The Poet

Poet's Sleep, 1989, by Chang Houg Ahn

The poet is no alchemist

He cannot find the Philosopher's Stone

that will transform pedestrian words

into gold

The remains of his earlier efforts

lay scattered in the weeds

The poet chokes

on the dust of bones

The poet sleeps

He dreams of blood coursing through stones

Alive and

eternal.

submitted for The Mag, Mag208

Lucky

They say that Marisol was born with
la suerte
Ever since she was a penqueña
luck followed her
like a hermanito

They say that when Marisol dreamt of numbers
her tío played them and won
She carried a rabbit’s foot on her key ring
wore 3 azabaches around her neck
and had a statue of the Virgen María in her yard
because, even with la suerte,
you can never be too careful
No sense in leaving a puerta abierta
for the mala suerte 

The day that Marisol met Marco
he was cursing at a flat tire in the rain
Marco didn’t believe in luck
or dreams
or God
He believed in logic,
rationality,
proof

When Marco left his hat on the bed
he laughed at Marisol’s scolding
and he never hung the medal of San Cristóbal
from his car mirror either

But they say that when Marco first kissed Marisol
he was heard to whisper, “Dios mío”
After that, he believed.

submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Open Link Monday and (very late) for The Mag, Mag 206

Softly, mostly

Softly, mostly,

a moth's wings

beating against closed palms,

comes the flutter

Too new to name

Inchoate emotion

We must wait,

see what blooms

Coax with quiet,

hope

Sometimes,

weakness is winnowed

Dies before it is born,

breath stolen by a ghost

or a doubt

But sometimes,

a bud

catches the light of a thousand sunrises,

 blossoms with joy

Sometimes,

a gentle awakening,

the footfall of fairies

dancing on ivory keys.

submitted for The Mag, Mag 205 
and for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Kerry Says Find Your Creative Space

Behind Blue Eyes

dog by scavengercat808

You peek at life through your high fence

Hide behind bared teeth and demon growl

but your eyes betray

Behind blue eyes lies the soul of a pup

who wants only to be told he's good

to feel gentle strokes upon his barrel chest

and to hear,

again and again,

that I am yours

and you are mine.

submitted for The Mag, Mag 190

Penny Royalty

photo by Elena Kalis

 
She drowns under

the weight of mistakes,

consequences

Whispers a prayer to Selene,

Mover of tides

Keeper of rhythms

Prostrates herself

before her Queen

She knew the pain of lovers

She prays

to awaken

from nightmarish dreams

Please release

the threads

thin, but binding

Endymion sleeps

She sinks,

a penny in a wishing well.

Lyrics | Fleetwood Mac lyrics - Sisters Of The Moon lyrics


submitted for The Mag, Mag 182 and
Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Out of Standard w/Izy, Blue Moon Special and
dVerse Poets Pub, Meeting the Bar, It's Getting Tight In Here

Return To Sender

from The Mag 179

...And when the landfills could hold no more,

Not one more old tire or rusted toilet,

The people sent their garbage to the sky

Rockets loaded with tons of trash

Launched into the air

High above the clouds that pillowed

Polluted cities

The people could not see the space flotsam

So they forgot all about it

Until it was time to send up more

And more

And more

Soon, the sky could hold

Discarded junk

Rained down

From the heavens

“Return To Sender”

submitted for The Mag, Mag 179 

and mindlovemisery, Prompt 14, The Music of Jeff Buckley(inspired by "The Sky Is a Landfill"

Where There's Smoke

Stanley Kubrick for Look Magazine, 1949

Sweater tight in all the right places

Cherry red pout

She knew she was hot

Caught his attention

and drifted across the room

like a cloud of perfumed smoke

His smoldering eyes

betrayed his desire

She lit his fire

then roasted his heart over it,

licking her lips all the while.

submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Sunday Mini Challenge, Jim Morrison 

and The Mag, Mag 174

Starved

(Image Via Photobucket: vivianandrea22)

Your heart is starved

I can see the hunger in your eyes

I can feel it even when they are closed

Desperate for connection,

you wander the world

like an exhausted passenger

seeking a seat on a full train

You search for the scent of kindness

underneath shuffling newspapers and coffee cups

and wonder why

everything you plant

dies

You thought you were surrounded

by fertile ground,

but when you dig,

layer by layer you find clay and sand,

while the verdancy taunts you

from just over the fence

or around the next turn

Sometimes

you want to yield to the emptiness,

surrender to the isolation

and let your appetites

dissipate

like a drop of ink

in the ocean.

Ponytail by Last Exit 

submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Hungry Eyes, Haunted Hearts

and The Mag, Mag 170 

and The Sunday Whirl, Wordle 110 

and dVerse Poets Pub, Meeting the Bar, Synesthesia