poetry

One Second Before The New Year

poetry

I
Where do the hours of the day go?
Quickly they run
the body go through the motion
[but] it’s all wrong
gray hairs and pimples
artless eyes and wrinkles.

II
Patched-up youth
screaming “bloody awful!”
forlorn, wistful and bounded
ready to abide to the universal bold laws
like poached eggs in the the morning breakfast.

Ecstatic painful joy-madness of a mother
at the sight of the long lost child, [and]
the subsequent needling sadness due to the lack of eternity;
loss recedes only for a while.

III
We were hopeful once
Our lungs expanded and contracted with mirth

We were happy once,
Our erected limbs stretched and scratched the sky

We were, once
effervescent souls
Sown with a string of luminescent words

Nature’s arrow pierced our hearts
So deep it broke us in halves, and
the void reaped our efflorescent breaths

IV
One second before January, one success on our belt;
“We have stayed alive”
…and here comes the cheer,
here comes the new year.

[Whatever for?]

For the plum wine
for the lake that didn’t drawn us, [and]
for you and I

filipinos age (too) well: a thesis in three parts

poetry

I.
so i’m teaching the other day when there is a knock on the door i answer it and it is a mother i stand at the slightly open door as the mother peers over each of my shoulders (which is not very difficult given my ancestry) and then asks is the teacher in there oh you’re the teacher you look so young how old are you i’m (fucking) twenty four and yes i look young (but i’m the only person in this room wearing a fucking tie).

II.
in school again the day is almost over i am standing at my desk and children are trickling in when in wanders another mother report card in hand and her son in tow she is clearly here to inquire about his grade but there’s that look again that vacant glance searching everywhere failing to find an authority (loooking) figure she then approaches a seated female student and begins discussing said report card.

III.
this time it’s a man on the doorstep of my house he begins to look over my shoulders and mumbles something about wanting to speak to the man of the house yes i am him i live here nah the MAN of the house yes i (fucking) own the house ignoring me he seeks the hand of my friend who granted has facial hair and welcomes him to the (fucking) neighborhood.

it struck me today

poetry

that in the last eight years
I have not lived
in the same place
for more than two years;
college station
amarillo
bryan
tashkent
fort worth
bryan again;
1 dorm room
1 duplex
2 houses
3 apartments;
I’ve lived in it all
but never known
a place called home
a place to call home;
a place where the years
accumulate along with
the moss and ivy
on the walls;
a place where memories
are able to attach to
tangible object;
so now I move again
to another stopping point
along the way.

roots

poetry

maple leaves
strewn across brick porches
wooden rocking chairs a’creekin
brats on the grill
beer in my hand
a tornado warning

the cold preceeding torrential
rainfall and seagulls flying by the
wind of the great lakes

my german-wisconsin heritage
maple leaves and all

learning to read

poetry

fearing eye
contact voices
barely audible
and hands

shaking

i watched them read
the words that they
poured so much
timelifeemotionpainhope
into

proud to take
their pain then, like
alchemists with baggy pants
or big hoop earrings,
create something
incredible releasing
it into the stifling
early summer indoor air
of the partially lit
library

i watched this all
and hoped they
would never forget
what it means to
really
speak.

the best poem in the world – tribute

poetry

written by the light of a candle
in an attic in some country home
indeed it was beside a lake
by a writer destined not to be published
until long after her death

and her pen moved with the candle
every movement dictated by the wind
scribbled furiously in olde english
on what could only be called parchment

the family downstairs could not understand
her desire to write, could not understand
the words she would now write about
the life it took to live oppressed the way
only a white woman can

and words written down, yes! one more
perfect allusion to homer, and yet another
to shakespeare. sweat dripping from her brow
now as the pen moves faster and faster

no need to correct mistakes unmade
a perfect hand, one more perfect verse
and as she stands with arms raised high
a smile protrudes from her unwrinkled face
perfect – she screams in her head
the best poem in the world

today i found it, written in sweat and tears
nearly one hundred fifty years after its composition
and as my eyes moved across the page
back and forth like a candle in the wind
i rose, raised my hands and a smile came
to my bearded chin

emily, you’ve done it again.
the best poem in the world
i have to find my gilligan’s album so i can
sing it to that tune….

so sit right down and read a poem
a poem by emily dick
sung to the tune of gilligans
they always make me sick