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

Penumbra: an epistolary diary entry (for One Shot Wednesday)

A mi Caro,

Another week slips into
the inevitable: the end of
a string of days. What is to
unravel or recall determines the
weight of this week’s end.
On your first weekend
evening, dusk I hope
descends grace on its brow
instead of thorns on its
fingers as it props you up
struggling to haul your fatigue
onto a train.

Where is your stop, Caro?
Is it to silent windows
across where budding twigs
brood over unborn flowers, while
on a chair your back to
a dear old man’s cranks
you fidget, regretting the
time unspent loving. Time
mirrors him and you against
a chasm of ages, life lived and
unlived—what’s behind
embanked on walls, your youth
surrounding his and what’s
ahead as in that boundless
span of sky your seat by the
window unleashed.

Or is it to the waiting
muneca? Her seas tonight
I hope had ceased roiling and
holds a quiet bed of words
she wreaths you with, scented
lily-calm or cherry silken-ed
What awaits you bounding
on Madrid streets, love
in your instep to her door I hope
not sour drops littered behind
the door-click, mouth-
hurting pebbles that her thoughts
had become when thinking of
you ‘living your life as your life’
not ‘life with her as your life’.

Loving and un-loving
that have for fifteen moons
tossed and battered you–
even if at times washed you
kissed and brilliant in suns,
interminable moving suns, that
dip and set then rise
unrecognizable even to you who
has a sun for a heart—I wish
soon ends this fin de semaine. A
new moon rising unseen as yet
I wish grips the seesaw lever
and balancing you on pole-ends
pulls you upright from the
ribs, coaxes a deep breath,
gifts you a glass-clear sense
not so much to know what’s right
but what you want from loving
or un-loving.

Sadness spells both ways
for you, Caro. Sadness we share.
Your in suite contradictions
your inner battles play out in my heart
as focused-sharp as in scenes
of mythic wars but isn’t love an
ancient battle still to end? Sadly
not me but you wield the sword
both as defender and enemy,
swishing in both camps. You
weary the skies. I watch
steadying the ground you
handed me to hold lest after
each battle no even ground

Don Quixote and his Sancho:
in spirit is who we are, embattled
by sorrows and dreams. But I,
Sancho have sieved reality
from dream. So I, Sancho
can trudge behind nodding, Si, Senor,
to each stratagem, and each defeat,
and each triumph. For I, Sancho
though I can tell loving and un-loving
is not the battle—windmills and Dulcinea
exist only in the eye—I cannot drag
you off Rosinante, knowing on
your perch your power soars
but on the ground battle-less you

The fruit not the tree, you say,
Caro, seems to rot in your hands when it
finally falls. I say, it does, if your
desire ends in your hands—in it
a fruit unmasked shows hairs, dimples
or scars. Its essence is in its fruit-ness
not in that weight on your hands. A
woman like a fruit has her essence
hidden. More than a fruit, a woman
rots not. To want to hold her it is her
spirit you must bridle and if you could
you must sip and swallow or if not,
sip and spew. One other
secret: you have to let her imbibe
your spirit as you do hers. If to this
you demure, then turn away
for ends of weeks may not turn around
and loving will remain un-loving.

I, Sancho, steadfast on my ground
remain knowing how another string
of days unravel this inevitable
fin de semaine:
I turn to a half moon
invoke its penumbra
as I scrape my mask, unclasp my girdle
let loose my braids and wipe my lips
off the bitter wine I sipped
where your lips kissed
your dream.

(c) Copyright by Alegria Imperial 2011

Posted for One Shot Wednesday at One Stop Poetry, winner of the 2011 Shorty Awards for the Arts, an inimitable gathering place for artists and poets. Check us out or better yet, join in!

April 13, 2011 Posted by | free verse, poetry | , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

you and i in seven pieces (for One Shot Wednesday)

a flower basket moon—
tilting from a swing of arms
in revolving doors
our sighs uncompleted in the eaves
a storm hanging by a cloud

squalling gulls
rip our day in shreds–
the only sound
between us and the stones
and the dying flowers

why the mimosa
shrinks in pain at our steps–
i search for your scent
you squint from its thorns
i sip drops of night dew

darkness leaves us blind
we grope for our eyes but find
our lips like embers
on a bed of pebbles left to die–
we thrum like restless stars

we reap our moaning
gather folds of reticent dawn
into my breast–
you slice away your pain
my flesh thins out in your hands

i beg for the sun
lodged in the cleavage of morning–
you toss it flaming
your destiny line singed
the line of your heart scarred

i lie in wait–
the next moon comes astride
the east wind raging
washing away whirlpools of dust
baring the sun i conceived

soleil levant by Claude Monet 1872 courtesy of wikipedia

March 16, 2011 Posted by | poetry, tanka, Uncategorized | , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 16 Comments