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from today's poem
Dec. 26th, 2019 08:04 pmI don't want to be looking behind me
With this sudden thought that
I might have left something there,
Dropped like breadcrumbs to find my way back.
I wish for hungry birds.
Woah Nelly
Jan. 16th, 2017 08:04 pm I kept finding references to "the envelope sonnet" but I wasn't sure which I had meant. Just now I found it. February 2005 paper journal. It's... wow.
an Envelope Sonnet
“Sealed”
A feather touch quills each soft, careful line
Each letter caressed with slow, conscious care
Adorned in serif, but with meaning bare
Though posed for you behaved, contained, confined
Behind the words, a hushed ardor retreats;
Beneath each phrase, my roiling hungers sink;
My uninvited longing sighs as ink
in strokes across the grain of smooth, calm sheets
Restraint is in this poem I write for you
That won’t be copied in digital font,
But do you guess how my desires rage
When my tongue slides along the strip of glue
And tastes the defined edge of this sharp want
Caught in the folding of a paper cage?
2/14/2005
Why would I do this to myself
Dec. 28th, 2016 11:01 amEvery few years, I dig up my backups and move/copy over to new media, or cloud storage, etc. Recently I noticed that I haven't written much poetry, and what I write I don't type up or post anywhere unless it has some value (I think) to a broader audience.
So the project of yesterday and this morning has been to gather up all my available poems and start a Scrivener document to put them in. I had already been thinking of them in context of periods of my life. They are currently broken into: Caterpillar (1997-2002), In Chrysalis (2000-2007), Here There Be Dragons (2004-2009), Beauty Time (2007-2011) and Lucid Dreaming (2010-current). Eww, that looks pretentious, doesn't it?
A couple of my baby poems are corrupted files. I pretty much have those memorized, though? That's what happens when a short verse is your prayer to get through things. (Also, I have the originals, the double decades old pencil and paper originals.)
It seems like a thing to do.
The last decade has a lot of missing poems. That's because most of them are what I dubbed PFED, "A poem for every day." So, garbage, basically.
- - -
It shouldn't be so hard to write
a poem for every day.
Pen to paper:
wouldn't you like to say a few words?
So much starts to spill out of your head,
Your crowded, noisy mind,
So many things your spirit wants to speak.
So many complaints of the heart.
It shouldn't be so hard to write a poem
for everyday,
You do lesser things, and harder things,
You get up: that's something.
At least have a poem in your day.
One soft, crisp, uncomplicated thing
One thing that is only yours
Where to start? You wonder.
Just tell me three things that come to mind
and write.
4/26/09
So the project of yesterday and this morning has been to gather up all my available poems and start a Scrivener document to put them in. I had already been thinking of them in context of periods of my life. They are currently broken into: Caterpillar (1997-2002), In Chrysalis (2000-2007), Here There Be Dragons (2004-2009), Beauty Time (2007-2011) and Lucid Dreaming (2010-current). Eww, that looks pretentious, doesn't it?
A couple of my baby poems are corrupted files. I pretty much have those memorized, though? That's what happens when a short verse is your prayer to get through things. (Also, I have the originals, the double decades old pencil and paper originals.)
It seems like a thing to do.
The last decade has a lot of missing poems. That's because most of them are what I dubbed PFED, "A poem for every day." So, garbage, basically.
- - -
It shouldn't be so hard to write
a poem for every day.
Pen to paper:
wouldn't you like to say a few words?
So much starts to spill out of your head,
Your crowded, noisy mind,
So many things your spirit wants to speak.
So many complaints of the heart.
It shouldn't be so hard to write a poem
for everyday,
You do lesser things, and harder things,
You get up: that's something.
At least have a poem in your day.
One soft, crisp, uncomplicated thing
One thing that is only yours
Where to start? You wonder.
Just tell me three things that come to mind
and write.
4/26/09
Share my umbrella
You are taller than me
So I have asked you to
Help me hold it
Above our heads together
And let me walk lively
Beside you
My arm is growing tired
...
We walk with hoodies up
In the cold misery
I would rather not call
The thing that hurts me
By the name of the thing
I love
You are taller than me
So I have asked you to
Help me hold it
Above our heads together
And let me walk lively
Beside you
My arm is growing tired
...
We walk with hoodies up
In the cold misery
I would rather not call
The thing that hurts me
By the name of the thing
I love
Uphill, In the Rain
Mar. 15th, 2015 02:25 pm You slept through the calls. Not good
because the appointment is tomorrow
but the message says
as soon as possible.
That is why you walk
uphill, in the rain,
without breakfast
or an umbrella
He weighs twenty pounds
He is not sick
or he is
That is,
he is not well
It may be a common thing
based on the common signs
but then, his age --
who can tell with a domestic predator
They take his blood
He hides behind your legs
and doesn't bite: one thing easy
You are glad for the downhill
take careful, tired steps,
in the heavy rain,
but you do what you must
for the small things you must
love.
because the appointment is tomorrow
but the message says
as soon as possible.
That is why you walk
uphill, in the rain,
without breakfast
or an umbrella
He weighs twenty pounds
He is not sick
or he is
That is,
he is not well
It may be a common thing
based on the common signs
but then, his age --
who can tell with a domestic predator
They take his blood
He hides behind your legs
and doesn't bite: one thing easy
You are glad for the downhill
take careful, tired steps,
in the heavy rain,
but you do what you must
for the small things you must
love.
Siren's Watch
Mar. 6th, 2015 08:36 amSiren’s Watch
In the roar of the Twelfth Man she hears the sound of the distant, deep ocean
of her sisters, in the crashing waves, singing from the foam
crying, calling: come home, come home
the Siren peeks over the top of her tower; she whispers as rain mists over Elliott Bay,
I have emeralds to watch over.
In the shriek of jet planes descending, she recalls amorous pleas
of sailors as she pulled them into the embrace of to gray death
gasping, gurgling: a breath, a breath
the Siren’s crown is a compass rose; she surveys from Leschi to Harbor Island,
I have a map to treasures.
In her clock tower, high above the streets, the Siren watches scenes
of bicycle couriers dispatched by smartphone, meal desires to fulfill
huffing, heaving: a hill, a hill
the Siren looks over the lights of Magnolia; she sighs as dusk settles,
I have a bejeweled city.Cris de Borja
Playing with audio
Jun. 11th, 2013 02:18 pmIt has scratchy noise that is kind of moody: Me, reading an old poem aloud. (Hear my lisp? Of course you will. ^_^)
I learned a new thing: the short code for embedding audio into Wordpress. I have successfully 1)used the voice recorder app on my phone, 2)sent the file from phone to computer 3)converted to mp3, 4)discovered how to embed into a Wordpress post, and 5)fought and won in the formatting battle for the text spacing. Wordpress doesn't even need the file type conversion. OTOH, I *always* have text formatting issues with Wp.
I learned a new thing: the short code for embedding audio into Wordpress. I have successfully 1)used the voice recorder app on my phone, 2)sent the file from phone to computer 3)converted to mp3, 4)discovered how to embed into a Wordpress post, and 5)fought and won in the formatting battle for the text spacing. Wordpress doesn't even need the file type conversion. OTOH, I *always* have text formatting issues with Wp.
Toads or Diamonds?
Apr. 15th, 2013 11:02 pmMore found poetry. Remember these?
1.
Miss Muffet, vegan now,
Eats her cruelty-free bean curd
Peacefully buddhist.
2.
Mamma's lasagna
reinvented with tofu
healthy comfort food
3.
tiny tofu cubes
with miso and green onion
swimming in hot broth
4.
cold, sweet, and creamy
dessert after a fine meal
who knew? it's tofu!
5.
Freeze-dried, shelf-safe blocks
Merky can't read the kanji
Kai attempts to help
6.
Even Thai food
tastes better when ordered with
veges and tofu.
7.
Sizzling dim sum
deep fried, hot, golden pillows
Oh! My mouth waters!
8.
Silken tofu
becomes a chocolate pie
with no leftovers.
9.
Her domestic love:
a humble legume transformed
not a bean gone bad.
10.
Ice-box almost bare
block of tofu, curry paste
I have my dinner
11.
That 80's icon
Sponsoring low-fat cooking
I pity the 'fu.
"Devotion"
Apr. 12th, 2013 01:11 am Devotion
Today I can remember how it seemed
that worlds with open windows would appear,
and blown through dreaming's portals from far lands,
their music tumbled in upon the breeze
A sky touched song of carelessness and ease,
Lofting the vellum feather of my heart,
Found answer in the golden chime therein,
And of those tones some new world would begin
When every day brought story to my hands,
As friends come to a companion's embrace,
How rarely did I fight for what to say,
When writing was synonymous with play
When every day brought magic to my sphere
When I could look through lenses touched with pink
Believing the kaleidescoping show,
Willingly dazzled by illusion's glow.
When as the sleeping butterfly I dreamed,
Enchantment in the silk of my cocoon,
The world, challenged, shifted on any whim,
when I sang inspiration like a hymn.
4/11/13
Night, Sleep, and the Stars
Sep. 22nd, 2010 07:40 pmThe painful confrontation with morning,
The assault of chiming alarm and crying cat,
Arrives with the regularity of a freight train;
On this timetable, I am never ready to wake.
Afternoon sleep is easier than night's
A few hours privately enjoyed
Closing my eyes to sun and finding sun again,
or sometimes twilight, when I am ready to wake.
The most delicious hours are those
Between dawn and eight, or ten
After premature birth into to the day
Going back to bed again, until I am ready to wake.
Living becomes a butterfly's flight between rests,
Within the fractures of dreams, my life,
But oh this craving for more of both sleep and life,
To leave the things it loves most, my soul, unready.
The assault of chiming alarm and crying cat,
Arrives with the regularity of a freight train;
On this timetable, I am never ready to wake.
Afternoon sleep is easier than night's
A few hours privately enjoyed
Closing my eyes to sun and finding sun again,
or sometimes twilight, when I am ready to wake.
The most delicious hours are those
Between dawn and eight, or ten
After premature birth into to the day
Going back to bed again, until I am ready to wake.
Living becomes a butterfly's flight between rests,
Within the fractures of dreams, my life,
But oh this craving for more of both sleep and life,
To leave the things it loves most, my soul, unready.
Not Walt Whitman's " A Clear Midnight"
Sep. 10th, 2010 07:52 pmA Cool Moonlight
This is a night without stars, oh mind, your free fall into shadows,
Away from sleep, away from rest, no peace of mind, your courage done,
You crystallize cold with fear, wordless, shuddering, worrying at endless unchangeable things:
Loss, dreams, and the past.
This is a night without stars, oh mind, your free fall into shadows,
Away from sleep, away from rest, no peace of mind, your courage done,
You crystallize cold with fear, wordless, shuddering, worrying at endless unchangeable things:
Loss, dreams, and the past.
Tower
I can't escape you
you come
glittering
scintillating in gold
uncaring of my fate
I am one more notch
just another mortal lay
and now they laugh, saying
"golden shower".
This is worse than death at sea.
Leda is famous art.
No one laughs at Io,
that fat cow.
Neither one, the deserved
bestiality joke
And what of all the others?
But me, I am recalled
when recalled
not as princess in a tower
but some girl
into
water sports
droplets still falling
over the spelling of my name.
I can't escape you
you come
glittering
scintillating in gold
uncaring of my fate
I am one more notch
just another mortal lay
and now they laugh, saying
"golden shower".
This is worse than death at sea.
Leda is famous art.
No one laughs at Io,
that fat cow.
Neither one, the deserved
bestiality joke
And what of all the others?
But me, I am recalled
when recalled
not as princess in a tower
but some girl
into
water sports
droplets still falling
over the spelling of my name.
One gray night it happened
Apr. 16th, 2010 07:59 pmOne gray night it happened
a boy outgrew his friend
But new beginnings bite the tails
of even that tale's end
When Jack became a father
as boys, grown up, will do
He named his bright-eyed daughter
little Jackie Paper, too.
When he put his child to bed
the stories that he told
were of adventures out at sea
in search of pirate gold
and treasures such as sealing wax,
or fancy stuff like giant's rings
and how he had a mighty friend
who earned the bows of kings.
Then on he started making up
more stories for her just the same,
And somewhere in a deep dark cave
a dragon heard his name
A dragon's love lives on and on
and waits to roar again someday
so even if you have grown up
dream again, make believe... and play.
a boy outgrew his friend
But new beginnings bite the tails
of even that tale's end
When Jack became a father
as boys, grown up, will do
He named his bright-eyed daughter
little Jackie Paper, too.
When he put his child to bed
the stories that he told
were of adventures out at sea
in search of pirate gold
and treasures such as sealing wax,
or fancy stuff like giant's rings
and how he had a mighty friend
who earned the bows of kings.
Then on he started making up
more stories for her just the same,
And somewhere in a deep dark cave
a dragon heard his name
A dragon's love lives on and on
and waits to roar again someday
so even if you have grown up
dream again, make believe... and play.
Little Thefts
Apr. 13th, 2010 09:29 pmThat which no one seems to see
Little thefts of forgotten things
Unmissed, unnoticed, for the taking:
Rhinestones plucked from crushed earrings
A dime left in a drawer of junk
Batteries from a broken clock
An ribbon dropped along the street
A key far wandering from its lock
Scavanged out of dusty corners
A sticker sheet, a post-it pad,
A journal, words scrawled on its pages,
I didn't know that I still had
A fragment of an old perspective
Out from underneath your lies
My worth stolen back again
And my reflection, from your eyes
Little thefts of forgotten things
Unmissed, unnoticed, for the taking:
Rhinestones plucked from crushed earrings
A dime left in a drawer of junk
Batteries from a broken clock
An ribbon dropped along the street
A key far wandering from its lock
Scavanged out of dusty corners
A sticker sheet, a post-it pad,
A journal, words scrawled on its pages,
I didn't know that I still had
A fragment of an old perspective
Out from underneath your lies
My worth stolen back again
And my reflection, from your eyes
