, until all I could see
were patches of green and brown, or the tips
of great mountain tops, flying to worlds
unknown, but places I would recognize as home
once I slowly landed safely and touched ground.

To this day, I dream of flying across great waters
and large masses of land, sometimes in centuries
long ago, sometimes in futuristic worlds
where others can fly as well. I know for certain
that I have flown in past lives. It is innate,
something intrinsic. And so I fly, fly, fly feeling
free as those airplanes I witnessed
as a mere child. Free. Free at last.