walking down a new street
at night, I lost a poem.
Drizzle beaded on lampposts;
mist circled the bare bulbs
suspended like electric moons.
Silent houses crouched together,
warmed by glowing porch lights.
An airplane disappeared
behind cloud smudges;
dripping elms flanked
the yellow “No Outlet” sign.
In the sodden dark,
the vast alone had shrunk
to one block, one house
on a leaf-wet street
where someone once lived.
– Lynn D. Gilbert
Author’s Note: This poem started out with losing a poem I was writing and ended up by losing myself.
… ...continue reading
I wish I could live in a soap sud
And swirl in the off-white basin
Lit above by three bulbs:
Two warm and one broken
I would rise and fall and ride the thin film of water
Buoyed in a kaleidoscope of colors
But there’s a tremor in the delicate walls
Because a voice booms behind me
化学的东西不是好的
My own, much quieter
You’re wasting time
So I turn on the faucet
And let the stream of water drown them out
Once again I reach for the iridescent pink liquid soap
1-2-3-4-5
Once again I reach for the iridescent pink liquid soap
1-2-3-4-5
Once again I reach for the iridescent pink liquid soap
1-2-3-4-5
Then I dry my hands on my pink washcloth
Before retreating to my room with its pink curtains
Where I sit criss cross applesauce to confront
The piles of paper on the unforgiving porcelain floor
Is this how Psyche felt while sorting seeds?… ...continue reading
She. Is a red
door framed
against the face
of a white house,
but i am the bitter
tongue of a scorned lover
desperate to shield what
remains of their pride and yet
She. Is the light
of a Christmas tree
at 2 AM when
the house slumbers,
but i am the third
strike at home plate
of the last at bat for a boy
too scared to swing and yet
She. Saves me
from a reality marked
by the perpetual echoing
of a premature goodbye,
but i condemn and fail
to moderate the timeliness
of a greeting offered
too late and yet…
– Nolan Adams… ...continue reading
Upon the shores bathed by withdrawing breakers,
four sailors lay against the wooden beam
that anchored them above the raging stream
while their ship drowned, sieved by the whirling shakers.
The stranded crew is made up of a man
a lynx, a woman and a mandarin duck,
who after the due rest and rant against their luck,
their doom of sand scorched by the sun they scan,
wave after dreary wave of drought till they locate
the silver heaving of the spaceship’ dome,
announcing through their doom the hope for home.
With varied strides to pace their weary gait,
they reach the entrance of the ship to see
that someone must have broken in. Afraid
that something might be lurking in the shade,
they chose the lynx, well skilled in bravery,
to go in first and check if all is safe.… ...continue reading
While students are confusing with their chatters
the classroom atmosphere as at the wooden desks
they take their seats before the lesson starts,
a bird glides through the open window,
swooping on th’ irridescent sunlight filtered by the trees
brimmed with the scent of the moon–budded dew,
and ushers in the glimmer of a halo
distilled upon the ripples of the sable beak
and pupils taking shape before the eyes
of one shy student, who, poised for the boredom
of the inevitable victory of time o’er dreaming,
reflects: ‘and yet the birds still pour
from branching shadows in the trees
their pure melodious gold to celebrate
th’ invisible refulgence of a light
that permeates the sky without restraints
even if my pensive moods can’t feel it.’… ...continue reading
I find a map and ignore Chicago,
you don’t exist, your warehouse
collapsed with you inside.
I can’t forget that you forgot.
I was 17,
running away,
reaching toward validation and adventure.
Just making a mess,
with open hands and a dead black heart,
pumping toxicity and fossil fuels through each vein.
I find a car on the side of the road,
take the 70 East until I can see smoke,
from the industrial plant
outside the airport.
The air smells like flight.… ...continue reading
Staring intently into the mirror
I can see the bones beneath my face,
a rigid armature
that would take
fierce will to break,
architecture that’s endured
decades of menacing weather.
Pressing pencil against paper,
I trace the ridge of cheekbone,
the shadow pooling at my temple,
winding up the long stretch
of my inherited grandfather’s forehead,
to that bulging vein
I blame on my father’s rage.… ...continue reading