Fault Lines (NYPC.3)

The love line on my palm is beginning

to tremble.

Best to hide under the desk,

crouch in the doorway,

fight the urge to evacuate.

Do anything except act.

Stand by. Wait.

I tried looking into the future

but my crystal ball has

always been shady, clouded

by the smoke that stuck

to my lungs like the mustard

he always liked on his sandwiches.

*

The head line on my palm has shattered

and is too faint to notice.

We used to line up—

an engineered perfection,

but we have been cracked open

enough times to shift.

Notice me.

Can’t be undone, can’t be unbroken,

like the plates that fell from

our lips and couldn’t be

crazy glued back together.

Some of the pieces were as

small as what we’ve become.

*

The life line on my palm has been

dormant too long,

pulsating constantly under my feet.

It’ll be all my fault

when the foundation finally starts rattling,

and you’ll say,

“This may just be the big one.”

AKG (NYPC.2)

When I was twelve, I had hoped he would ask me to sing with him.

I knew he could hear me belting 90s R&B as I paced the kitchen.

I pretended to be embarrassed, but I wanted him to ask;

it would have been proof that I was the blood of his blood;

that I was good enough.

I don’t think about him anymore. Not like I used to.

His death is much like my own now: abstract and looming.

I keep part of him on the mantle, except during Christmas

when I hide him behind singing snowmen

with the dead batteries inside.

I still sing in the kitchen

but only when I don't think anyone is listening.

I'm still waiting for him to ask me.

liquid (NYPC.1)

snot drips toward her lip.

she pretends not to notice

her despair.

es

Sue S. Idle

I once imagined leaving this life would be

a deep sigh,

a plop on the couch after a long day,

a warm fire and fluffy blanket on a chilly night

after having a sunset dance along the ridges of your

pink and purple feet for hours—

a relief.

That’s what it meant to be clinically depressed then.

Not taking life for granted

rather the want to remove the thorn from your eyeball

or having all of your limbs broken

while alone in a Russian ice cave.

It is hurting and helplessness and

not even loving others or being loved

alone

could fix it.

Not even love.

Maybe I caused my daughter’s illness.

Had to learn to live with despair

because I’m supposed to live.

Couldn’t march out now because 1. I’m a coward and

2. I couldn’t leave her behind—I couldn’t cause her to hurt any more.

Yet here I am, a burr completely immersed

in my cornea and I laugh. I laugh at my pain,

laugh at the world’s pain,

trying on calmness and mindfulness and centeredness and openness and honesty

in a three-way mirror under fluorescent lights.

I take steps

back then I crawl

back out.

Each time harder. At first, a broken fingernail, now I’ve lost my fingertips and a few teeth.

I’m worrisome and wonder if I’ll have enough body left to pull me

back up.

These cycles are too becoming of my character.

When will I stay afloat for good?

When I’ve lost my jaw?

When it’s too late?

How arrogant to think someone else’s pain,

someone I love more than myself,

would be caused by the guilt of not enough suffering.

And how low I must think of myself to assume the responsibility.

O existence, you strange paradox.

O loneliness and your absurdity.

IG: @daydreamifications

Change is Sure to Come

(First, raw draft)

Any kind of change

is birthed from discomfort.

A muscle, a diamond,

and a yogi with a “bad” knee

can tell you that.

But comfort is a rainbow,

its spectrum reflecting from

a stubbed toe to a bruised ego

to a crippling fear.

We are conditioned

to believe that the ultimate level of discomfort—

war—

is the only landing strip

for revolution.

Understand:

Peace is a choice—

the sort of discomfort

that only asks for simplicity;

For comfortable shoes, a herb garden,

and wanting only as much

as you need.

Change is sure to come

with bloodshed

or with love.

Either path is certain to ask

for more.

True revolution

will only wash up on our shores

when we are ready 

for the percussion of the sun on our backs,

for the earth to snuggle between our toes,

for the blisters to hug our palms,

for the small houses and wide fields,

for the giving more and the taking less,

for the uncomfortable work.

Luxury is the illusion

of the taunting pot of gold.

Lifetimes are spent

chasing the light that is already within,

when the true treasure can be found

in the absence

of greed.

Santa Cruz, CA | May 2016

I Am Here

The vine will wrap

its limbs and climb

the veritable concrete,

just as we resist

the burden and

convenience of

greed

through the

sheer will of

living.

I am here.

I am here.

I am here.

IG: @daydreamifications

Of the Moon

I used to love

staying up

well into the night.

It was a sanctuary

where the young

rejoiced

in the defeat

of death.

But now that

invincibility

has proven

only theory,

the night

is no longer

my haven,

no longer

where I play,

where I laugh,

where I dance.

So heavy

this burden.

The night

now symbolizes

the end

to all

the happy endings

I can’t seem

to believe in.

How I long

for the innocence

of babes

who so easily

close their eyes,

who can

so easily

rest.

I wish beauty

was not

so often

tainted

with the wisdom

of goodbye.

I wish

I could

learn how

to live

with the fear

of the end.

We cannot escape

our final breath,

but I wish

I could

<be>

like those

who do not

live

in fear

of sleep,

who can truly

live within

the unknown.

So heavy

this fear.

I am not

comforted

by the idea

of space

and stardust,

not at peace

with the idea

of heaven,

of cycles,

of seasons.

I wish

I could

be present

with the forever

that lives

in each moment.

Wish I could

live in the moment.

Why am I always

simply waiting

for my sunset?

So heavy

this burden,

this fear

of the moon.

IG: @daydreamifications

For Only God Knows What (NYPC #13)

New Year's Poetry Challenge, Prompt #13

We share our world with about 9,956 species of birds. Write a poem about birds -- their lives, their habits, the wild, the domesticated, their place in your life, what it might be like to be one, metaphors associated with birds, whatever bird-like imagining you can come up with.  

We were sitting

in the living room

when dad spotted it

through the window.

He sprung to action,

“Get my shoes!”

And we were all

in a panic

for only God knows what.

“Dá-me uma toalha!”

to mom he bellows

like his accordion.

She hands him a towel

then swings her hands

toward the ceiling,

What crazy thing now

is he up to?

For only God knows what.

He quickly limps out

the back door and

glides down the stairs

like polio was only kidding.

Mom warns us kids

to get back,

so we rush to

the window to gawk

for only God knows what.

We watched him crab walk

to what we could finally see

was a dull, green,

wild-eyed cockatoo.

Dad’s eyes were alive

but he approached with

ease before—whoosh—

that bird disappeared

for only God knows what.

He brings it inside

and furiously it beats

its wings along the rim

of our living room sky,

swooping on lampshades

larger than my entire body,

and roosting on the antennae

of that knobby old television set

for only God knows what.

For minutes that

stretched like hours,

utter chaos spanned

many tongues:

my brothers' cackle and whoop,

mother’s Portuguese slang, and

father and mine's

delight

for only God knows what.

We fed that cockatoo

until the color came back

into its cheeks

and gave it a place to nest.

Mom, who had protested,

let it perch on her head

as she set the table

or sat down for a telenovela.

In fact, mom was its

favorite, I think,

even though dad

had been its savior.

Or had he?

I often wonder if that cockatoo

was happy there on

Watkins Street,

for only God knows what

freedom can mean.

IG: @daydreamifications

Wild Woman (NYPC #17)

New Year's Poetry Challenge, Prompt #17
Attached is a photo. Write a poem.

For centuries
they have tamed us
bridled our voices
fenced our passions
They aimed to capture
Wild Woman

She awakens
takes back claim
that belongs
to no man
Wild Woman
set free