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The Cat

I wonder about you at times

the same way I wonder whether that dead cat is still on the side of the road

whether anyone moved it

or if the corpse is still rotting on the freeway

the same passing glance that owes disrespect to that which you ignore

the same contempt of the stomach churning sight of roadkill

guts out, stained pavement

crushed bones, squished organs

isn't it disgusting? isn't it an eyesore?

but I won't be the one to move it, even if I was the one to hit it

I can't get my hands dirty, I can't sully a towel

not with the filth just lying there

letting itself submit to the buzzing of flies

if it didn't want to be hit, what was it doing there?

didn't it know better?

it was in the way, why should the car swerve?

it should've known the car was coming

is it that kind of contempt for life, big and small

that lends itself to this kind of thinking

that not even a beloved pet

is safe from self-centric criticism?

will I eventually be that cat

my spirit on standby as I wait for someone

to move my body

to give me a shred of dignity in death

or will I be the driver, fleeing the scene?

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Beautiful Blue

Beautiful blue

Of the earth’s rotation

The color of your soul

Elation, elation

My heart does flutter

When I meet your eye

I am not subtle

I am not sly

If I could capture

A moment in time

Of when you smile

Of when you shine

We have the rainbow

That much is true

But my favorite color

Is that of you

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Absolute Power

They say that absolute power

Corrupts absolutely

But I would argue that any power

Corrupts absolutely

Such is the way of ego

That we as flawed and selfish people

Grasp power wherever we scavenge from

Whoever we rape and kill for it

Power corrupts

In the way that a man knows little

Believing he knows a lot

And behaves accordingly

Power corrupts

In the way that a prison guard

Asserts his authority

Over the “deserving” charge

The way we see power

Is not uplifting or progressive

We see it as competition, survival of the fittest

And those without power are weakest

Even those who acquire power

Whom did not possess it before

Will suddenly lose empathy

Because their privilege allows it

Absolute power corrupts absolutely

Though it goes beyond tyranny

Rather, the perception of superiority

Found anywhere, will attest

To the utter villainy that power brings

The vile utterings of venomous pride

Absolute power corrupts absolutely

But any power will do

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I'm Dead and You Are Too

Look at what’s around you. Is it home? Are you inside, outside? Is it cold or warm, light or dark? Look at your hands. Can you see through them? What color are your nails? What is your favorite color? Remember the last place you were before you died, describe it. Remember the most important person in your life who is still currently alive. Go see them. Think about what they’re doing right now. They’re okay without you, does that make you sad? Watch them throughout the week. Watch your least favorite person too. Don’t worry about being weird: you’re dead and it doesn’t matter to them. Watch them sleep, watch them eat. Maybe don’t watch them bathe. Imagine the bleakness of the funeral home. What did your coffin look like? Describe it, inside and out. What was your corpse wearing? What are you wearing now? 

Now imagine space, the big black sky. Find out what a star looks like up close. If you can feel the sun’s heat. You can’t die from it, but it might hurt anyway. Go to another galaxy, with different planets and moons. That’s your new life; your fresh start.

What does God look like?

(A poetic writing prompt)

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Beautiful are the fingers that clutch worn pages, their pads stroking along the words read over hundreds of times.

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Ceramic Vessel

This vessel, green vessel

Shifting colors like my eyes

Reflecting the lights and sights

Of this room, beige room

This vessel, smooth vessel

Like the skin of my stomach

Cool only at first

Then warm, this smooth vessel

This vessel, hard vessel

Tapping fingertips on the surface

Echoing like a siren’s song

Glass-like shine, mermaid’s tears

This vessel, plain vessel

No scent, no odor, no taste

No smell of dirt or dust

Nor of the kiln’s touch

This vessel, my vessel

Cracks that I can’t see

Tunnels twisting, winding

Of a microscopic hero’s journey

This vessel, not my vessel

A borrowed muse

For a short time, mayhaps that I

Forget to write of again

This vessel, round vessel

Like the thorax of a bee

Open and empty,

The hive miles from me

This vessel, ceramic vessel

What can I write but what I know

The planes of its touch I feel

The space where I could grow

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Untitled Love Poem

In every romance

There is a portrayal

Of betrayal that will

Inevitably come,

Yet enviable is the bliss

Of a kiss between lovers

Lovers destined for conflict

Conflicting feelings and actions

Reactions of a misunderstanding

Reprimanded by Aphrodite

A reminder to cherish

What they have

Before it’s gone

Along the winding path of life

And strife and tears and crying

But dying for each other

Because that’s what love is

That’s what love is

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13 Ways of Looking at Winter

I

Trees bow under the weight,

and everything is silent.

The branches will spring back up

The birds will sing again

II

It glitters, like stars

In an ink black sky

It melts, like a frozen heart in love

III

When inside is toasty, cinnamon comfort in the air

It piles outside, an immovable wall saying,

“Stay Away”

IV

There are many ways to get lost in it,

Bury yourself in its depths

Or wonder in the endlessness of it

V

Stark white, bright light

The sun and moon and stars cast their favorable glow

It rests dormant one day, comes in a fury the next

Her mood a guessing game

VI

Black and white described by ice

A clinical painted portrait

VII

Old bones trapped years ago

Break the crystals of time to uncover its secrets

A futile pursuit of knowledge

VIII

A blanket of quiet despite the whistling winds

Hard rock at his back

Sharp blades at eye level, trapped in his respite

IX

Were it a rarer phenomenon, the love it gains would be greater

Weaker scorns and curses under steam breath

X

Balls of snow in eager hands, stray flakes under shirts

The uncomfortable contrast between hot skin and cold snow

XI

In the morning

He groans in disappointment

At night

She screams with delight

The same event

XII

Some hide from it, some wait it out

Some flourish in it, revel in it

XIII

Out of the many months we count

When does it happen but when it gets cold

When does it fade only to come again

Next winter

(Inspired by Wallace Steven's "13 Ways of Looking at a Blackbird")

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The Boulder

In my front yard

In the grassy, shaded suburbs beyond Richmond

There’s a rock

With moss where it meets the soft earth

The surrounding trees standing tall

Their green leaves swaying

In the warm spring breeze

It towers over a river

That is only a few inches wide

And a few inches deep

The children of this rock

Little boulderlings

Boldening the green forest’s carpet

The scene sublime

Morning sun casting a sweet glow

A perfect spot to sit and read

If it weren’t for those pesky mosquitoes

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I Thought It Was Dead

It cried out

A pained thing

Mangled and bloody

In my head

I thought it was dead

Nipped at my fingers

Shakily feeling for

Broken bones, wounds

It was so damp

I kept slipping

Whimpering, whimpering

Fear in its eyes

Snarl on its tongue

I smelled copper

I tasted my own cheek

It stopped looking

At me, rather

Beyond my shoulder

To a lumbering

Musky shadow

It sniffed at my hair

I froze, paralyzed

The other one scrambled

Away, but it was caught

Its throat torn free

The mass of fur

Turned again to me

Blood on its muzzle

Hunger in its gaze

In my head, I thought I was dead

It stared at me

I stared at it

A calamitous standoff

My fear’s stench

Its untamed haze

But it walked

Past me, shuffling

Caring more for

The fresh kill, yet

I was still frozen

Nightfall, then sunrise

I sat there

‘Til they found me

Took me home

Covered my tracks

I dream of its eyes

Yellow and piercing

Fangs like needles

Claws like knives

And it dreams of me

And when it dreams

When I dream

It always ends

With me running

And it catching me 

(Some drabble I wrote during class)

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"Crab"

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The Bone Bridge

Bone bridge, stepping stone spines

Rickety, rickety, rock

Bone bridge, chasm up high

Slippery, slippery, stalk

Thin air, tight labored breath

Hiccuping, hiccuping, talk

Narrow eyes, watching above

Menacing, menacing, mock

Bone bridge, fog makes blind

Whispering, whispering, foe

Bone bridge, turning behind

Withering, withering, woe

Echoes of laughter unkind

Cackling, cackling, crow

Choking on the stench of death

Resenting, resenting, glow

The bone bridge leads to dead mens’ land

Cursed to turn fresh water to sand

A place for sinners to repent

A place where demons and plague is sent

The bone bridge takes no prisoners

An unforgiving warmonger

The weeping souls remain unheard

Deafening crackling smothers their words

Bone bridge, stepping stone spines

Rickety, rickety, rock

Bone bridge, chasm up high

Slippery, slippery, stalk

Purgatory, resting place

Wallowing, wallowing, song

Now there’s silence to replace

The echoing, melancholy song

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End of Clementine

Clementine’s passing

Her broken body split down

The path of her spine

Tang and sharp bleeding

From the walls, stark against stone

Persisting through fog

Clementine’s essence

Escaping her mortal coil

Deadened eyes staring

Staring at nothing

Light faded hou-rs ago

Life taken too soon

Drip, drip, on the ground

Cobblestone tears, bloody crown

End of an era

Skin rough and peeling

Rotting flesh, white in the seams

Orange underneath

As the sirens come

Flashing red and blue, screaming

Screaming tragedy

Into the vast void

End of Clementine

Life’s greatest cruelty

The brute never caught

A spectre in morning mist

Mourning deathly kiss

Drip, drip, in their hands

The grief’s overwhelming grasp

Cried out, “Clementine!”

(A senryu chain based on a clementine I threw against a wall.)

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Hollow

Could it not be seen from above the ground

The forest path beaten down with footprints

Sheltered the sun by tall oak trees, the sound

Of a rustling rhythmic sway, bush of mint

Lethargic in heavy evening air, drops

Of dew rolling off of the sleeping leaves

The crashing warlike cadence of the seas

Thirsting and yearning in a land of crops

Chirping of swallows, sniffling of wild hares

Peeping of chipmunks, rumbling of black bears

Resting in the hollow a half burned tree

Safe from foul weather and a fouler fang

A mouse nursing her family of three

Lowly vines that from the branches they hang

They conceal the steep hollow at the roots

And she knows no fear of howling or hoots

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Cento

I think of mothers, silently begging their children to just be still

There were Australians and Russians

You do know what it feels like to be shredded in twenty-three places by shrapnel

On Monday, Chandra was gone

"I'm so sorry," I said

I hear them greet one another in the way they can

The right moment, the right instances

Luda died on a Tuesday night

Not ready to give up

Marjorie began to refuse food

I become radioactive with loathing and heartbreak

Mustafa and Amir are more careless

The "ghost" does not respond

"Get inside!" I screamed. "Get back inside, there's nothing to do now."

Something in my voice- the desperation maybe

The morning brings hope

It has been a year

In the morning and at night the Sisters call roll

He closed his eyes and waited

Radio static in a nearby room

There wasn't even a street name for him to learn

The room grows silent

(Cento = Patchwork Poetry. Taken from various editions of the Indiana Review)

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Winter Child

Cursed winter child

With skin bone white

With frosty bite

Feral and wild

Blue blood through the skin

With eyes like ice

And nails that slice

A cardinal sin

Forsaken winter child

Who stalks the night

Spits acidic blight

Harsh and reviled

Pale hair like milk

His howl so cruel

Emerges in yule

And skin like silk

Damned winter child

That lures his prey

While skies are grey

His grave defiled

Wretched and decayed

The flora he brushes

Wilts and crushes

As he walks the winding way

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Perfect Victim

I will not be your perfect victim

Who would bury my palms in the hollows of my eyes

And weep for all you’ve taken from me

I will not be your elegant victim

Who cries pretty tears and preening wails

So that you may ogle me as I mourn

I will not be your model victim

Who, in your mind, represents all of my people

Whose words hold less weight than they deserve

I will not be your dismissed victim

Who you may forget in a weeks’ time

When it no longer suits you to care for me

I will not be your cooperative victim

Who fits into a mold of your design

 And only acts according to the script you’ve given me

I will not be your violent victim

Who lashes out, even after the injustice you’ve served

So that you may film my outburst and twist my purpose

You will not best me

So that I kneel with my forehead kissing the dirt

And beg for my right to exist

You will not conquer me

So that my face is used as the posterchild of a movement

That is meant to demean and diminish me

You will not use me

As a means to an end which benefits no one

Except those who already have everything they could ever want

You will not take me

In the throes of my sorrow

That you so believe I could not fight back

You will not silence me

Or oppress my voice when I speak out

Against those who would sooner see me dead

You will not victimize me

And turn me into something I am not

For all that I am is a person

Who breathes and bleeds and cries the same as you

(One of my Award Winning Poems)