The Object of Feelings

•April 1, 2020 • 9 Comments

separacion

*Image found HERE

The Object of Feelings

I have felt the hunger
of the many young root;
my embrace was
mud – stroking
with its pebble teeth,
keeping the
blindness of their dreams
warm between the clay;
feeding and uncurling
their spines
through liminal spaces
until their eyes
would be glued
to god’s ceiling.

All along
I sew the
unhinged petals and the fruits
and pruned and tattered
green shoes and suits
like buttons
to my shirts and skirts
and tell only the good tales
of what is out there
so their white can shine
and dazzle
amidst my restrain;
i make them tea
out of the diluted pain
I learned
and pray
I won’t ever teach.

Not only because the wires allow it,
but you can call me at midday
and ask for spoons
and mind you, I rarely have any
but I will bend the sunset
just to make you some;
to preserve honesty,
whether I love you
or you are a junky that stops me
in the middle of the street
I will give you money for a train ticket.
I’ll help pack your suitcase
and I do and whisper
a thousand things per clock-waltz
so you, or you, or you
don’t have to
and because I think you are beautiful
and
if not, that you certainly can be
and, some day, if not right now,
you certainly will be
I know
I will serenade your heart
to well beyond my meager chamber
until you lose count
of all the horizons –
collected and sown.

The happiest of roots
is with a hunger of no end

so this is how I raise you,
a chipped flowerpot;
This is how I love you
disregarding
how a distant river we can smell,
twists and bends.

This is how I hold you,
until I am
outgrown.

*For NaPoWriMo day 1, where we were invited to make a self-portrait poem, by making an action done at specific times be a metaphor for ourselves. I chose to go with the action of replanting flowers, herbs or plants after they outgrew their initial pot. Hope you enjoy reading!

Remembering

•March 29, 2020 • 6 Comments

rmbr.jpg

“Remembering”

Mixed media / March 2020

As always, feel free to let me know what the image makes you think of!

Give out

•February 22, 2020 • 3 Comments

give in.jpg

“Give out”

Mixed media/ January 2020

Compliments

•January 20, 2020 • Leave a Comment

*Image found HERE

Compliments

the edge of your mouth
is covered in snow
and I love dem devils
because wherever they go,
wherever they take me and go,
they do it on clouds,
they do it on clouds.
And no matter how I look
when at I is the looks
they tease you a fine darling,
tell you your looks
are vicious and scalding,
Darling, you alright,
you dont need a nerf.
its just that the edge of your mouth
is covered in snow

Art and Reads

•January 18, 2020 • 2 Comments

Hellos all around; hope everyone had nice holidays!

Two of my artworks were published in Waxing & Waning, a really cool lit journal, so if you find yourself having a moment, do go and check it out!

Besides my humble contributions, there is poetry, more art, fiction, short films and lots more to tickle your fancy.

You can find the latest issue here :

Waxing & Waning ISSUE 5

Hush

•October 3, 2019 • 5 Comments

hush

“Hush”

Mixed media / October 2019

Overheard

•September 25, 2019 • 9 Comments

Image result for suburbs painting

*image found HERE

Overheard

What when the name of your heart
rests like slaughtered light
beneath the chins of crones at cocktail parties
and the clouds circle unevenly
around roofs
like spilled champagne;

How do they call
a thousand crickets
meeting a palm?

What when hoarded spirits
become chandeliers
and learn all the words
the way the sea would say it,
the way the woods would say it;

How do they call
when a hum
makes you hold your breath?

There where you caught the mother deer
telling its offspring
not to pause for the shimmer
but be ready to run
as soon as all headlights
storm towards the horizon;
there where you were told that sunsets
are drain-pumps for lipstick,
to scream softly
and dream while sitting down
and your body was a train station
for the trains you never got to
touch or taste
and were not allowed to say
you still
enjoyed the view.

How do they call the birds
who leave and return
and leave but return
without ever taking a single feather
with them?

Where you
hear a song and drown
and dial numbers where you know
nobody will pick up
because
if he picks up
he will ask you where you are.

How do they call this place?

Two elderly ladies, they climb aboard the local bus.
Their hats of silk, their pearls expensive
and their shoes tip-top
to settle the weight
of handwoven blouses and skirts
they picked out at the mall.
Ages on their lips are puckered
as they dissect the slowly moving
window view
skipping around
the thousand jealous little rays of sun
dipping their nipples
in the swimming pool
and completely unaware of you
they brand the field with their leaving;
do you know how they call it?
They call it
“Heavy Neverland”.

 
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