hair against skin

poetry

there’s moments in music
when the drums tread increasingly upon the silence
(as if walking up stairs)
only to stop—suddenly—sensing your thoughts—

returning—wildly—crashing—
with the strings and the horns
desperately trying to hold the world together
by a single measure

and there’s moments in life
when your hair brushes my skin
(as a bird along the water’s surface)
only to stop—suddenly—sensing my thoughts—

and

continuing—gently—gliding—
so i can feel each strand reach
trying to hold us together
by a single moment.

on the ben at sunset

poetry

the sun blinked
between the beams of
the bridge as i
drove back thinking:

this feels less like home
than your arms.

nuclear reaction

poetry

when I say this word

do you understand how
It is so full of meaning It is about to
burst so full of futures so full of hope of kisses of whispers when
It explodes It will look like this:

you&me you&me you&me you&me you&me you&me

(and particles of Us will rain upon the world
making them envious of this amorous atmosphere
as they take out their umbrellas.)

touch

poetry

when we touch
the world dissolves
falling like snow
until we are left
alone
hands on
hips holding
trying not to
fall, trying not to
open eyes
awake
return
comprehend that
the world
exists
intrudes
fails.

the contrasting twilight

poetry

the clarity of
the contrasting twilight
as
the lightning strikes
behind
the city’s skyline
makes me wish
we were that
couple handinhand
quickly crossing
beneath clouds stacked
orange
grey
black.

the rain

poetry

an overcast sky
and light rain
send me back inside
because how
else can i feel this
justifiably lethargic.

sorry, but this is not a poem

poetry

for those of our wiser readers out there who use a mac, you can now download the sieve and the sand widget to instantly read our most recent brilliance from your dashboard.

haiku

poetry

the syncopated bounce
of the ball–the trees
cast patchy shadows.

haiku

poetry

evening sounds
drift through the open window–
a sift of morose vibrations.

the roommate’s poop

poetry

was not flushed by the roommate
and when tried by another, became clogged.
so the question that emerges is
should she settle this matter on her own
should she leave it to later be discovered by the latter
or should she simply say,

“excuse me, you forgot to flush your poop
and now it’s stuck.”

(i would go with number two.)

poetry is truth

poetry

and the Truth is sometimes like
your First kiss
or your Last
the Truth is sometimes a
Knife in hand
or in the back

either way speaking the
Truth is like spitting out a mouthful of rocks
you’ve been holding for 27 years

the Hope is that your Truth crushes
whoever it is that needs to be crushed
for there are those who’d rather you
have a mouth full of boulders
than a community full of hearts

the hope is that your Truth lifts
whoever it is that needs to be lifted
for there are those buried under
hate/ignorance/intolerance/miseducation/dishonesty/depression/selfishness/violence/
loss/youcantdoit/youllnevermakeit/noonecares/youcantchangethis

who need to breathe life
(so poets:
release your words so they may become

the hearts
on
your
sleeves
&
the stars
in
the
sky)

salvation

poetry

poetry and prose drunkenly read
in dim light held by hands that
moments before had hidden our drinks
makes me feel as though words
are our salvation—and that this
is not absurd.

plus, we’ll save a ton on gas

poetry

i’m on the line–
crouched waiting for
that pistol to
fire i’m living in
those breaths before
the explosion of
gunpowder and
tendons–

i feel the
nauseous anticipation
hating now this space–
waiting now for life–
holding now our worlds–
until the suture heals
and we are one–
not even a scar to
show we were once
otherwise–

my sensitivity

poetry

I used to pride myself on
my sensitivity, but I
can’t remember the last time
I cried—not just
a single furtive drop silently
slipping out during a
sad movie, but a fullout-
hyperventilating-eyessting
ing-snotdripping-throatchok
ing-emotionpurging-lossofgravity-startbuild
inganotherark-inconsolable SOB.

(This may fall into the category
of be-careful-what-you-wish-for,
but recently I examined my soul
and it smelled like the stagnant air
of an attic long forgotten.)

i always confuse these two

poetry

during testing
the other day

a student turned to
me and asked

if ‘increasing’
means going up or

down

i shook my head
(neither up nor down)

and wondered
if this fourteen-year-old

has been alive
for the past fourteen years.

autobiography

poetry

i was raised by strangers
o, i was raised by strangers

who i try sometimes to fight
with paper fists

haiku

poetry

Saturday was an ocean
which I tried to circumvent
with sleep.

the domestic life

poetry

When the week
ends, I arrive
home, eager not
for bars and
beers but for
you

and

sweatpants.

in the moonlight

poetry

(i would also like to thank you
for such a pretty thought
as your daughter
in the moonlight
revealing
dreams.)

reflections on the imminent fatherhood of fellow amateur poet roger mugs

poetry

i cannot believe–

the same guy who shaved
a single mutton chop just
to see to if anyone would
notice (and then forgot)

the same guy who vowed
to wear black pants and a
white shirt for an entire
year (but failed because of a girl)

the very same guy who ran
nude with us across
Norlin quad and into the
shockingly cold night (after some hesitation)

the exact same guy who breathed
in the Pacific after we drove
to the edge of the continent to
sleep under Redwood trees (eventually)

–will soon be a father.

i cannot believe the guy who

shaved
vowed
ran
breathed

will soon be a father.

but i am confident he will
be brilliant (and quite the
embarrassment during her
teenage years).

the father to be

the sieve and the sand

Leaving the wheat with the chaff. This is not your mother's poetry blog.

Author: randyribay

hair against skin

on the ben at sunset

nuclear reaction

touch

the contrasting twilight

the rain

sorry, but this is not a poem

haiku

haiku

the roommate’s poop

poetry is truth

salvation

plus, we’ll save a ton on gas

my sensitivity

i always confuse these two

autobiography

haiku

the domestic life

in the moonlight

reflections on the imminent fatherhood of fellow amateur poet roger mugs