jornales

for a moment of joy or moments no one pays for, i give myself a ‘jornal’. this makes me rich. try it.

under a wilting sky (for One Shoot Sunday)

'he never calls' photo prompt by Rob Hanson

notes you left on a wrinkled sky
that’s never blue always a heartless hue bruises
no sun can stand

shifts eternity imposes: no mere pauses—
your convenient absence these slashes
on tender paper you tore off the back of my palm

excuses I proffer—my veins throb so
in your presence—you deride lips smacking
on listless air my shroud

under a waiting sky, wilting
no one knows why

who but the heart
that knows knows when a smile
alights on a voice

who among the spaces senses
a smile as it wings its path to the heart
that knows

a flight quite swift aboard a voice still quite
mute its ring a sound only when it alights
on the heart that knows knows

what that smile knows knows its birth in the heart
only the heart that knows knows
why waiting

wilts the sky

Posted for One Shoot Sunday at One Stop Poetry from an image prompt by Rob Hanson in this inimitbale gathering place of poets and artists.Cenck us out. Better yet, hop in!

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June 12, 2011 Posted by | free verse, poetry | , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 6 Comments

red (for One Shoot Sunday)

photo prompt by Walter Parada

the truth about red:

my heart is like a man’s
although it flickers not throbs
as the Sun I am absent at the zenith
but in living things i lend my flare

my color is red not gold
as Red i seep in or withdraw
i blossom vermillion in camellias, azaleas,
or metamorphose into the rose

when blossoms shed petals,
leaving a litter of brown scraps
i desert the flowers
or blaze in berries, persimmons—
when juiced i spurt red

after coupling with Earth
i, as the Sun, leave it with
fire for smoldering births

find me, Red,
on chipped off terra cotta bricks
a mitt of rust on stray feet
a red organdy dress
to lift the shroud off grieving
i drip red on tubs of basi
shared after evening prayers
flaring on a monsignor’s cheeks
chanting a Te Deum

i pull Red out of my chest
to cloak archbishops
in carmine the color of fresh blood
the blaze of martyrs
who bleed for others
drain their heart out

but locked in self
i dry out a heart turn it black
blood when it dries up
that’s me, a two-faced Diablo
the apparition sneaking in at night
death masquerading as love

a bouquet of red carnations on Fridays
seething trees through bumpy rides
a stone in the moonlight rooting on a mango tree
a branch for a splint on broken bones
a face bruised by kisses
scarlet spears in childhood dreams
your name on my breath
a deep breeze

i, Red, am also the Sun swirling down
on a violent hand
but soften on pink tulle over the fields
coaxing you to reach up to me
scooping you to turn in my arms
switch off your fears
to smoother you with my most tender tinge
i, the Diablo slung in your heart:
you‘re freed

*basi, fermented sugar cane, native wine in the northernmost edge of the Philippine archipelago.

Posted for One Shoot Sunday at One Stop Poetry where I can’t resist the challenge as the other poets and artists who congregate to share their love of art and poetry in this site. Check us out!

May 22, 2011 Posted by | free verse, poetry | , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 14 Comments

i have no name (for One shoot Sunday)

Heather Nelson, photo by India Hobson

the owl
sees through me he digs
my heart
the truth about names

i am muneca
a filament of being
you drew
from rambling waterfalls

on my cheeks
you shaped a winter sky
my eyes and the temple tower
vie for light

you punctured
my lips so deep i gurgle
my defiance
of your desire

restless
your fingers knead
my neck to smoothen
veins you embedded

i leap in spasms
my death as brief
as your breath in my
clogged vena cava

you think
i am perfect in your hands
i grow molds
in the day

my skin liquifies
as you dream i am life
the owl reveals
i have no name

muneca a doll
of your melting eyes
has no heart

Posted from a photo image by India Hobson for One Shoot Sunday at One Shot Poetry, winner of the 2011 Shorty Award for Art given last week in New York. Come join us at this gathering place and meet talented poets and artists who share their love for their art.

April 3, 2011 Posted by | free verse, poetry | , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 15 Comments

To write a poem (wordplay on an old typewriter for One Shoot Sunday)

image prompt by Jack AZ part2

is not to catch
the words unlatched:

it is to meet
a current against the sweep

against the words
the patterns on the board

the words imprint
that later fade so like river silt.

To catch a poem
you can’t, unless eyes firm

eyes glued to the vaulted
deep from where had bolted

these words you unleash
on lines that leap

your fingers balancing
thought on words that slink.

To catch the thought
that storms into desert draught

you choose the speed
or letters scrambling in the deep

delude the eyes
escape the mind on ice

old keys do creak when cranked
to catch the lines unlatched.

To catch a storm wreaking
havoc on a heart sinking

in a slew of silted dreams
rusting on dredged streams

where winds howl threats
of maddened sand and dust like breaths

the finger tips must kiss
the letters naming muses hissing.

To catch the muses
soothe their caricatured faces

bare your soul salvaged
from old thoughts once baggage

tear out the paper
spewing lies of hereafter

catch the words that spell
the truth about their names true to their spell

on you to write a poem.

Posted for One Shoot Sunday at One Stop Poetry where a community of poets and artists share their love for their art and continue to sustain each other. Check us out!

February 27, 2011 Posted by | poetry | , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 20 Comments