It was freezing dark
On a pitch cold night.
Bitter sounds echoed,
Leaving a shrill taste in my mouth,
As my skin prickled.
A paltry figure up ahead
Looked my way for a skinny moment
Into the abrasive night.
My shadowy gasp,
Tangible in the dark,
Sounded like an invisible scream
As it echoed in my ears.
And silence fell
Shattering the peace.
resonated in painted fibers
the melody of winter white . struck my cords in eternal blue
a light came with a bang
gold tunes strum my wanting cords
infinity spilled in silver vibrations to my shaking core
the night left us in black humming
always humming . count me from the inside
create lyrics within my cells
gentle pulls, rough pushes
wild but continuously in key
pulsating oranges . inhaling the warmth
the intoxicating scent of burned honey
unending waves of sounds
painted into all the ragged grays
dripping of burgundy cherries
so sweet on the tongue . tingly
delicious . there . f e e l it
elated, the black ashes moved around this sphere
swirling . salt mixed with sweat
take it . now
lighter than a whisper
pale embers touching my skin
in a song that my heart heard so well
always laced . with warm tones of you
I swallowed the moon, love
with mistreated stars that moaned in the dark
spitting out the sun . that screamed with the dawn
gasping atoms of red
and twisting circles of growing light
the world resonated in painted fibers
each marron gasp . and mint chocolate sigh
screams lost in ultra violet banging on my soul
waves slower than the light
catching up with me
this divine essence
smell it . inhale it
count to three
do you sense it under the lines of your heavy bones?
tangerines stuck in four walls
heated air and a fireplace set in winter
lost in you
Growing Old and Remembering
Sometimes silver like waters run through the whispering secret
of our pastel summers,
it was a peaches and cream winged dream, playing sonnets
in the wind of the eagles, the bouncing rhythms of every blue
note writing songs for us in the sky
sometimes the sterling memory of its ebb is still orchestrating
the band for us, even now in the gray crumblings of time, when
its all we can see.
A yellow wistling sun echoes in the melody of everything we had
Far away from the laughing white snow that falls. We’re no longer
able to hear the howling black night shouting out the stars to empty
Somehow the eyes of time are blinking and we’re wide awake again.
The crackling scent of the fire and its smoky glow
Warm my conscious skin.
You sit by me. Sonorous stars
Gaze at the lake,
Our lake, which opens us,
Site of wedding and love and friendship
If I someday get my wish.
Better to sleep with the trout
Than rot stately beneath bitter marble.
Warm beneath the ice; cool beneath the sun.
Wind waxes chill on uncovered
Souls, fire or no fire,
And sleep summons us.
Water quenches embers,
Swallows ash and will again.
But not tonight, my love.
painting in the color of silence
His silence was deafening,
but my head paints louder pictures.
they race around my head
leaving ragged footprints
and violent echoes.
his lips spill only blue
yet my ears take it in, red
but utterly powerless.
even so, the footprints in my head
pound in navy terror
the furious stars burst
and I did it all.
I did nothing.
As my mum and I walked near Hyde Park on an icy Saturday in December, I thought of the moments Henry and I shared together. The time when the both of us vacationed in Paris. The golden-yellow aroma of baking bread in that bakery that was mere walking distance from our hotel room.
I thought of the time when we stood at Westminster Bridge, the white sound of Big Ben resonating around us. He glanced over at me and his cerulean smile glanced past me, perhaps into some vermillion unknown that I could never be able to tap into. He was so close yet so distant. He drew forth a sigh and looked down at the River Thames, saying absolutely nothing but also saying everything. I knew it then like I knew my own name. Our time together was coming to an end. There would be no more late-night purple jam sessions with whiskey and the Beatles playing Eleanor Rigby until three in the morning. Those days were over. As I reached for his hand, he drew it away as if my alien hand was too green and ugly for him.
Until the moment I saw him walking about of Harrod’s with a new beautiful girl on his arm, I had not seen him in a year. Mum told me not to talk to him, or even to look in his direction. The girl was pregnant. Hot, stinging blue tears pricked at my eyes. He was adamant about not having children, and every month, I had bought a cheap pregnancy test from the chemist down the road, hoping beyond belief that it would read a positive, just so that I could hold onto him a little tighter. But there he was, with that girl. He seemed happy, I supposed.
I regretted the decision to make a bit of eye contact with him because he saw me and began walking up to me. I felt my mother’s quick tugs, the white, agitated whisper in her voice. Pulling me away, my body fought by keeping my feet planted to the ground. He was coming closer. The girl was no longer attached to his arm. Perhaps he was coming to see me? My heart could not take it anymore. I walked up to where he was standing, but then noticed that he was preoccupied with the pretty girl. After putting the bags of probable Christmas gifts on the floor of the car, he gave her a passionate kiss goodbye. He did it in public–something that he never did with me. He always rushed me into the cab, like I was a burden to him. And perhaps I was.
As he stepped into the cab with his wife, I watched as it drove away. I saw them both in the window, huddled close together as the blue snow began to fall.
He had a voice that looked like lavender and a heart that sang like a violin. His eyes smelled of chocolate candy canes and made the dull street lamps of the streets in my heart shatter. I remember it as clear as a cloudy day, and as vibrant as a mud stain on a black shirt. He was perfectly awful, one of my best mistakes because he taught me how to love. Closing my blind eyes to what reality is and instead flashing me with what it could be. For some reason, I cannot decide what emotion he brings out of me however i think i Red him.
if you've ever listened to the
trees, you'd know they speak
in yellows, not greens.
birds will chirp in hollows,
painting the echoes in
blacks and blues.
you ask, why yellows? blues?
blacks? why these, what does
it all mean, really?
to see a color instead of a
sound? when the light reaches
you, do you know what you've found?
the trees sing in yellows, calling
out to the sky in bellows,
aching to serenade their sun.
birds, those clever little feathers,
they call in blues and blacks just
as the night welcomes their crossing paths.
there is no creature on earth that
does not know the ache of night,
or the instinctive warmth of daylight.
nature communes far better than we.
perhaps if we took some notes,
we wouldn't be so very confused.