Therapy (Thr revised edition)

Sitting there in your sleek, black suit
you appear so serious, eyes transfixed
on the garbage pouring from my lips,
venomous secrets that had been lying dormant.

I give a sideways glance,
then scrutinize your mystic gaze,
as blue tears begin to well.
My cheeks burn as I taste
bitter salt and flush:

embarrassment,
humiliation
shame.

The cat is out of the bag; a river
beset with blackened ravines and hostile
truths come spilling, surging,
like a boisterous hurricane,
squashing malevolent self-loathing
and pitiful cries in silent anguish.
Words magically become phrases,
and develop into acrid accusations.
I feel somehow buoyant,
shedding at least ten pounds
of mental deadwood
and sewage. Turning to confront
your unwavering look,
I am suddenly floating
in a silky, tranquil sea:

is that vibrant concern?
Do you sincerely care?
Are you even listening?

I’m muttering gibberish again.
Scarlet truths seek an outlet,
stuffing the room with complex
adjectives. Thank God
there is no derisive mirror;
I must appear an unruly mess:

self-conscious,
exhausted,
nervous.

I return to your stare, as a delicate
smile emanates from the ice queen.
You are affected. You comprehend
what was previously covert.
It isn't my imagination playing
lamenting tricks. Brisk fantasies
take flight, fleeing my mind
like rats from a slow, sinking barge.

“He hurt me.
He hurt me.”
I testify without perjury.
“He hurt me.”

Black Widow

Silver spooned and silver tongued,
with icy, jade eyes, winking at you
in a sunshower’s glare, he was a visceral
threat. He acquired collections,
and hearts, without a weary worry:
crisp investments, salty sentiments,
thunderous dreams. Any withering
fool could see through sinewy pretense.

Unconventional,
inspirational,
unpredictable,
impervious.

He’s a cyclone needing to be lassoed,
barreling through the wilderness
without a care or a bother
to all that he consumes,
like a baby bouncing his way
over scattered toys.

He was fostered to be the spoiled
dashing, charismatic, malevolent
gentleman he had become.
He had a churlish allure,
a je ne sais quoi, a pearly presence,
much like those Tibetan charmers
that tantalize insidious snakes.
It happens, and you are powerless to control
it. You just need to learn to dive, hurl
away, from oncoming locomotives.

He did not intend to be cruel;
it was just the lack of care he possessed,
a surly, pathological byproduct.
Everything simply had been handed
to him so effortlessly. He had become
the ultimate consumer, a sleek cat lapping
silken cream from a pristine, porcelain bowl.

But, he had yet to make acquaintance
with that devilish, cunning woman,
the one with the charcoal hair, and cerulean
eyes , the one with the alabaster
skin that he would imprudently
covet, the one that would trump his ace
transform him, to the point
where he would sacrifice
his sober security and unflappable
swagger that had transported
him from Shreveport to Stockholm
to Shanghai, and then back to San Francisco,
and cast it aside like a indiscreet joker.
He would exhaust all his (mis)fortune.
Shockingly, he would readily welcome
the shrewd risks it would necessitate
to acquire the black widow spinning
in her pedantically, woven web, waiting
for the horsefly that had lost his way.

Making Music

Words are just a basic way
of telling you about my constitution,
but it is in my eyes that reveal
a (com)passionate story.

Some people say I am an old
soul, but in reality, I just see
the sullen, and consecrated truths.
I'm no saint, nor prophet, just a man.

I hear how one person can say
“I love you” in a raccoon’s eye,
but then see the betrayal
in his actions: the late night
presentations, the unsavory statement
from Citibank, the uneaten
slice of his favorite pie.
I am a master in keeping secrets.

Eyes wide open means looking
at a challenging day, acknowledging
its weariness, witnessing
a fellow friend’s pain,
or even you own, if you are paying
close attention to the details.
I say nothing, but I see it all.

It doesn’t take much to speculate
or even assess the situation
for what it really is,
if you neglect to hide
in charcoal shadows,
and avoid showering moonbeams.
Liberation doesn't mean freedom.

I am who I am. I sing my own psalms,
and I face clever realities.
In return I am rewarded
with constant truths
and sacred authenticity.
I’m not perfect. I am just one
of you, and I see your struggle
as my own, and I relate
resoundingly, cry your tears,
and cry my own. It’s an anthem,
a celebration, a battle, a lullaby.

Days Long Past

Words are just that,
and in the end,
what we contribute,
what we remember,
are often lost in translation,
and our misty need
for gratitude, for appreciation,
is just as sleepless as the rain,
which will pour sanctified tears
when all is said and done.

Endurance

The day sought solace
in misty rain showers
and gentle fog. Still,
the poppy persevered.

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****