San Miniato, by Barbara Tomash

* I decided this week to feature a poet this week. The poet who wrote this piece was born in Washington D.C. and found her way to San Francisco where she teaches at San Francisco State University. Her poetry has been featured in many literary journals and publications including New American Writing, Colorado Review, and ZYZZYVA.. Here is one of my favorites by her.

San Miniato

what is the difference between a shopping bag
as a twelth-centruy church? what is the difference between
Hank Aaron's rookie card
and apple slices on a plate?
apples and oranges - one of those lies
is the twelth-century church as pretty
as the shopping bag? the bag has
daisies all over - what does the church have?

arches and false openings
which, then, should be the orange?

peel open an orange, tiny crescent-shaped sacs nesting
peel open the church, interlocking diamonds when linked
triangles, squares with triangles, squares
within squares -

I can't get inside -
what's the difference between the mask on the wall and my face?
the mask won't die

our fence tied up by ropes, slipshod -
the church's frescoes peeled almost completely away

sandwiched in plexiglass Hank Aaron's card
still faintly breathing
"here Mr. Aaron, you can have
the spare bedroom!"

the sea, you say, is not different from the grasshopper?
a grasshopper no different from a green
fish?

each - both -

the shopping bag is the orange
of this were a story it
would be the apple

- from The Secret of White

Swimming With Sharks

 

The whistling winds whirl
                around me as I am caught
                                in a festering tornado
                                with poor manners
                                and a boorish attitude.
 

I am peacemaker, ombudsman, confidante
                the keeper of secrets, some of my own
                                hidden in dusty shadows
                with many riddles brimming
                from those with more twists
                and turns than Dorothy’s journey
                                into the depths of Oz.

I am tossed into the fire, caught
                in the swirl, the mystic haze
                enveloping me like a boa
                                about to ring the life
                                from my useless body.
 
I awaken, no longer able to discount
                                the emotions that flood
                my here-and-now existence;
                as I listen to the flow of feelings
                                mollified, silenced,
                strumming to rhythms in my heart,
                                thoughts illuminate, sooth
                toxic lacerations and resurrect
                                fortified truths that salvage
                                and protect from disjointed
                people who mean no intentional harm.
                               
It is time to relish in today,
                exonerate past misfortunes
                and celebrate future successes
                                as I smile inwardly
                acknowledging that I have come home.

Defilement

* This poem had to be exactly 8 lines long and had to be about pain from a heartbreak. So this is my entry. Please know, that this is not necessarily about me.

Defilement

Tension wraps like a coil that encircles and chokes
my defiled consciousness, the histrionic shouts of love
perjured as you trounce and squash severed nerves
                like a buzz saw chewing through tree logs…

I can adjust to heartbreak, that the relationship
                has run its course, that I shall never gaze
                into your sapphire eyes smoldering in lavish light…

What destroys my soul is in knowing you crave him.

Turbulence

In silence I sit, attuned to the pulse
            radiating through my blistered bones,
            as I recall the stinging words,
                        the false accusations,
                        the seething hostility
            spitting through pouty lips that he’s leaving
                        this time the final time.

I am stunned by his reaction but suspect
            the medications are not working,
            or he went off them all together,
            his mood changing drastically
                        from moment to moment.

Like the seasonal winds after an Indian summer,
            he raucously eradicates the trust
                        built from brick after brick,
                        building blocks that ensure
            that this occurrence was thwarted
                       before it blew out of control.

He will return of course, and will apologize
            for the odious comments made
            and inform me he has visited
            his doctor and consistently stays
                        on the regimen that stabilizes
                        his rollicking emotions.
            This time I know I have to abscond,
            but he always holds a special place
                        within my tranquil heart,
                        and I forgive him completely
            because I comprehend he would change
                        if he could escape the noise
                        inside his head, and I also know
            that when he is stable, he is loving and kind.

That is enough for me.

Sins of Fathers (Double Etheree)

Note: For this challenge, we were asked to write a Double Etheree with a Nature theme.I n this case the shape of the form should be a perfect arrow OR diamond shape; this is an aesthetic requirement. It wasn't perfect, but since this is out of my realm, I did okay I guess. Not the perfect form, but oh well, Oh, and just for the record, each line has a specific syllable count: 1 - 1, 2 - 2, etc.

                                                          

                                                          
                                                            Seared
                                                          sun scalds
                                                        deprived fields
                                                      once waxing corn,
                                                     the oppressive heat
                                                  too much for fruit to bear
                                                 clear Heavens defy drizzle,
                                              plentiful crops dead, providing
                                          proof that global warming does exist
                                         the skies azure: no rain in the forecast
                                         the sweltering summer the hottest yet.
                                           We accept no blame for corruption
                                               despite the warnings provided,
                                                    greedy politicians paid
                                                       deflecting attention,
                                                        vexed generations
                                                           now bedeviled,
                                                                inheriting
                                                                  a bleak
                                                                   earth.

                                                          

Sabotage

The stewardess blighted my path
         sabotaging my departure
    steering me far from my destination
    as I alight at an erroneous concourse
        standing at the wrong gate.
    People assemble like a herd of cows
        stopping traffic four ways
        as I attempt to dash
        from gate A28 to C28

I dart in my best dancing shoes, as I cascade
        through the sullen faces,
               their flights canceled,
    sour with fatigue and resentment
    causing me to avoid the perils
               of the stressed folks
    in front of me as they reach
    for keys, cell phones, and firearms

I race like a Olympic sprinter running
   through  a pool of mud as I dare
   to pursue the narrowest path to freedom.
    The air bus arrives in time
               for me to skip
    to my destiny as the car halts,
               losing electricity,
               lights fading to grey
    as I panic and lose my cool facade
        and glance at my watch -
               tick, tick, tick -
    as beads of sweat accumulate
               on my forehead

Damn it!

The train illuminates suddenly, the engine
            hums, as I arrive at Heaven
    to my destination only to discover -
             Flight canceled!

I grumble to myself, waiting in line for stand by,
            knowing that the my reality
            lies in spending my evening
    at Motel 6, ordering a pizza,
            watching "Modern Family"
    on the black and white television

To Be

It drained like a spigot

    refusing to turn off and be silenced

    'cause once the truth shed illumination,

        I was altered, and an exorcism of pious proportion

            leaked onto the palpable pavement

                 in search of freedom.

The spirits moved, coalesced, had their way,

    flooding out of almond eyes: the serum I swallowed

        now straining my brain, an insanity of sheer mass

            screaming to be liberated, allow

            those apparitions the freedom

    to move about, allow the malignancy to be squelched.

        I trust the angels of salvation to hear sweet music -

                "Glory, glory, Hallelujah" -

        to obliterate ancient secrets that obstructed

        fear, allowing it to consume from within.

    Justice would be served, and there was no holding back

                anymore, never again.

The rape of my flesh and of the mind deteriorated, scorched

                in flames, burning a hole

    where the palpable pain boiled and seared, carved

        its name inside my liver and kidneys,

        burrowing like a rodent hoarding nuts

                for the blistering cold.

    Out spilled toxic truths, how the touch betrayed

        children for countless generations,

            how they wept - I wept -

        for the shattered soul that lay in silence,

            frozen in anguish, humiliation,

            now bleeding through my chest,

        onto the floorboards, as a primal shriek

        deserted my chest in a thousand beats

            per second, a cramp forming near

                the ventricule and aorta.

The release, being born again, meant wearing that scar

        until all roads healed, transformed,

        speaking out, unashamed, the rage

    not burying me for the first time in copious generations,

            as my mind permitted an opportunity

                to breathe claret air.

In the distance, i could her an iron symphony of music,

    as it sought pearly spirits, redeeming me, lifting me,

        causing s separation of countless weight,

            to secede and die, finally free.

Redemption has its price - so does cowardice.

            Now, inhaling, I lay in valleys

        filled with peace and mercy,

    allowing bombs to fall by the wayside,

        digging deep to weed those

        cancerous vines that revolted,

            asphyxiated, decimated.

        No longer a victim, I seek to just be.

Clouds (Version 1.b.)

* This is a poem that wrote over two years ago, and have rewritten, but it is one of my favorites. If you have already read it, please feel free to not comment. Don;t want to force anyone to read. But for those who have never read, and want to see what I have done with the poem, come look!


There was a shift somewhere in the night,
                a pause, where I melted into you,
                                coffee kissing caramel,
                and for just one moment,
                a slight hesitation transpired:
                                I swear I could hear the clouds.


I was wrapped in your stealthy embrace,
                hand clasping hand, the gentle caress
                                of two pulses synchronized,
                conjoined, and it dawned on me
                for the first time in many cranberry moons
                                and sweltering summers,
                that I felt safe, appreciated, joyful –
                                could it be that I felt loved? –
                and, as we lay, I prayed and forgave
                sullen secrets and betrayals ago, betrayals
                                that had feasted on blanketed fear
                                                and palpable pain.

I forgave me, you, irony, and destiny,
                established faith in feeling human, whole,
                                for all its riches, glories, and pratfalls.
                I saw that little boy, that sweet soul,
                                and rather than cover my eyes blind,
                                or bend an ear towards self-loathing,
                I completed him, just as I felt the wind rush
                past sticky lies, just as I heard
                                sparrows strum in sycamore trees.
The clouds, the clouds: I swear I could hear the clouds,
                feel your breath, allowing the tension
                in swollen muscles and cynical bones
                                                to finally relax.

I have no illusions that there will be eternal sunshine
                in silken shadows, but there is no doubt
                                I have been changed, transformed,
                                and if tonight delays tomorrow,
                                if yesterday yearns to haunt,
                there will be an unspoken truth
                                that will forever remain
                                                in just three words,
                                foolish words perhaps,
                                but words I desperately seek,
                                                nourish, and covet:

                                                 What about today?

Enchanted Instant

He approaches like a fresh pink morning,

         dew on his tongue, and honeydew lips

                 ripe with lustrous wonder.

 

I melt like an apparition in purgatory

                 unable to stumble into subsistence,

         his brawn desecrating me, searing me,

                 and breaking barriers 

                        between flesh and blood.

 

His touch fuels a debate

                 of torrid anecdotes,

        whose ardor has pearly essence

        to hush braggarts and thieves

                        into submission.

 

Still, I covet his candied caress,

        once again when the moon

                crashes the ebony sky,

                        before the cicadas hum.




And listen to my recording of it from SoundCloud:

http://soundcloud.com/michael-wayne-holland/enchanted-instant-2?utm_campaign=timeline&utm_content=http%3A%2F%2Fsoundcloud.com%2Fmichael-wayne-holland%2Fenchanted-instant-2&utm_medium=facebook&utm_source=soundcloud#_=_

Drawing Circles

There was a golden moment, when we knew how to respect

    the passion between us, before the indigo storm

         swept past us and infiltrated her moisture

             in every part of our union.

A severed wound does not always heal, the scar tissue

        a marker for the forlorn and abandoned,

        like a hen who forsakes freshly laid eggs

             for some poacher to devour.

    One minute you were drawing circles in the clouds

         painting prisms with your delectable charm

         as I watched magic forge from the hands

             of an artist who spins impressions

                     from slippery stars:

             beholden, cherished, consecrated.

But the torrid rains plunged, and capricious anger

    turned her fickle cheek and mocked the path

             we followed, as if to say:

    “you’ve lost your designation, like a pirate

             seizing a ship’s sail, and soaring

                     to lands unknown.”

         Your were crazy, fallacious accusations

                      inhabiting your mind,

                 paranoia cluttering acumen,

                 like a melon left to spoil

                 in the melting sunlight.

             My love was a casualty of the war

         you succeeded to launch, choosing to drift

    from you and begin anew with adorned angel wings

         that lifted me to freedom from persecution,

                 providing me a second chance

             while I watch our faded love dissolve

                      into a denigrated illusion

         unsure if there ever was a time to rejoice.

I light candles one by one, make a wish, and douse

    them out, like blowing bubbles into the wind

             as they blanch and disintegrate,

             like the remnants of our liaison,

         now just an apparition that haunts,

             taunts and inhabits musky dreams

             which bludgeon what was, stomach

                 what is, and slowly expires:

                           time to take quill to paper

               while drawing my circles in the clouds.

Persistance, Resistance

Six months they quoted,
          but although I felt spent,
     stubbornness and fear,
     bled though angry veins,
     and blistering bones,
          settling in the crevices
          between muscles and nerves,
               just below my heart.

Thump…thump…da-thump.

My stomach revolted,
     leaving an unsavory taste
     in my mouth, in my throat,
          as I attempted to conceive
          how I would deliver the news
     to those I loved:
               for now – shhhhh!.

The struggle occurred each night
     as I strived to deny the succubus
     that filtered through consciousness
     and caused me to wake up drenched:
          another symptom revealed,
     hoping to live to the ripe age of twenty-five;
     I fantasized that the results were erroneous,
          but upon a second diagnostic,    
          I was asked to appear to the lab,
          an appointment I never honored,
               my body whispering the truth
                   to neglectful ears.
 
Every symptom: cold, fever, headache,
     swollen glands, fever blister, nausea
               all meant my pungent demise,
          a time to make amends,
          keep failed promises
     that I was too proud to consummate,
          for fear that my secret,
              a tainted taboo,
          would eternally scorch my reputation,
          so I kept quiet, put in my place,
              swallowing anxiety,
              and hollow solitude.

Thump…thump…da-thump.

I had responsibilities to uphold:
     graduation from college,
          a full time job,
              where absence
          was considered deplorable,
     my volunteer commitment
          to the crisis hotline
          where I assisted the destitute --
              I should be a client,
              I obtusely observed,
              not a counselor.

No treatment options available,
          I winged life like a drifter
     ready to pounce on the next train car,
     an attempt to flee the bristling scorpions
          that inhabited clustered thoughts,
               but there was nowhere to bolt.

Twenty-five came and went with internal fanfare,
     and miraculously, thirty also thrived,
          even as my health subsided,
     my immune system resentful and defiant,
          curing this virus that devoured
              and flourished.
     Medication presented an arduous task:
          side effects toxic, causing
          me to lose twenty unanswered pounds
              in two months, the aroma
              from my favorite meals
              resulting in an upheaval
              from below, a daily process
              as my body attempted to absorb
              the “approved” poison selected
              by a field of physicians --
                   a bunch of bullshit:
                   test results produced
                       no gains.
         Neuropathy, chronic fatigue and depression      
              proved to be my worst enemies.

And in the end, I am here, present, blossoming.
     Six months? No one can judiciously surmise
          when your time has been expunged,
              nor can the human spirit
              be denied unfulfilled dreams,
              castles spinning in the air,
          permitting fundamental growth to emerge,
              a poet borne from the nether regions,
              spewing ink from a belabored quill,
                   final satisfaction
                        and atonement.

The Ghost Of You

* This poem was borne from an inspiring quote by Pablo Neruda. The challenge was to use every word in the quote in an original piece of work. So here it is, I hope you enjoy it.

Quote: “I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul.”  ~ Pablo Neruda

Between the haze of incandescent light and silver shadow,

            I uncover you in the folds and crevices

                        of barren skin and blistering bones.

            You are intrinsic to my satin secrets

            as water is to a swollen brook spilling

                                on to dark river banks

                        where our souls unite and conjoin.

Benevolence blossoms in these magnified moments,

            as I cherish your mocha kisses and fevered touch,

            comprehending that though we cherish

                        and are adulated, it is imprudent

            to anticipate a reality where the things

                        we treasure will comply

                        with our ultimate desires:

            never harmonious, never indulgent, nor binding,

                        yet I follow you into misty twilight

            where neither of us can declare for certain

                        that we can withstand the folly

                        that bewitches and bemoans

                               our tremulous union,

                        like a priest rejecting the notion

                               of Heaven and Hell.

Be as it may, I awaken to your passage, like a crafty thief

            absconding precious gems and pliant cash,

                        only surfacing when the cobalt sky

                              swallows the glowing orb,

                              where we rendezvous

                              under the transient moon

                                    fully fathoming

            that in this eminent instance, this singular second,

            there is a place for us under licorice sheets

                        beneath the crust of the sun,

            a place where we can dance and sing

                        in melting moments shielded

                                    in blues and grays.

The Island

Crisp, cool linen sheets caress

        our barren shins and thighs

                 as I slip into you stealthy arms,

        your luscious lips brushing against the nape

                         of my impressionable neck.

The balmy breeze is a banana split,

                 sticky, sugary, sweet,

        but it tames the ferocious tiger

                        within, as I relax into you.

Time shared with you is Heaven;

                we soar high in the indigo sky

        over mountain peaks and plush, green parks.

                         Within our bountiful souls,

                 our stalwart heartbeats are strumming

        like guitar strings crooning to their own psalms.

The tangerine orb blisters in the late afternoon,

        the ever shifting sky spraying

                        plum, crimson, and amber,

                a carnival of color painted for us.

Kissing, we are kissing, without trepidation,

        the taste of you always in my senses,

                drowning in consummated devotion,

                         your blazing, emerald eyes moist

                your hand cradles in mine.

Even I love you seems mundane,

        as If we were paying bills or filing taxes,

                        or discussing the flat economy.

                There is no jazzy language to illustrate

        the bliss, the jubilation, the magic, the reverence.

                        My ship sails into your port,

                ready to embark on thrilling promenades

                        and plant seeds in dusty sand.

I presume that I am in love with an island,

        you, as long as you inhabit my tender heart,

                       and protect my unspoken ardor.

                It’s the radiance in your smile,

        the hesitation in your voice,

                        the benevolence bubbling below.

                It’s for the taking; just grab the brass ring.