Saturday, August 31, 2013

Breaking Down

Closed with cement the holes between the bricks disappear
Fortifying a wall, closing out intruders and friends.
I bought a sledgehammer and a wrecking ball, but I'm not strong enough
I should've built a ladder just to see what was on the other side.
Maybe it was terror, pain, or internal tumult - all hidden from view
As cement hardens, closing the gaps between bricks in the wall.

Saturday, August 24, 2013

A Portrait of Wassaw

Spanish moss on oak, palm, pine, palmetto my welcome sign
My sea-legs buried in the soft white sand with coquina clams,
Expected silence shattered by croaking toad, chirping cricket, crashing wave,
Warbling painted bunting on the sun-bleached roof keep away the gnats
That gnaw at the sensitive flesh behind my ears, scorch marks
At the base of palm trees a whisper of fires past, fires and resilience
Of ancient roots - a family buried in the sands for centuries with bonnets,
Those sharks scouring the shallowest ocean water by tail-slapping dolphins
With dorsal fins glistening in the moonlit night, starry skies dancing
On wave crests unbroken until her dark heart of a carapace emerges
And her fins collect sand as she hauls he body to the dunes, her primal purpose
Propelling her to dig deeper at her ancient pace, year after year, clutch after clutch
Buried in the sand, primordial sighs and leaving her tracks like a memory in the sand
Before disappearing into the foam-crested waves.

Saturday, August 17, 2013

The Magic of Marinas

Seagulls white as the hulls of sleeping sailboats
Send out their cries joyous in the clear cerulean skies
Moored to the floating docks the Southern Breeze tied
To the Freedom of exploring horizons and shorelines
And barnacles on mooring posts as low tide drags
Away last night's skeletons and reveals today's promise
White sails hoping for wind: paradise for wanderlust-stricken souls.

Monday, August 12, 2013

Unleash My Soul

The desire to live, that’s what dance means in Sanskrit,
What does it mean to you, my tiny dancer, to dance?
Do you forget the little girl who fell in love with dance
Or do you still embrace the blistered feet as milestones?
Do you feel the floor beneath your feet when you plié,
Bending your supple knees and bowing your arms,
Fighting the friction against your bare feet, dirt-caked?
I see your deep breath, stabilizing the supporting leg,
Freeing yourself for the pirouette, surreal extension of the leg.
Your relentless spirit flies as your skirt flutters, arabesque
On pointe flowing effortlessly into a perfect grand changement de pieds,
Or was that a pas de bourrée with some attitude?
I saw a jump, feet fluttering, thighs kissing each other.
I forget what your movements are called, you call me
To join you. Breathless, I take your hand, staggering to plié.
I’ve been waiting to join you all my life, tiny dancer.
Your gift, your ethereal dance is a gift, permanent in my soul,
Nourishing mind, body, and soul as you demand everything
From me. You anchor yourself in my heart as you grand jeté
Across the stage, stag leap ending in arabesque, not attitude.
Supported on the toes of your right foot, left leg extended behind,
Your arms graceful at 10 and 2, no knee bent behind you.
I am relentless, fearless arabesque on flat feet. Afraid of pointe.
But let me dance for you, be the audience and see the love,
Passion, thirst bursting, radiating from my body, bare feet
Fighting frustration and envy, long strides pas de bourrée
Across the floor with no consideration for the barre.
Crossing right foot behing, jumping up, crossing behind.
Relevé, passé, ending in a pirouette. Again, again,
Again, I can do it, never losing my focus, like you.
Lifting myself onto my toes, caressing right calf
With the lifting on my left leg towards me knee,
Who am I spinning for? Who does your heart flutter for?
Tiny dancer, do these propulsive rhythms propel your heart
To flame and leap higher than your grand jetés?
Piqué turns are astounding, difficult, enthralling.
How your left foot rises passé while arms open and close,
Open and close as you lift, lower, lift your lovely leg.
Your développés are perfectly controlled, teach me?
I praise your dance, for it frees you from life’s heaviness;
You are lighter than air, buoyant soul that dancing transformed.
I praise dance for its enchantment of my life, enriching
My dreams of flight with rosin- caked ballet shoes.
Sit, tiny dancer, don’t hold me my hand, let me fly
Across the stage, this room, this life with effortless grace.
Unleash the passion locked away in a music box cage,
Teach my skirt to flutter in pirouettes,
Unleash my desire to live.

Sunday, July 21, 2013

Stolen Cheesecake


The thought of watching you eat               La idea de verte comer
- so gross and yet erotic -                           - tan burda y sin embargo erótica -
will not let me fall asleep.                          no me deja conciliar el sueño.
I taste my cheesecake, a feat                  Me comí mi torta, una hazaña
you quickly turned chaotic:                      que tú rápidamente hiciste caótica:
the thought of watching you eat                la idea de verte comer
from my plate is some sick treat.             de mi plato es una delicia enferma.
Empty fork and lips hypnotic                    Tenedor vacío y labios hipnóticos
will not let me fall asleep                          no me dejan conciliar el sueño

on the bed or the love-seat.                      en la cama o el sofá.
It’s become anti-narcotic,                         Se ha convertido en anti-narcótico,
the thought of watching you eat.               la idea de verte comer.

Wrapped lips around tender meat,             Labios envueltos alrededor de carne tierna,
your theft from my plate, exotic,               el robo de mi plato, exótico,
will not let me fall asleep.                         no me dejan conciliar el sueño.

Hungry for food or other treat,                   Hambrienta por comida u otra invitación,
I watch you smiling, idiotic.                      Te veo sonreír, idiota.
The thought of watching you eat               La idea de ver que comes
will not let me fall asleep.                         no me deja conciliar el sueño.

Friday, July 5, 2013

Food For Thought

I started to write a poem, hungry for substance.
I stewed my thoughts, mixed them, cooked them.

So I laid the foundation with a meaty sauce.
Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou are not so;
Then I covered those thoughts with starchy rigidity.
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
A heaping spoonful of loving cheesiness to top it off:
Merged, you and I, my love, seal the silence
while the sea destroys its continual forms.

Hands moving quickly, anxious,
salivating at the thought of more.

More hearty, seasoned support:
Thou'art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy'or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?

Layered over layers, wavy and yeasty:
Ah, broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown forever!
Let the bell toll!- a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river;
And, Guy de Vere, hast thou no tear?- weep now or nevermore!
See! on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore!

All covered in cheese, flavorful and exotic:
I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes.

Layers upon layers, condensing on paper,
labored over and left to bake for hours
in my brain and soon, the thoughts of
my sweet labor call me back,
hungry for more:

Melted and crunchy crust of love metaphors,
the rigid, starchy rules softened under the heat,
the hearty base thickened, darkened, sweetened.

Wednesday, May 15, 2013

Poetry of Love


Entre encuentro y encuentro
te extraño y te deseo por dentro:
mis ojos no lo aguantan y cierran,
mis dientes a mis labios atacan.
En una semana o en un mes te vere
y cómo añoraba te abrazare.
Otra vez me recordaras de todo:
las risas, gestos, y palabras que amo.
Abriremos las piernas en el sofá,
nos sentaremos acurrucados. Acaricia
tus dedos suaves entre my cabello,
apaga la tele, y dime sobre tu anhelo.

Déjame cocinar, déjame verte comer.
Déjame besar tus labios con el amor
de mis labios. Déjame desnuda,
abierta, viendo tu espalda encantada.

Enséñame como amarte otra vez,
como la última vez, como antes,
como cada vez de nuevo.
Enséñame que te amo.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 
In English now:

Between reunion and reunion
I miss you and I want you from within:
my eyes cannot endure it and close,
my teeth bite at my lips.

In a week or in a month I will see you
and, how I yearned, I'll embrace you.

Once again, you will remind me of everything:
the laughs, gestures, and words I love.
We'll entangle our legs on the sofa,
we'll sit wrapped in arms.

Run your soft fingers through my hair,
turn off the tv, and tell me about your longing.

Let me cook for you, let me watch you eat,
let me kiss your lips with the love
of my lips, leave me naked,
vulnerable, gazing at your back, enchanted.

Teach me how to love you again
as the last time, as before,
as ever again.

Teach me that I love you.

Sunday, April 28, 2013

Marble Sarcophagus



Intricately carved and shaped-
only to be hidden and shrouded
by death and grief,
hidden from a thief.

But for such morbidity
comes delicate beauty.
Dionysus, in his grape-vines,
triumphant, with fans:
Four Seasons - Spring and Summer,
youths not women, Fall and Winter.
Commissioned with meaning,
purpose or greed? Gleaming,

in marble cast, is death
such a party? Triumphant path
of the God of madness
and the passing Seasons?

Knowing our fates, have we built
or prepared for them? Guilt
or joy - in that pleasant morbidity.
We are nothing but frailty.

Love, passion, indulgence,
anger textured with patience.
That is the fleeting life we fret away
fretting over death's eternal stay.

Sunday, April 21, 2013

Mush


Sitting in my high chair, I would stare longingly:
toned and tanned arms moving quickly, 
cradling bright red apples and gripping gleaming sharpened steel. 
A blur of chops, slices, and dices all shoved in a black blender 
to whir around with cinnamon or bananas. Pureed, poured in a bowl. 
Excited, greedy fingers grasped for it and giggling, I shoveled my
baby food into my hungry mouth and missed,  smearing the
fragrant mush across chubby cheeks and my high chair.

Sometimes, running short on time, 
a familiar “pop” preceded a can of Gerber. 
Apples and cinnamon, mixed fruit, or green stuff purees. 
Devoured gleefully, the Gerber baby food always a welcome snack. 
Glass containers were stashed:  I snuck apples and cinnamon
to school,  mixed fruit was for church, green stuff eaten
furtively after swim practice.

Old enough to stop needing
food for babies, the cans began to disappear. 
The cans did not accompany me on the
long plane ride to a strange new land 
I missed them.

I missed them
when new faces spoke that strange language.
I missed them when we moved again.
I missed them until my brother was born.

A new baby meant a new chance to instill
love for homemade mush and industrial mush.

He didn’t like apples and cinnamon.
He didn’t like mixed fruit.
He didn’t like the green stuff.

I snuck into the pantry, confused and eager,
I bit my lip with the anticipation.
Pop.
Apples and cinnamon - childhood manna at last!!!
Gleefully cradling the can and spoon,
I licked my lips and swallowed.

Eyebrows crinkled and lips pursed,
I checked the expiration date.
I re-read the label.
I bought more at the super market,
one in every flavor, and ... terrible.

They all tasted terrible.
Was this my fault?
Had I grown too old to enjoy mush?

Walking through aisles, I often wish to be back in my highchair
in Venezuela - back when the baby food was made with 
love and even Gerber tasted heavenly.

Sunday, April 14, 2013

Ars Poetica - Defining What Defines Me


Sitting in front of paper and pen, in front of my laptop,
My eyes blur out of focus as I try to think of defining poetry.
What does it mean to me? What use is it to anyone?
Las palabras bailan sensualmente, intricate and enticing.
I forget meanings and language barriers, but there's a deadline.
Will what I come up with be satisfactory or intelligible to anyone?
Will you like it? Will you accept me for whom I wish to be accepted as?
Mixing words as the warmth of sun's rays play on my right arm,
while the moon sits atop the roof of Bush Science Center,
I type and retype, pausing to find a way to explain what I am - what poetry is. Rising further and further into the sky (or are we sinking and rotating?), the moon distances itself, taking part in a cosmic dance we are too small to understand but for thousands of years scientists and poets have tried to capture and understand it.
The memories created, lived, seen, imagined, remembered, they nag, like a flame to a wick, begging to be recorded. I have been lit from the inside out and am still burning up in desperate ways - burning with the passion to take words and make sense and beauty of them. Brillando en la oscuridad, mi llama baila como las palabras elusivas, acariciada con el amor de un susurro. Will the candle or the flame be blown away with a whisper?
That elusive detail
(feelings of love and inspiration,
creation and destruction,
bloomings of flowers and crescendos in sonatas,
the flight of a bird or the flight of passion,
el aroma de tu piel acariciando la mia,
kisses to soothe passionate bites on sensitive all too-human flesh -
real or imagined)
begs to be understood and immortalized -
can I do it justice?

Poetry: a song that touches the deepest, most hidden parts of hearts with strains and ink-stains so melancholy or hauntingly beautiful  that goosebumps spread across forearms and lives change.
Will it touch yours?
Will you let it?

Friday, April 5, 2013

White Dress (Part 5)


Scared by the intensity of her budding feelings, she swims farther away and tries to get closer to the rest of the group. Loud and small, the black silhouettes on the horizon seem further away than they were mere minutes ago. She sees the outline of Tom, the percussionist, and his impossibly tall and lean physique as he jumps from the dock into the water, trying to impress a girl sitting on the rocks. A large monstrous figure turns out to be Addie and Michael trying to start a game of chicken. Michael is quite the talented bassist, but he needs a new shoulder strap. Bottles begin to litter the shore and their laughter echoes in the night. Janet is sitting on the hood of her car with the headlights on, smoking, and holding hands with the lead singer while she rests her head on his shoulder.

Sometimes Elizabeth wishes that she could fit in with her new hall-mates or even with these new strangers. She isn’t usually this spontaneous, though, she wishes she could be. She normally wouldn’t be out here on the lake. She’d rather be reading, but based on how late it is getting, she would prefer to have been asleep in her soft bed hours ago. 

Well, maybe tonight I’d rather live out the stories in my books. Real life isn’t like books: the story isn’t already written out. I have to write my own story. Maybe I should take a chance and open up my heart.

The spot on Elizabeth’s white dress where his rough hand was just resting is growing cold. Could she be wanting what she didn’t think she’d ever long for? She is becoming much too attached to his inviting eyes: They’re either grey or blue; she’s never close enough to say.

“It’s funny to think the stars are so far away,” he muses as he draws nearer, softly treading water.

“Yeah, funny, I saw a documentary that explained how, even though we see constellations as two-dimensional dots on paper, if you travel toward Orion’s Belt...” she pauses midsentence and swallows hard as his warm rugged hands tenderly snake around her waist, “then you might pass one of the stars on the belt, and the others would still be so far away.”

“Hmmm, why are you so smart? I like the contrast between the magnitude of moon and stars and the infinite smallness of the sand at the bottom of the lake and two bodies floating together in the middle.”

Romantic, isn’t he? I really do like it when he talks like that in my ear. I wonder... what it would feel like if his lips...

She turns around to face him and looks deep into his eyes. Blue, they’re definitely blue.

“My, my, aren’t you poetic?”

“Not as poetic as you, my dear, the bright stars dull next to your sharp mind.” He tucks a strand of red hair behind her ear.

His hand still cupping her cheek, Justin keeps musing out loud: “Your wit and beauty, your body next to mine, locked together in a great expanse of dark oblivion...”

“Now you’re being ridiculous.” She leans in, chuckling and nestling her hand further into his hand.

“No, I’m being sincere.”

He leans in, and she closes her eyes.

For the briefest of moments, two pairs of lips make sweet contact under the sparkling moon. Justin smiles into her lips; Elizabeth deepens the kiss. Elizabeth forgets all about holding her dress down and lets it float up around her as they pulled away from each other. He smiles, and she blushes.

A shooting star crosses the sky as they hold each other at arm’s length.

“Would you tell me more about Ireland?”

Justin holds her hands in his, smiling, and begins to paint a rustic picture of small counties, rolling hills, and a cottage surrounded by thin trees and fats cows. It seems to him that every neighbor has at least one cow. His mother taught him how to milk a cow; his sisters thought it was gross but he thought it was fascinating. Justin’s father was a traveling business man who never had time for his kids, but his mother more than made up for his absence with her vibrant personality. She taught him how to cook and how to hike the hills. Elizabeth sighs contentedly in his embrace as the lake ripples around them.
The slight current tries to lift Elizabeth’s dress again and she smoothes it down. I’m done with this dress and I’m done with being so insecure. She takes in a deep breath, looks into his eyes, and takes the plunge.

“Hey, Justin, do you remember when you asked if it wouldn’t be easier skinny dipping than swimming in this dress?”

“Yes, why?” 

“Do you want to try?” Elizabeth stares into his blue eyes, grinning, and leaves a butterfly kiss on the corner of his mouth.

“Believe it or not, I’ve never done that. I’m not … comfortable enough to-- ”

“I’ll dare if you are willing to take a chance.”

She holds onto his hand and they wade toward the group of rambunctious skinny-dippers. Elizabeth runs onto the shore and removes her dress without bothering to watch where it lands as she jumps off the dock. Justin follows her, taking off his boxers and jumping in after her.

A nighthawk releases its courting call, a brief song akin to the whip-poor-will’s call. Flying out of the oak tree and across the moon, the nighthawk sings as it glides and dives over the water.

The moon shines brightly; its reflection in the lake blurred as a pair of green boxers and a white dress lay half on the shore and half floating in the water, keeping their secrets hidden in their folds.

Friday, March 29, 2013

White Dress (Part 4)


“Hey, love-birds, you guys want some?” The rowdy crowd is offering bottles, to which both Justin and Elizabeth quickly say no. “All right, more for us!!! You guys wanna come try skinny dipping?”

Elizabeth yells no back to the crowd, blushing and hiding behind Justin.

“You don’t drink?” Justin asks, curious.

“No, I don’t want to. You?” She asks, peeking out from behind his shoulder.

“No, there’s no need, not tonight.”

She wonders what in his past would warrant surrendering to the clutches of alcohol on some nights. What makes tonight any different? I probably shouldn’t ask, she thought, looking away and searching for nighthawks.

“A few years ago, my mom... She, em, she passed away, suddenly, and I didn’t quite know how to deal with it. My dad left when I was little; I didn’t really have anyone else to turn to. So I... I turned to alcohol, a lot. I’ve been sober for a year and half. Sometimes it’s really hard to be strong, especially when I’m lonely.”

“I’m so sorry,” Elizabeth said as she hugged him.

“That was probably too much to share so soon, huh?”

“No, no, it’s okay. Do you want to talk about something else?” she says as she brushes his brown hair tenderly out of his eyes.

“Well, you never did get around to telling me your favorite directors.”

“Easy, Joss Whedon, Charlie Chaplin, Michael Powell for The Red Shoes, Ashley Pearce of Downton Abbey. Let’s see, who else.

“Wait. Joss Whedon? As in director of The Avengers and Firefly?” Justin asked, astonished.

“Yes, why? Do I not seem like the type of girl to like those movies?”

“Not at all. You really are full of surprise, and, by the way, did you know Mike Newell is directing a new screen adaptation of Great Expectations?”

Elizabeth’s eyes light up and she bounces in excitement. Justin smiles at her reaction
.
“I had hoped that would make you happy. I had you picked out as a fellow Dickens fan.”

“Fellow? I take it you’re dying to see it too? Who’s playing Ms. Havisham?”

Lost in their conversation, Elizabeth tries to reconcile the image of Justin playing his guitar solos during the rock concert and the person whose eyes widen when talking about Charles Dickens. Maybe Janet is right about how great a guy Justin is.

“Did you know the some of the girls wanted to take you guys clubbing tonight?” Elizabeth says.

“But we’re having such a good time here on this amazing lake.”

“Do you really think it’s amazing, Justin?”

“Lakes back home in Ireland are usually in the valleys of mountains, fed by glaciers, so they’re usually unswimmable and frigid. Your lake is perfect. These trees and the stars? Perfect.”

Elizabeth takes a look around and realizes he notices the beauty of the Georgia lake she had been admiring. She sees a nighthawk leave its nest on the ground and fly over their heads, gliding through the starry sky. Smiling in spite of herself, she stares after the nighthawk and watches it glide into the massive branches of the largest oak. A branch hangs down low, and she imagines herself sitting on it to read; it looks like the perfect reading spot, just feet from the water’s edge and shaded by the higher branches. She turns back to him, catching a glimpse of a smile meant for the stars above.

“Wouldn’t your bandmates have rather experienced American culture through the typical college bar?”

“There’s the key: typical. Nothing about tonight is typical, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here, talking to a pretty girl.”

“You really think so?” Elizabeth’s eyes widen.

“I really do.”

“Well, then, I guess you’re right. We couldn’t be having this conversation in a bar.”

“Mmhmm, it’s so peaceful out here,” he whispers with awe near the sensitive shell of her ear as the rowdy crowd intermittently explodes with laughter.

Whether it is humor- or alcohol-related is irrelevant now, she thinks as his intoxicating breath wraps her in a fog.

“Mmmm, it really is. I could stay out here forever and just look at the stars. To think that after we leave tonight, you’ll be gone and I have to go to classes. Normal life...”

Justin sighs in her ear and begins to hum a tune. As soon as she recognizes the song, Elizabeth begins to sing along.

“Somewhere beyond the sea, somewhere waiting for me, my lover...” she stops singing, all too aware of that word on her lips.

Justin picks up the song in a deep baritone, holding her slender hands and attempting to slow dance in the chest-deep water.

“...stands on golden sands and watches the ships that go sailin'.”

Elizabeth smiles in spite of herself and allows her limbs to be awkwardly twirled in the water, laughing at how foolish they must look dancing in the water- him in his green-striped boxers and her in her little white dress clinging to her wet body - as they slip around on the mossy rocks on the bottom of the lake. Cocooned by nature, she loses herself in his embrace.

Resting her head on his chest, she discovers that it vibrates as he hums and that his heartbeat is comforting and reassuring. She begins to relish the warmth of his calloused hand on her hip and the feel on their hands interlaced as they dance. 

“My mom used to sing this song to me when I was younger.”

Elizabeth smiles at his sweet confession and, together, they begin singing the second verse: “It's far beyond the star, it's near beyond the moon.”

I don’t behave like this. What’s happening? Why can’t I stop smiling?

“You know, I love to stare at the stars,” she says suddenly, breaking the skin-to-skin contact and turning her back to him.