maternity (a poem)

maternity

No one from outside

would ever know that you were my mother

our differences vast

A lush, hidden rainforest birthed from

blazing salt desert

Nervous hare escaping

traps of words, poisoned barbs

flavored with cola and ashes

sepia-tinted memories of hiding in a corner

fingers white with tension, clutching a book

swallowing tears

feeding myself with ideas

lest I starve

on your thin diet of gruel.

The Good Girl

The Stubborn Girl

The girl who knew everything yet nothing

and spoke a language you could never understand.

Even today, your version of love

Is blind obedience

Open your mouth and drink the bitter tonic

rub it into your wounds

or leave the party

if you won’t dance, little puppet.

My best teacher of hardness

invisible shield to hide my deformity

too-tender heart, easily crushed like mint

flees from your heavy brand of love

that smothers every spark.

 

la maternidad

Nadie desde afuera

sabría que tú fueras mi madre

nuestras diferencias vastas

Una selva rica y escondida nacida de

una desierta abrasadora de sal

liebre nerviosa escapandose de

las trampas de palabras, púas venenosas

de sabor cola y cenizas

recuerdos teñidos de sepia de esconderme en un rincón

los dedos blancos de tension, aferrando un libro

tragando las lágrimas

alimentandome con ideas

no sea que me muero de hambre

a causa de tu dieta de gachas aguadas.

La Buena Niña

La Niña Terca

The niña que sabía todo pero nada

y que habló una idioma que jamás podías entender.

Aún hoy, tu versión del amor

es la obedencia ciega

Abre la boca y bebe la tónica amarga

frótala en las heridas

o salga la fiesta

si no bailarás, titerecita.

Mi mejor maestra de la dureza

escudo invisible para esconder mi malformación

corazón demasiado delicado, facilmente machacado como la menta

huye de tu marca pesada del amor

que ahoga cada chispa.

 

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Stolen Heart (A Poem)

Stolen Heart

heart-on-fire

I find it amusing

the notion that you stole my heart

like a bandit who crept in while I slept

and pocketed

my greatest treasure.

 

This heart?

This living, pulsing sun

that makes flowers bloom

and hastens the birth of Spring?

 

As if fingers could grasp it, resist

its flames

As if it were something one could possess

like a jewel, left unguarded

 

My heart can no more be stolen

than the current stolen from the river.

My heart can belong to no one

any more than the stars belong to the night.

 

What you hold now

that which slipped from clumsy fingers

or is kept dusty on a shelf

or perhaps was hung on your wall to admire

is merely a relic

a crystal glass filled with the golden water

I poured for you

from the precious fount that still beats within me.

 

It was always yours to spill

or shatter

or drink.

But whatever you choose, know

that my heart is full

and will fill your glass again and again

and yet again

until you understand true love

until you know forgiveness.

OR (a Poem)

OR

I sometimes wonder who is strongest:

those whose transparent hearts

throb in rhythm with every thought

passions paraded like petticoats

worn on the outside

sadness like cascades

spilling over rounded hills

or

those who long ago learned to staunch

the flow of blood

sit in waiting behind closed doors

and stiff smiles

smothering hope

that  someone, someday, will

pick the lock?

Then I wonder which takes more courage:

to learn, after being scalded once

by the fire

to avoid the kitchen

choosing to see deepest longing

as a lure –

the iced gingerbread that called

Hansel and Gretel

to their doom

or

To leap from one frying pan

to the next

wearing the pain

like medals

always facing the heat one more time

just one more time

to chase

a reward

like the greyhound chases the rabbit?

Too Much Like Water (a poem)

(I wrote this poem tonight, though it has been in my heart since a friend (or one I thought was a friend) stopped being a friend. What makes a person decide to stop being a friend? What makes a person decide to stay? What do we do with the unanswered questions that haunt us? Was it something I did? Was it something about me? About us? All I can do is turn my obsessions to poetry.)

Too Much Like Water

Maybe I was too thirsty
and you heard the rasp and rattle
when I spoke
with words unused too long.
Maybe I was too much rain
crystal, pouring drops
flooding shallow banks
too soon.
Or together, two strong rivers
flowing, roiling, pushing
for the narrow neck
to the wide, vast sea
Or you, like ice
(like me)
unyielding
ungiving
Or we, a stream
that rippled toward the sun
whose hissing touch
left us only vapor.

To the Infinite Power (Poetry about Quantum Mechanics)

This morning, I read a strange but fascinating article about a new theory of quantum mechanics, which suggests that parallel worlds not only exist, but that the different universes interact on the quantum level. Okay, maybe the idea is a little out there, but my mind has been savoring the thought like an odd and flavorful wine. The result? Why, a poem, of course!

infinite universe

Infinite Me

One me

walking the way I walk

on my sole path

singing thoughts that swirl like colors

toes in the sea

wild of mind, tame of heart

wishing to be loved

wanting to be free

just me.

 

Another me.

Do you walk alone, like me?

Or do we skip together

side by side

like sheep

telling a different story

with the same words?

Do you sense my presence

when we fall asleep?

 

Infinite me.

We are all the same, but not

Different times

roads that split and merged

like land, sea and sky

Do we always dance alone?

Did we learn to be loved?

Are you the better me

or am I?

Green (A Poem)

Green

In those days, the water ran clear.

The warm air carried the sweet perfume

of summer fruit

and the green was soft and mossy underfoot

and the green was cool and shady overhead

and the green was a melody that surrounded her.

But the world shook  green in her pocket

and changed its mind

turning the water to mud

plucking the fruit from the barren branches

scorching with rays that sucked dry the bones

of the earth.

And she wandered, bare feet sliced by the

sharp stones along her path,

a desperate thirst burning her throat and stealing

her voice.

Her sanity was a pocket

In which she held a treasure as precious as

the life of a child,

as essential as laughter

as salt, as rain.

It was a patch of green – only a remnant

but it breathed, and it cooled, and it quenched.

One small oasis for the journey

One small reprieve

as she trudged through the wasteland

living for her memories

knowing that the days of green

could never return

but holding them still

and dancing to the whispers

of the melody that

used to play.