May Poems (8)

Gray May 1st

I wait for May to
burst like a pomegranate seed and
dribble down my lips; today's just
the pith.


in the shower with a thought of you

mist whispering, swirling
against neck; water licking
skin, nibbling; threat
of burning tumbling down
spine; I mere
sigh, melt settling into you.


forecast

clouds bumble in, soft
white like marshmallows, hiding
hearts of hot lightning.


what it is (II)

the quiet of a
flower opening and your
gentle eyes that smile.


loneliness

not in your eyes like dusk
not in your touch like sleep
not in kisses like dreams I gladly drowned in, but
when you left - god

like a star's first waking blink into
nothing, wide-eyed I
drifting cradled in her smile.


05242016

bones that swell and pop
lungs that bleed from screaming
palms collecting journeys for another life

before these, your face is the sleeping moon
and I'm enchanted by craters, waiting for your eyes -


i am so hungry

I am so hungry
for the missing bits of me,

the fullness of a belly
unbuttoned. Hungry for poems

I can't read, for how my
tongue can't twist

anymore and all the million words my mother
plucked from pain. Desperate for memory,

I let your evil jungles split my
brain and licked into the cracks,

smacking my lips: hungry
like you almost.

Almost.

But in the mirror where I go
to swallow myself whole,
my eyes on me are not like yours.

Bless them for what hunger can't take.


05252016

this grey morning-
forecast of split skies-
this day that waits, teetering like a boatman in the fog-
I am by the window braiding words to keep thoughts from flying-
tucking worries behind my ear-

recess

what madness stung
the hearts of boys,
sick with playing nice,

what thirst pressed heavy
on the bone thrilled them to
break a hundred homes,
cackling in delight?

the bees are dying, boys - what madness
stings the hearts of men?

after the fact

No nightingale,
no pain transformed to beauty,
Cracked tongue lodged in this human throat,
I croak broken notes
to sing of you.

7 minutes or until pasta is tender

7 minutes or until pasta is tender,
let's fill ourselves in different ways:
nibbling on tidbits of our days,
the dreams that leave us gasping;
tell me about your hunger
and
simmer with me.

Poetry can be like

forgetting to brush your teeth:
something collects on your tongue
before even waking
an overwhelming need to spit

peck

brevity's the soul of wit but
your lips stretch
forever;

curl into a question mark, love,
let me lay some knowledge on you.

042616

line me in blackest graphite, blur 

me into loving you, i choose 

softness.