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Saturday, March 31, 2012

Poem: At the Shore

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It is yet
Another day at the beach,
Padding the pebble and shell-strewn shore
Weaving around the wads of
Washed-up seaweed,
Studying the driftwood.
Sometimes I come across a dead crab,
Or jellyfish,
All partially covered by wet muck.
I heave a stick into my hand,
Long with a sharp point,
And etch into the sand:
Hello Poseidon.
The lapping waves soon wash it away.
I wonder if he got my message.

Poem: Wolf

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The wind howls
Like a wounded wolf
Its piteous cry
Penetrating the still atmosphere
Before resting next to my
Bedroom window

Poem: Leaves

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Fall Leaves Beautiful Autumn
The leaves are falling,
Tinged with red,
Painted with yellow,
Colored with orange,
Hued with brown
The leaves are falling,
One by one,
Away from their brilliant foliages.

Poem: Skies and the World I Live In

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There is
A dark red band near the horizon
The ocean bright blue
Like from a dream
Washing calmly ashore
During this dying sunset.
Higher above
The sky morphs briefly to light green
And spreads out to dark sapphire.
The clouds
In an other-worldly formation
Are almost stormy here.
The sand dunes are now shadowed with poor light
And seem gritty.
On the other side of the
The sky is navy
Yet the subtle clouds are lighter there
An airplane
Descends through the air
And boats sparkle
Jewels on the sea.
The city here is
A metropolis of lights
Idly moving and resting stationary
Like inconsequential insects.
We ride.
We are lone figures
Riding on broken-down bikes
Where the bite of frost
And whirling wind
Almost camouflage
The irregular groaning of the pedals.
With each new lamppost
Our shadows speed ahead, only to fade.
A new one is created behind from the place
Silhouettes are born.
The clouds south of the lapping tides
Set in
Enclosing the muted area
With a dusty twilight.
The darkness rules
And here the wooden boardwalk is shabby
With planks ripped out
And holes grinning sinisterly with
The unknown.
There are no more lamps
So even our creeping shadows extinguish
As we race towards the backbone of the night.

I witnessed a storm, once,
When the heavy clumps of concentrated rain
Bowelled in the atmosphere
Leaving a strip of some mythical
Harsh white light
Near the horizon.
Then it disappeared, just a phantom.
The sky is now a uniform black,
Patches of spirit-clouds
Broken apart
Like the once existing Pangaea.
The moon shines
Near the roof
Of the celestial dome
Ruling the empty realm
Like a lonely god.
Its formless halo
Makes the clouds around it silvery.
There are no stars.

Friday, March 30, 2012

Poem: As Long as We Still Live

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Perhaps this a little too depressing…  Jadefireeyes

Beneath a faithful blue sky
Nothing can touch us,
Even though our rein subsides with a whisper
And the Wind bids us farewell forever
As silently as it greeted us.
Across the Earth,
The World is empty.
We had believed it would rain,
For dismal mist was carried
On slender ropes of leering spirit.
We thought it would wash the misery away,
The still-surviving swamps and fens
And the sickened scars of sea
Ever-flooded to the edges of oblivion
With pestilence,
Sweeping the surface of the taint of Humanity.
The Vapors lied.
We punished the Skies.
The Wind is drowning in its own agony,
Weeping for forgiveness
Moaning for a pardon for a crime
It only partially understood.
It is uttering wretched misery.


The calm night finally surrenders itself to the Rain,
And the fragile night is tangling,
Fueling the inferno’s unwavering radiance,
Making more painful the ultimate anguish of the chilling aureole.
This world
Is insane.
Within its borders
I am dying.
I long for better times,
For a second chance
For a world
Where we still discover
That everyone is but a puppet,
Pulled by invisible strings,
Controlled by something not of this evolving atmosphere.
The foolish marionettes who
Wander in an agonizing limbo
Running from a dreamland of nightmares
Only to find
The waking day hardly worth enduring for.
I want to find a place
Where I’m not like them.

Sure, this crazy world
Is killing me
As the ribbon strings wave
Of the people of Earth.
The World turns
As I fall.
The droplets of Cloud-Blood
Seep into the muddy ground
Leaching into the vile rivers
Making their way to the poisoned plains
Feeding the vacant husks of the deceased forest
Standing in silence,
Harboring a faltering legacy.
It stirs up decaying organisms to the surface,
And the reek of the decomposing rises upwards,
The drafts of stench overriding the
Clamors of sinister beasts
That come stalking into the heart of darkness,
Protected by Destiny
But only to find out that no one
Cares about that anymore.
Buried relics of the ancient past make themselves known,
As the horrors of the barren landscape crawl
Out of the filth of ignorance.
Life will go on
As Humanity is laid to rest in its
Corroding tomb,
Concealed by the rotting facade
Of a united house that cannot stand.
Nothing can touch us now,
Not even ourselves,
As our memories depart
With my last breath.
Nothing but
The delicious fragility of this travesty
Spurs me onward
In this dead, dead Earth
In this unloving World.

Poem: Respect Haiku's

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A kindling fire,
Marches on the flame for all.
Keep respect flaring.

A bridging friendship
For your elders, friends, strangers,
Makes it worthwhile.

Life is everyone’s
So share it with dignity
All may now enjoy.

A fluttering thing
In a halo of honey.
Respect is basic.

Grass grows, so crisp, green.
I say respect is soil.
Friendships are blossoms.

A beautiful wave
Crashes on the shore of life.
You must be the sand.

Poem: A Day at the Coast

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I was walking through town
As always when I travel home.
The neighborhood along
The main road
Is an unappetizing sight, really,
(What with neon signs
Flashing advertisements
And the dull bustle of cars
And buses),
But for the graceful petite trees with small scarlet berries
That they are gowned in even in winter.
I once asked my mother
What type they are called
But she only gave me the name in the language
We speak other than English.
She said
When she was a girl
She made necklaces out of them
In her native country.
I ask a lot about her childhood
But don’t get a lot
Out of her.

My glasses have pinpricks of light
Reflections from the achingly sun too bright
To look at
That resemble the sparkling inter-locking crystals
In granite.
It is January
But the mild day makes my face
Even the breeze is spring-like
And balmy.

I was disappointed that it didn’t
Snow at all last year.
Other than the white powdery stuff
That thing I savor most
Is the smell of frost in the freezing air.
But right now,
My hair
Flowing in the pleasant wind
Suits me well for now.

I pass the stores
And the odor of clothes cling to them
And see
Tiny brown song birds
Perched on pole wires
Twittering away
Flying with the agility of hummingbirds.


I am now eating raisins
From a plastic bag
As well as sour yogurt from
An enormous container
While wearing a blue oversized faded T-shirt
With the aroma of the beach.
I watch the heaving ocean
Through my balcony glass door
As I consume peach oatmeal with donut shreds
Since I could not find any bread

If it was windy,
The sand today would be
Creatively etched
With fine ridges like the Sahara
Although here the pigment is pale
And not the rich orange-brown of deserts.
Here the dunes are long gone
Tramped by beach-goers
With only one measly hill struggling to prolong
The inevitable consequences of erosion.

Farther down,
Where people don’t really care about the sea
Or even use it as leisure
The dunes are still there
Flattened out perhaps
But overgrown by green reedy plants
Like the grass father inland
And seagulls flock there by the hundreds.

I saw such a huddle and dubbed it
What’s impressive about
A white mass,
Where each individual doesn’t count?
In my mind
I picture
The spectacular bird silhouettes soaring outside stained glass.
Now that’s worth seeing.

Poem: Art of the Children

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I like this part of the hallway.
Here is the 6th and 7th grade art room
And on the outside wall
Near the door
Are little artwork designs drawn from
Those black thin-tipped sharpie markers.
One of them
Reminds me
Of the soft flowing tresses of a willow.
Another has the thick oily swirls
That resemble
Those in Van Go’s paintings.
A third has sharp etchings
Like rain.
Next door is the high-school classroom
Where they hang up still-lifes.
Last marking period it was
Glasses and bottles
With well-done highlights.
This time
It’s staplers and chess pieces,
Preferably knights.
Some of them are drawn with precision
And shaded
But some are the
Contours with warped grids inside
That I hate.

Now there are
More walls down the hallway
With student art.
This bulletin is light-bulb themed.
Here’s a creative timeline
Depicting a sketched bulb
Then cracking
Until there are only pieces of glass.
Another has a rainbow
Design clasped inside.
A third is my favorite:
Five sunshine yellow bulbs
Saying “Light the World”
Held by a grayish human hand.

Even farther,
In the recesses of the school hall
Are paper projects,
Somewhat messy and not that good landscape paintings,
Sketches of jars
Containing pebbles,
Collages of colorful

But never
Have they chosen my art to display.

Poem: The Sea Girl

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The girl was asleep.
Her lips were sweet,
Her nose was perfect,
Her skin was fair,
Her hair was dark,
Her eyes were closed,
And her soul was dead.
I sank her body beneath the sea.

Poem: Birth

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As the embryo inside of you
Grows with cell and cell,
Your mother’s waste away.
As the fetus within you
Begins to kick for the first time,
Your mother’s strength ebbs.
As you scream with the pain of delivery,
And later call the telephone with joy
To tell of the arrival of a beautiful baby,
You find out she has passed away.

Your daughter runs around the backyard playground,
Now eight,
And you clutch a forgotten photograph
Of you mother when she was the same age,
Misplaced in a dusty drawer.
The resemblance is uncanny.
Your survey closer.
A gasp rips from your throat.
You have given birth to your own

Poem: A Wednesday Night

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I am a part of chorus,
And we had to stay afterschool for a concert,
We huddled together,
Tight around one table,
Singing pop songs we adored
With a dash of Adele.
We were supposed to be practicing our vocal cords,
But what did we care?
We took out the dry erase markers
And sketched Japanese anime creations
On the pristine white boards
Designed to hold algebra
During the normal school day.
We took photos of each other with our cellphones
(Just don’t tell)
Everyone dressed in uniform black pants or skirts,
And white blouses, and dark shoes.

A potted green plant sat on
The teacher’s desk
Where it had thrown out
Spidery offshoots
To tremble over the ebony drawers.
I glanced around.
Since no one was interested enough to be up to the job,
I took the desert pink pitcher
And watered it.

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