iam-iambic

[iam-iambic]

I don't know if I'm scared of dying, they say we're born to die young

I must have died alone. A long, long time ago

But what if death is just another pair of handcuffs?

These shackles I've made in an attempt to be free

[iam-iambic]

On The Book of Marcus

If you desire to master pain

Unroll this book and read with care,

And in it find abundantly

A knowledge of things that are,

Those that have been, and those to come.

And know as well that joy and grief

Are nothing more than empty smoke.

#quotes #poetry #philosophy

[iam-iambic]

Bird Crew

If you were a golden-crowned kinglet, I would be a pretty songbird, too. Into criminal hijinks we’d get; We would make a pretty mean bird crew.

We’d fly wherever our wings afford, Since borders matter little to us. And given that we’re cute lil birds, We could steal without making a fuss.

We would meander from village to town, Busting our trapped friends out of cages, And do our very best to bring down minimum sentences at all stages.

We could build ourselves a hideout, A comfy nest way up in the trees. A criminally inspired redout, that gets a Pacific Ocean breeze.

And after a long day of mischief, We would be in the mood to be sweet. We’d cozy up in our twig and branch fief, And I’d give you a peck on the beak.

#poems #poetry #birds

[iam-iambic]

Feathered Teachers

Little sparrow, will you teach me how to sing? Show me how to love one’s flock.

Tall heron, will you show me how to see? How I envy how you pluck answers from the depths.

Mysterious crow, will you give me your laugh? Grant me your smile at fortune or woe.

Stern falcon, will you train me in the ways of bravery? I wish to have the courage to delve into the unknown.

Irreverent mockingbird, will you grant me an open mind? Let my voice boom with the strength of many.

Stubborn jay, will you lecture me on boundaries? Leave me the fortitude to uphold my morals.

Solemn dove, will you mourn with me?  Say a eulogy for all those who came before me.

Diligent woodpecker, will you direct me on perseverance?  Give me the endurance to pry forth the truth.

Ragged pigeon, will you guide me home? Allow me to roost wherever the wind and cliffs call home. 

Show me your lessons, my many teachers. Allow me to fly towards new horizons.

[iam-iambic]

The light in me sees

the light shining bright in you.

To be seen is joy.

[iam-iambic]

Gentle Road

You slow moving creek, gentle road to the ocean. Will you bring me too?

Where water runs through, a path of a thousand miles. Why? It matters not.

Let me go freely, to wherever you go. Through earth, dust, and stone.

Will you bring me too? Return to the sea with me, show me the gentle road.

[iam-iambic]

Let go and don't let go.

#romance #sketch

[iam-iambic]

Waterfalls Like Us

Walls of waterfalls beautiful, like us, birthed from womb of heavy clouds. Newborns, opening their eyes unique, like us, stretching tall into the sky or crouching close to the earth.

Some streams are gentle, like us, fluttering their way to freedom in fluid ebbs and flows. Other streams are powerful, like us, gushing torrents that strike and crash to their destination. Despite their differences, each is cherished, like us, each piece of mist part of the awe of living. But they're also fleeting, like us, savoring their hour before getting swept away. Perhaps they'll be remembered, like us, with marks carved into the expanse of sand and stone.

#poems #my poem #poetry

[iam-iambic]

My grandfather is dying, but he doesn't act like it.

My grandfather is dying, but he doesn't act like it. His wispy hair seems whiter than ever. I like to imagine that in his youth, it was a glistening black under the shining Sun. He smiles at me through the silicon screen, thousands of miles and generations away. In his eyes, I see the boy who left home at age sixteen with nothing but the clothes on his back. I think of my own wardrobe, bursting with cottons and colors and jewels and I smile back at him.

My grandfather is dying, but he doesn't act like it. He sees me, the second pride and joy of our family, and tells me that he had rubbed the Buddha's feet until his hands turned red, praying for me to get into Harvard. For a moment I was breathless, seized by the image of my frail grandfather hobbling up the temple steps and over Heaven’s door. Bei’da and Harvard, my aunt repeats through the silicon screen, stroking the wispy hair on my grandfather's head. Your cousin went to the best university in China-- now you should go to the best one in America. Ignoring her, my dad suggests a better medicine, and my grandfather's smile fades. No use for it, he says.

My grandfather is dying, definitely, yet we speak as if he still has years left. At that moment I realized that I knew nothing about this man, this man whose sagging face smiles so brightly for me. Yes, I remember when he showed me that magic card trick, and yes, I remember him picking me up from elementary school, arms wide open. But who is this man beyond my grandfather? A good man? A bad man? A man who’s lived a happy life? My aunt speaks of the communist era, of the prisoners that my grandfather helped, giving away his own ration tickets after they were released. For his sacrifices, he is a good man, she says. My aunt was practicing his eulogy, for a funeral I will never attend. My dad preaches with her. We were always the happiest when we ate the garlic sprout dumplings, he recalls, while people outside got soaked from the rain. Garlic sprout dumplings were bliss. Garlic sprouts are so cheap now.

My grandfather smiles again when the conversation lulls. He probably couldn't hear, but he understood. He has been near-deaf for years. I hated how I had to scream to ask him about his day.

My grandfather is dead before I could gather the courage to learn more about him. His death feels disturbingly light, thousands of miles and generations away. It was inevitable, it was natural, it wasn't my fault that he died. There is a screenshot of our last facetime conversation on my phone, and when I look at it, it feels like he’s still there, sitting in his bamboo armchair under the fan, wearing a sweater despite the oppressive summer heat.

But like those summers in Baoding, he too will soon fade to nothing but a hazy afterimage dipped in lingering yet no longer comprehensible sweetness.

-Posted with permission from the poet D

#poetry #poems #china girl #beijing #original poems #poems and poetry #prose #original poem

[iam-iambic]

The worst kind of confinement is the one sentenced by those who hold onto the you of the past.

[iam-iambic]

Faraday fields

Flitting across the Faraday fields A sky of petals shout into triumphant air What could I say to such a scene? But delight in the colors everywhere

Each blossom was a sensation unique Pulsating yellows and tingling blues  Indulging in the soft pedestals Violets like lightning and greens off hue

Laddening my hind legs with saffron Buzzing from petal to petal in glee Decadent reds and savory oranges It was a true sense of ecstasy

I tried to find the Faraday fields And the sea of petals was still there Perhaps more verdant than last I saw Except I couldn’t see the colors anywhere

Bumbling from one stigma to the next Where I once drank the taste of life Trying to transcend with colors I once felt Is all but now sense deprived

What was once the Faraday fields I thought I had the strength to move on I tried to find those faraway fields But now, it’s just a memory gone.

#poems #poetry

[iam-iambic]

It’s all a numbers game

My closest buddy, he did not really fit in here at Goldman. We were on the trading floor When I saw it flicker across his face. Break out, stock hit the signal line. Stacy, I think that was her name, they were supposed to get married. 

Or some shit like that. Pretty terrible  three-year return on investment  if you ask me. Anyways, Heather,  his new yield-to-date, she was a sweet piece of ass. But correlation  coefficient? Zero.

He entered and exited positions like this for a  while. Lousy trader, hardly knew how to pick the right stocks. He would put his heart into these positions 

And you know what that got him? A portfolio  filled with losses. No matter how long he looked at  the charts, or how many times  he wracked the data, he always ended up in the single digit. 

Figured he wouldn’t last long. Saw the guy overdosed in a bathroom stall this morning. Heh, he was savoring a few too many bars of Xanax-- face first in a shitter and three inches under water.

Stupid fuck. He  didn't realize it's all a numbers game.

#poems #poetry

[iam-iambic]

Seasons Change

Breaking free from cold dormancy,  the world bursts into color.  Emaciated trees laden with crisp buds bow in the sunshine,  ready to suck in the world’s glory.  The tickets roar,  Bristling their spines into the freshly minted sky.  Meadows sprout to life and reach towards the expanse. 

Spring, embrace me with your affection.  Let the warm wind run through my hair  and whisper your freedom to me.  Kiss me spring,  Take me to that far away place where everything that was once cold  is alive again.  Spring,  My savior. 

But today, something was different.  This Spring morning felt like a corpse draped over me.  Burrowing my nose into its shoulder, I try not to squirm as he swirls his fingers up and down my back. He looks tense, deep in thought.  Uneasy. 

Wisping my fingers up and down his face, I whispered,  “Spring, what’s wrong babe?”  He lowers his face next to mine,  and gazes into me with the affection of two emerald eyes.  “Are you okay? You know you can tell me anything.” 

Nothing.  The moon travels across the misty clouds while we gaze into each other.  Tears pierce the silence.  I’ve never seen him cry before. 

“Please, please tell me. It hurts to see you like this.”  You could tell he was restraining himself.  But tears continued to trickle into the frigid grass. 

“I’m begging you, let me…”

“It’s over,” he whimpers, hollow like an abandoned metropolis. The tears cut like a blowtorch. 

I wrap myself tighter around him  trying to snuff out the flame.  “I love you,” I cried. “I can fix this.”  He glances his soft fingers across my face,  catching the droplets before they roll off my cheeks. 

Leaning a little closer, he whispers, “do you believe in God?” The moon smiles in the background.  “Because I don’t.” 

I bury my face into that icy shoulder.  He slides his arms around me and pulls me up to his face. Leaning his forehead onto mine,  he closes his eyes and sputters, 

“I love you, too.” 

It felt like being hit by a freight-train.  He’s never told me he loved me,  and  I don’t think he ever would have. 

“Please don’t leave…” 

Devoured by silence,  We intertwine under the frigid moonlight. 

He looks at me longingly and runs his warms fingertips through my hair. “I love you so much,” he whispers again softly. 

I wanted the pain to go away,  to make it feel like I was worth it again.  My emotions were combustible,  fuel for passion. 

He slips his clothes back on and heads towards the doorway. “Happy birthday Winter.” 

Just like that.  The seasons changed.

#poems #poetry

[iam-iambic]

River Strum

let us hear the river strum, to the beat of the water's drum. road of liquid wet and soft, dancing rapids of spit and froth. float down the ancient halls, while the river water strums. the campfire beats to our drums, we sleep on beds dry and soft. sun shrouded on rocky walls, gazing upon the ancient halls. honored by the river strum, the oars beat to our drums. in the layers of time before, embedded in those rocky walls. what wonders in those sleeping halls, strum the songs of river lore. from the confines of our rafts, layers of time pass us by. rocky walls of stone and sky, what wonders in the sleeping craft. let us hear the river strum to the beat of the water's drum.

#poetry #poems

[iam-iambic]

Until the Morning Comes

I can’t begin to tell you what I think, I thought it was another average day. Letting myself go after a couple drinks, That’s when my mind is what I say. And there she was at my side, My sweet little Swedish fish. The gentle grasp of her hand, Was quite a conflicting wish. Tangled hair pressed against my chest, Makes me want to share my struggle. Intertwined for this beautiful night’s rest, How much we yearned to snuggle. I run my fingers across her soft skin, It’s cute how she’s still learning to kiss. The affection only started to begin, A night of passionate bliss.

#poetry #poems

[iam-iambic]

Something the soul needs and it's you lying next to me

#drawing #love quotes

[iam-iambic]

E6

It was fluorescently lit, Aggressively so.  Sterile corridors unravel footsteps  into uninterrupted pastel. We exchange warm glances and sit quietly. It was strange looking at a husk. Eyes ambushed by oppressive purple rings. Surrounded, caught off-guard, hiding beneath a familiar haircut, every ridge of its face jut beyond its frame. how gaunt.

                                                           He was the first to break the silence. “It’s good to see you." To remember is to collapse my ribcage on itself with a payload of childhood memories.

“I hope you’ve been keeping yourself busy with all this going on.” A terse smile.  “Been writing a lot since I’ve been in.”

                                                “Finally going to finish your biography?”

“I think you’ll like it,”

He places a large spiral notebook on the window. DELETE EVERYTHING OFF THE COMPUTERS. WIPE THE PHONES.

“Good title, huh?”

                “Oh. How many chapters have you written so far?”

“Quite a few. You’ll really like this next one." Next page.

       TAKE HER AND LEAVE THE COUNTRY.

                         Court documents say he raped, sodomized, and sexually abused. . .

                                                                          Hiding. Where could we find asylum? Beijing. Bangkok? Phnom Penh to Abu Dhabi. How futile to flee AR-15s dispelled the fantasy. Four FBI officers brought us back in handcuffs

“Interesting,” I sputter. I scribble on my ticket and press it against the glass.

YOU’RE DEAD TO HER.

Blip.   Blip.      Blip The lights flicker overhead quivering in and out of illumination. Like his involvement in my life. In. and out. “How about this paragraph?” Next page.

A drawing with Us  on a plane, Contrasted with a stick-figure Him driving off a cliff Titled: LIFE INSURANCE MONEY $$$

Home was my comfort from the chaos. Packed into a single bedroom apartment,                                                                          Battling with dishes, Laundry, And boxes. Where’s the space to sleep?

                  the victim when she was just 5 years old. . .

I laugh nervously. “I don’t’ think this story makes much sense.”

He flips to the next page. “And I spent all week working on this one,”

DON’T LET ME ROT IN HERE.

After ten years abroad school  was a shock. A cultural amalgamation,

                              the abuse continued into her teens...                             

Uncontrollable outbursts, Sself-iisolation.   Writing, to pass the time?

“Please,   please. I’d beg you if this wasn’t recorded.”

                      Throbbing watch. Timex to be precise.

                           One count. Unlawful sexual penetration. Six counts. Sodomy. Three counts. Rape in the first degree.

“Okay…” I leave the room, shrivel up in the hallway, and use my longsleeve shirt as a tourniquet for my tearducts.

It’s easy to feel sorry for yourself when you’re an amputee. I had to do it. It’s strange having this feeling. Like it’s still there. It’s not.

Wikipedia’s right. "Approximately 60 to 80% of individuals with an amputation experience phantom sensations in their amputated limb, and the majority of the sensations are painful."

It is painful. Missing a father.

#poetry #prose