(packed away)

is that the sound of violins
or the long strands of your hair
running long against the others
when you walk against
the wind in front of me
whilst i rustle at your heals
the ricochet of leaves stumbling
on eachother
golden after summer crisp now
gathering loosely at the edge
of a parking lot
the clutter of a symphony
packing up
instruments away and discussions of the performance
the lack of synchronicity
how autumn came early this year
sounding better in summer tones
warm echoes within wood
chambers carrying out a sound
even when it’s finished
i still hear your hair
the sound of violins
(packed away)

prodded and (labeled)

prodded and (labeled)

in trying to speak
delicate words to describe
pity and death of children born to
civilian slaughter          
i find none left      
but those heavy    and laden
with truth       i become
                    
the heavy word
the bearded word
the veiled word
the fundamentalist word
the Islamist word

the trapped and the terrorist
words         and woes of those
who would have you believe
“sympathizer” is synonymous
with sin

in sinning
in being flesh i find
we get angry
the heavy worded ones
react to lightly worded
“resolutions”
delicately spoken
to make the victim
a villain

the lost clothespins

the lost clothespins

the smell of the night
a flower opening in the dark
caught in your unpressed
dress of white
cotton and cream
running over saffron
and shoulders
fingers over a man’s shirt
mine pressed still
from work and after you
in field of dark
green and sky so big
you see the earth
curve and miss
it all focusing on your tossing
a man’s shirt
mine ruffle
and billow
fly like a flower caught in
your breath
and the smell of the day’s work
ending and play
mist from the grass
when you and i fall
tumble
flowers and shirts
showering on a clear sky
over us

brief

brief

you anticipate it
the smell of
each leaf single green
buffets of fragrance
in the dark of blue
spring and
summer coming
with the wind breathing
a message to each arm hair
and eye lash bat
you anticipate
expect it to pass
no smell of leaves
lasts that long in a breeze
under your nose
above your mouth
it slips past a taste to come
an unfinished season

its when you anticipate it
the brevity of brief moments
that you strengthen the smell of it
learn that lamentation of passing
flowers prevent the appreciation
of autumn come eventually

small words in the ground

small words in the ground

will i run out of words
this summer i wonder
if i start to think again
of

should i instead
place a passion on planting
small leaflets
paper vegetations
white flowering trees
and shrubs of chokecherries
thick as poems
respond to cultivated
affection and earth
stuck deep under a fingernail

should i instead attempt
a rooting of words
in her ears
watered well
bring her a phlox flower
plucked fresh from
smaller intentions
a white blossom and a request
for her hand
with growing a garden

Spring Cleaning

Thanks to my wonderful new cleaning staff, the hiatus on writing has been put away during a thorough and well needed spring cleaning.

I’ll be posting new pieces for the summer.


(Photo taken from Dead Fred Genealogy Photo Archive. www.deadfread.com)

supplication

supplication

on holy days
i thought devilish
thoughts of you
in petticoats playing
with the locks
in my heart and hair

you searched me
for secrets
i knew details to
yours

made by hand
and not simple
procreation

you were brown eyes
staring at me
i was in praise
of knowing you
intimately worshipping
God because He
allowed me
you

CRINOLINE COMFORT

CRINOLINE COMFORT

There was an absence of sun.
The night cold,
You spoke words
To melt me
In a bedroom study
I dripped wax.
Sealed a letter
Called it the end.

When you beckoned me
To crinoline sheets
You smiled because you
Knew you had won.
I smiled because
It made you happy.

I knew I lost.

A FULL BELLY

A FULL BELLY

boats
set sail friday
after prayer, for flying fish
spiced right
like you
and I under,
slicing tongues
till dinner
docked

MOSQUITO NET

MOSQUITO NET

my face
was an african bed
your eyes rested on

i folded mine

saw you with
my hands

knew you

did not move
as your seasons
changed

it was summer still
mosquitoes left
your body
burned
incense and your hair
shaded me

Reprisals

On a bit of a writing hiatus for a few weeks, I've been focusing on getting back to painting. The next few posts will likely be some of my older poems, however none which have already been posted. No sense being redundant. For those who check the links on this page, do check Karen's Food Blog, and in particular her recipe for Imam Baldi. Make sure you're seated when you do taste it however. No word of a lie, it is almost literally, to die for.

clippings

clippings

i watched for you
your crescent moons
thumbnails in the
dark
nights
before ramadan
you flew
with them
the backs of your
finger tips
grazing
hills and valleys

my face

now and then
you grew full
of me
not to be seen
mistaken often
for rings
of saturn
so far

i watched for you
then
your crescent moons
thumbnails
on my face
in the dark

Arabian Musk

ARABIAN MUSK

Years past
and today
I smelt your perfume
on another woman
passing me.

Like prayer
on Fridays
I wrote you letters.
This week the same.
Another
Unanswered.

You must have
smelt it
for the scent of longing
before you
read it with
fingers
smooth as paper.

I know you
kept a perfumed box
with my letters
week to week.

You must have kept
my heart within it,
As years past.
with my lips
still thirsty.

The Brother Site

More visual arts, such as this one, will be posted on my sibling site. See the link for A PHOTOGRAPH OF HOME or go to: http://raymondmariasphoto.blogspot.com

perimeter passed

perimeter passed

        the news on the radio
        tired voices
        us within a car
        and street lights fire
        flies      guiding the path
        out a city
        with one hand
        steering
        yours    the second
        layer over mine on a gear
        shifting     in our seats
        with each kilometer
        away from crowds
        alone with a highway and
        ideas
        of how to make time pass
slower     out here

The Meeting of Lines

the grass and the wind

the grass and the wind

the city like
its people a plain
field of tall grass
shoulder to shoulder
brushing lightly against
each other accidentally      because
of breezes and weather patterns
the occasional emotional
wavering we feel
when we bend
in front of faces
of others in the field
and streets

love their shades of green and
slight yellow in the fall
the lady bug on their backs

the wind changes
we waver
in our quick directions
most of us forgetting
that specific shade
of those we bent for
beat for
lost in the color of a field
blowing     accidentally
forgetting in the wind

through an open car window

through an open car window

   the wind ran his fingers
       through the long silken
         blades of grass
              and i        blew on your lashes
             waken you
          to the sun resting
       his head on the body
        of the plains
          the day falling
              asleep
                 at the setting of it all
                     eager i was
                        to show the night
                              the rising
                                  of your face

like air trapped in the weave of wool

like air trapped in the weave of wool

an eggshell governs
the movement of blood
within my body and skin surrounding
the lace of many
starched doilies crocheted
by my grandmother and her fingers
when i a child
was protected by larger hands

a grown man i guard
it all in fair isle sweaters
thick     buttoned for the look
of clumsy minded men
masculinity layered
in knits unnoticed
because they’re often washed
and worn mismatched
to give another impression
i’m larger and less
delicate     as emotionally uncomplicated
men must be
thick handed     headed
(soft and delicately hearted)
              (brittle and fragile)
when naked     without

brail

brail

                    your skin a papyrus
                    my tongue a quill
                    soft to write upon you
                    dipped in musk and
                    honey         scriptures of secret
                    thoughts and plans
                    to wrap you in a breath
                    sweetness and tailored
                    taffeta dresses to
                    conceal the fingerprints
                    i left on you
                    while reading

laundered

laundered

there is the smell of fresh laundry
trapped in hair
  like threads of my shirt
   a warm drape
    along my back I miss
     you here to tell me it’s there
      your nose
     where it traveled upward
    the lower part of my neck
   the basket by it and my shoulder
  hands chasing it
around a soft cotton covered sternum
and below
where my stomach
  sat a feeling of
   what it felt like to be fresh
     linens in your hand
      and loose
        terry towel threads brushed into the creases
          of palms

           every one of my hairs      threads
        on end
    on end