le mar la
mer le mar
the ancient tongue of the sea
03 Saturday Oct 2015
Posted in Poetry
≈ Comments Off on the ancient tongue of the sea
03 Saturday Oct 2015
Posted in Poetry
≈ Comments Off on the ancient tongue of the sea
le mar la
mer le mar
02 Friday Oct 2015
Posted in Poetry
≈ Comments Off on expectations
We are loathed
to give such feelings
anticipation, mercy
to forests, trees of sap
In the hills of middle California
where entire mountains are cultivated
to be chopped down
right before the bulldozers & axes arrived
they’d send us, part-time archaeologists,
to verify that they weren’t destroying any,
“cultural remains;” all that summer & that heat
I walked one foot ahead of the bulldozers
looking for fire-cracked rock, obsidian,
anything to indicate that this swath
of trees, this valley,
these canyons, could be saved
and the trees held their breath
and the wind turned its cheek
as I passed by
02 Friday Oct 2015
Posted in Poetry
≈ Comments Off on rupture
02 Friday Oct 2015
Posted in Poetry
≈ Comments Off on
02 Friday Oct 2015
Posted in quotes
≈ Comments Off on “Allies” by Aliki Tyson
Tags
All I have on the virus
and all the virus has on me
All I have on you
All you have on me
is a head start.
note:
Aliki was a producer on “All Things Considered” (NPR). He died in 1996. This poem was among many found in his journals.
02 Friday Oct 2015
Posted in quotes
≈ Comments Off on Ishikawa Takuboku
Just for fun
I put Mother on my back.
She weighs so
little that I started crying
and can’t walk three steps.
02 Friday Oct 2015
Posted in quotes
≈ Comments Off on motoko michiura
someday
I’ll turn to water —
that’s when
the blood of my parents
will come to an end.
02 Friday Oct 2015
Posted in quotes
≈ Comments Off on mind in the waters
in summer heat
whale book for a pillow
i hear her moan
15 Tuesday Sep 2015
Posted in Erotic, Poetry, quote unquote, sonnet
≈ Comments Off on the peel sessions
Ill kept, bad investment, this aftermath
when we drift off to sleep. Some want two sips
I need a whole damn ocean, a bloodbath.
I know about quenching. How the bullwhip’s
handle, when pressed just so, can stem your whole
deluge. I’ll leave it there. To wet my lips
and then moisten my mouth, rupture your soul.
I run my fingers through you, though what drips.
I call it soul — something that I can touch.
Slake. We all have appetites and there’s bliss
when at last full. It’s what copper suggests
on the tongue from peeling fruit. Insomuch
as my tongue can peel your fruit from this kiss,
this pulp, this sweat pooling between your breasts.
04 Friday Sep 2015
Tags
crone, don't get cocky, maiden, mother, poem, Poetry, slashed bole, sonnet, wet charcoal
Don’t get cocky — Everything can get blown
apart. There’s no help the way I’m wired.
Vast sky: I am small. Mother, Maiden, Crone:
be with me as I drift — I’m still tired.
My name sounds rough in your tongue. This slashed bole
of a stump means that there’s no way I can
cling tight, I’ll just leave smears like wet charcoal.
I’ve read the Bible, Torah and Koran:
all man-made laws that restrict my sisters
restrict me — When they came for the sissies
and the butches I was high strung enough
to stand my ground, though there are some horrors
you can’t beat — how do I love these slashes
or find a name that doesn’t sound rough —