sewing me

 

with maple leaves & apricot threads

along the pattern drawn in my head-

a mash-up of seasons

pinched in circles 

crinkled by moss & moonworts

there's a backstitch

to loop into,

brown as long tail of winter wheat

then scattered red as pomegranate seeds 

what hardness i have is softened

what stiffness i have is uplifted

to the steady clacking of the needle plate 

though the hemming is sloppy

and the binding a crooked line 

i am 

resilient as feed dogs,

threading & unseaming each patch 

as i go along

my floral-spiked hair is loose bobbin

my feet the bias, popping with color

i ease into an

applique sutured in green

spring words leaping from my lips

sun's breath on my hair

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Come Sew With Me...Sort of, hosted by Lillian.  Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.  Thanks for your visits and comments.

the color of my days

i.  monday

white is the color

of regret, an un-

painted bowl left on table

ii. tuesday

i am color-

less sheet of blue static-

-unsent messages

-unfinished thoughts 

iii. wednesday

i can eat the sun-

flowers all day, but my

tongue is dragon fruit -

coloring the rain water pink 

iv. thursday

it must be the sand

or the sandpipers

how else can my mornings

be joy-struck, bicolored musings of sky 

vi.friday

i walk these city streets 

and see different shades of color 

from skin to hair to eyes-

i do not pretend to be colorblind

your story is different from mine

but it is the same ocean tides that 

powers your lungs & mine to go out

there & protest & march- 

vii.satuday

i read the 

books & albums

as if they sugar candies-

it was sticky with colorful memories

of the past

though its all in black and white

viii.sunday

and what of black?

it is erasure

it is sacrifice

not a color lacking 

a seed 

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - MTB Synesthesia.  Thanks for your comments and visits.

spring

mother arrives with a knife

cutting down the dead tree with swift blows-

pulling back dull curtains, bagging old

autumn leaves & winter bones with twisted bow    

this is a season of hardiness as stubborn

bull, plunging into the open air with grit & breath

of a seasoned traveler, braving the rain & roller- 

coaster wind, driving head first to sow seeds & spores

spring season arrives with false starts

much like a failing review of a premiere movie night-  

or a disappointing first-look of famous landmark-

it is a short season as the cherry blossoms trees-

yet in every spring season, you marvel its art-

thick thistles of flowerets- 

gnarly green fingers rising from mud-

red-veined leaves, delicate as old woman's hands-

  

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub- Poetics:   Getting Hooked on Opening Lines, hosted by Kim Russell.  Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.  Thank you.

dream catchers

 

i.

how come i cannot find

a playbook for young girls

so they can be 

stormcatchers 

& cartographers of their lives

instead of walking with bounded

feet and wounded hands

ii.

child

draw your dream in a paper

and tuck them in your pocket

-fisher of stars

-wind catcher

-queen of seven seas

-king of lost forests

your pimp will not want them

your jail keeper will thow away the key

they belong to you

in heat of hunger and cold of despair

in the lonely hours of darkness

unfold their inconceivable wings & glorious eyes

unflinching and unvanquished

fixed on you

no, you will not forget them

they belong to you

they cannot be bought

they cannot be sold

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Stormy Weather, with guest host, Andrew Wilson.  Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.  Thanks for your comments.

self-help

i read a poem or a book

and give them away

i gather every leftover tears & misses

and stir them to my green tea

i put down the mirror 

and go for a walk in the park

or go to the unbeaten path, somewhere

strange & new to marvel the trees

i palm a fallen leaf or stone, 

and get lost in the wonder of its veins,

palettes, ridges & wrinkles

i bake my mother's bread 

and travel back in time

i try out my daughter's salad from IG

and heard the birdsongs outside the kitchen

i bury my nose among the wildflowers

and found my valleys & hills

i inhale the beat of your verses

and discover my music

i grab every chance to unfold & re-

fold and fold into my-

self, a butterfly every season

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Poetics, How About a Selfie, hosted by Punam.  Thanks for your visits and comments.

Insomniac

Let us talk about insomnia

at 3:15 am.   A dark bird sits on my bed

& wants to talk about his ambition.   I am 

curious, where does ambition come from?

Is it a seed that suddently grows into

giant tree out of my head?  Is it a slow

painting of canvas, taking shape, defining my face?

The bird wants to climb Japan's Mount Fiji.

The bird wants the fancy feathers of peacock.

And fling himself to the moon.

His ambition is burning his feet after jumping

over fire stones after piercing the hornet's nest

Well I had enough of the bird chatter dream

I want to talk about my ambition - that 

fire within me that refuses to die when an idea

Comes to me, like a buzzing bee 

over the blooming yellow daffodils

Deafening sounds, lively chitter-chatter  

As my heartbeat is running faster and 

faster.  Sleep is forgotten library book.  

My feet are itching for calm after 

leaping into the air, like a gazelle

bounding out to the open fields

My spine tingles as if a lover's touch

stole my sleepy head.   Finally 

dawn comes with pink hues and holds

a giant mirror to my small idea bulb, 

now scribbled with crooked arrows.   Will I survive 

the scrunity of harsh reality? Dark bird, remind me 

again, where does ambition come from?    

Come to me in circles.  

Come to me, piercing my bosom.

Inspired by Anne Sexton, The Ambition Bird

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub- Poetics hosted by Sanaa Rizvi.   The theme is Maggie Smith and Conversational Mode of Address.  Thanks for your comments and visits.

Other Worldly

 

we are floating in dust & gas

we catch burst of light

as well as the tail blue-violet of darkness 

                                                                         there is an awakening 

we are shapeless yet shaped

by forces unseen, more powerful than ocean's

turbulent waves & scorching as

volcanic eruptions

                                                                         a daffodil blooms 

a nursery of beginnings of space &    

matter.  over time, where do we cast 

ourselves listening to the waves 

of energy & light  

                                                                        budding leaves of tulips rises

around us, clusters of stars & dark matter

colliding, collapsing, pulling & pushing as if

following the blue print of Master Hands

                                                                       digging the soil, soft as rain

the black hole divides

us,  the sun completes our divinity

though we are mere specks, wrapped

in the continuum of light

                                                                          a season of firsts, spring

 Photo by John McKaveney: The Orion Nebula. “This is an active star forming region about 1400 light years away, of condensing gas and dust, illuminated by newly forming stars. Our solar system formed in a region much like this about 5 billion years ago. The photons that were observed when this picture was taken, left the nebula in 624 AD.  At that time, Mohamed had just won the Battle of Badr, in Saudi Arabia, the classical period in Europe was ending and the middle ages beginning, the Mayas were just beginning to build their largest pyramids, and Europeans had not yet set foot in North America.  Throughout this entire time, those photons of light were traveling through space to be captured to form this photograph, where their journey finally ended.”

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Stepping Out of this World, hosted by Lillian.  Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm.  Thanks for the visits and comments.

notes for january

 I.

It is not the best weather

Grey skies and winter chill

Dulls my red fancy feathers

Still I go tap dancing, a thrill

II.

Her singing is not too bad

A little off key, she got the keys

Melodic refrains, we are so glad

The choir is humming as bees 

III.

It is not the best list process

A seed turns war between want and need

Escalates to what I want to frame

versus what I want to unframe

What I want to remember

versus what I want to forget

On the left side, a grocery list

and a travel wishlist

On the right side, a what-not-to-do list

and a where-not-to-go list

I find myself in a pickle 

So, I tie myself to the moon

And rocket launch the first one: 

journaling of my day & dreams  

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Litotes of Yesterday, hosted by Sanaa Rizvi.   I have selected to use litotes in the everyday. Please join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.

haunted & uncrowned

your thin hands are those of a sparrow

poised to slump, defeated scarecrow  

no caws or birdsongs can reach you

no grunts or hoots from small creatures

can meander near your shadow

the green and lavender hues in the faraway

distance hurts your eyes

wallowing you deeper in your wounds & woes

how you allowed it to fester, red & rot 

can the wind make you swish & sway at all?

can the sun spark a seed of memories:  lush 

yellow green needles, pine cones and nuts?

sorrow seeps from every pore of your skin

oh the agony of being uncrowned leafless tree

bark beetle-bested, your inside is solid carcass

knees keeling

ribs reeling

tell me when you are ready for the

axe to fall

Georgia O’Keefe, Dead Piñon Tree (1943), 40 x 30 inches, oil on canvas, Gift of The Georgia O’Keeffe Foundation
2006.5.180 © Georgia O’Keefe Museum

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Haunted, hosted by Melissa Lemay.   Please join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.

Choices

 

i close the door

& walk out of the building

& wait 

this can be a beginning

or an ending

or maybe a middle muddled situation

or a detour 

my feet & lungs are anxious

to know of my decision

there are many choices

but by now,

i write my story on sands

and journal my walks on origami paper

these are not set on stones

but built on windy re-takes and mid-

night revisions 

for every decision - this is 

which comes with one big exhale of relief

there is hundred fold sharpness of - this is not

but here is tricky part

you learn to live with this over time

-the fullness & emptiness of it-

& if you are lucky,

you will have your 2nd or 10th time around

the time carousel

and this time, you can make <another> choice-

-witness the first sunrise or sunset- 

with the eyes of a child

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub:   Poetics : Choice by guest host, Christopher Reilley.   Join us when the pub doors open at 3 pm EST.

a fraction of infinity

in a bunch

a fraction of the skin

of yellow bananas

turns speckling brown spots

ripening in haste,

multiplying in shades

darkening over the days in platter

as freckles on my cheeks

(visible patterns)

tiny as spiralling dots

(not as wild as sunflower seeds)

as crow's feet & wrinkles under my eyes

(growing webbed lines, creased by wind-)

burn under summer sun

(infinity plays in my mind)

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Poetics - Fractuals, hosted by Lisa Fox.  My post was inspired by looking at the bananas, which is ripening so fast in summer.

Thanks for your comments and visits.

Swooning with the moon

I.

The early morning sun holds a mirror

Painting yellow sunflowers on my face

Look, maple trees are wearing green slippers

And flowers are knitting hats with a lace

Busy as bees

II.

The mid-summer sky is an anagram

Where I rearrange the tidy letters

Into clouds of swirling sea tides & kelp

Where boats crammed of tourists, heave, sway & roll

I swoon with geese

III.

The end of the summer night is a page

Half scribbled in blue, hastily as kite

Lost in the rolling fog.   I masquerade

Sipping the last bottle of smooth red wine

Moon on my knees

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Colour me Poetry, hosted by Sarah Connor.  Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.   Thanks for your visits and comments.

 

a grandma's recipe

into the glass jar,

i assemble the shredded

red cabbage and pour

the brine

of spices & apple

cider vinegar

with sliced carrots & garlic

& finally

with summer's last bulb

of sunshine

i close the lid

on pickled condiment jar

until one cold autumn night-

we open and inhale its zesty

earthly flavor

on our plates of crumbling taco shells

& home-made soup of creamy 

butternut squash-

i taste home

Posted for dVerse Poetics - Concrete or Abstract, hosted by Ingrid.  The writing challenge:   I want you to write a poem using only concrete nouns, subject matter and imagery. For the purposes of this exercise, the following words are banned: soul, love, lust, dreams, sorrow, suffering, heartache, wonder, etc. 

Thanks for your comments and visits.

Our mother under the sun

 

we are scattered pebbles and wild grains spilling

we are wayward leaves and crushed jasmine leis 

you lift our hands to warmth, with light that shines 

the brightest of all, the sun, we spread our wings to fly

to you, smothering us in your motherly embrace 

to you, forgiving our ills, transgressions & doubts

we are broken trees & cracked mirrors of ourselves

we are forgotten children & cast-offs of the citystreets

yet you raise our faces to the sky, not even rainclouds

can eclipse your heart of gold, humble yet so holy, we 

cannot imagine the terror of your absence,

not even for a day, we strive to hear your words

in prayerful songs, we offer our misfortunes to you

open our hearts so we may be gatherer of seeds, 

dancing to flutes and drums of devotions

peacefully sitting in our lotus pose, our faces flowing

with gratitude, despite our lables: outcast, leper, poor

with you, we find our wellspring of faith

in silence, suffering with us in our nothingness

in darkness, comforting us until our dying breath

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Poetics:   Exploring the genre of Panegyric Poetry, hosted by Sanaa Rizvi.

A tribute to Mother Teresa and her kind of service and charity. 

Moonrise

 

I walk towards the lapping waves, calling the night my muse  

I swallow the moonlight & taste the effervescene of the pink plumerias;

hush now, you

are rippling limbs & shadowed eyes, suttered in mystery

Yet, stilled in blue, the words quiver in my throat

What was I about to say & do, my love?  

I hesitate & let the unspoken be,  jousting with the wind.  My arms droop at my sides, falling petals, instead of casting spells & weaving stardust

The electricity of the unknown died, and I let the safe harbors of the crowd 

embraced me.  Plugged me to the drone of bright city lights.   

Looking back now, I have left my coat on rocky shores, marked with hues 

and shades of fushcia sin; 

each one a reminder of the kind of person I would have been*.  The wildness 

never called me again.

* Original line:  " I have left my signatures on rocky shores, marked with hues and shades of fushcia sin; each one a reminder of the kind of person I have been."  Of the waters and wild by Sanaa Rizvi

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Poetics:  Dundgeons and Derivatives, hosted by Sanaa Rizvi.  Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.

Food for the soul

 

red maple leaves

blazing fire & frisson

feed

this simple soul

quiet space is growing

as autumn grips the sky

copper & russet 

we fall

on bed warmed by hikes

our footprints invisible

by dying sun

Autumn Leaves

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Three Little Words by Sarah.  

I chose:  Feed.Quiet.Copper.   Join us when the pub doors open by 3pm EST.