Poetry is words

How do I want my man?
Like a poem--
Save the big ideas never
scintillating into motion,
like a treadle does work in the
sweatshops: a lever pulsated by the
coaxing of her exhausted feet.

Poetry is words:
Big, strong, audacious,
conniving, taciturn,
simple
meek
loquacious, incandescent
Or customized to your preference:
Hyperbolic prate like a Shakespearean,
Modest and transcendental Frost,
Whimsical and innovative Dickinson.

I will peruse his intentions
with tact; I'll undress his synonyms
and unzip the plucky metaphors he wears
pretentiously on his sleeve. His naked themes
will indicate the worth of the seams, like the Dow.

Eyes can savor the sound of it;
But I delve deep with Encyclopedia
relationships (beyond lazily-construed
purl stitches of rhyme and lime)
that whet my appetite for the
Creative, Spunky, Erratic, Calico-tongued muse.

I'm Not Alone

You broke my heart
What can I say.
What can do?
But fall in love again.

So now you've cut
My heart in two
So now you hurt me
Even when thinking about you
But I'm not alone.

You say one thing
And do something else.
You pass me by
Like I'm not good enough
For you.

But I know you're wrong.
I've got the strength to stand on my own.
My heart beats faster
As I lift the phone.
And I'm not alone.

I dial your number
You pick it up.
I smile hearing your voice
Because I know they come with sincerity.

What happens next
What do I do?
Last time I got this
I had to go buy some glue
For my heart
Because I was alone.

Take a chance
Find out for yourself.
Don't be afraid
Use the strength to find your way.
Cause you're not alone
It's a brand new day.

So now you've cut
My heart up in two.
You still hurt me
Not even thinking about you.
But there's some else
Better than before
Seeking life
For what's in store.
I can't wait for this
Generosity.
Faith, fire, and passion
Are with me.

I'm not alone.

My heart still beats
The same as before.
I'm not alone.

ogres are like onions

dynamics of Human interaction
complex because of sheer Simplicity
blinded, no, governed by Ego
Ruled by emotion, distanced by perception
narrow-minded to the point of Self-Destruction
the tragic Flaw made manifest

view the world through a Lens
Your lens, My lens, but never the Same lens
varying shades of a dulling Gray
so what is Reality? what is Existence?
cast off the rose-colored glasses
only to See that we are once again deceived
hidden behind the seamless paneling we call senses

the Hypocrisy runs through your veins, animating your limbs
transforming, misinterpreting actions once destined to be Noble
peel away the Layers of monstrosity
leaving behind only the bare Essence
in an attempt to justify Humanity and Cynicism
and your brand of Morality, stemming from a twisted take on life

striving for Perfection, trapped in the confines of your own mind
never stopping to ask, is Ignorance really Bliss?
or perhaps there exists an Obligation to character
outweighing the sense of shielding Chivalry
falsely saved, with aid of the deus ex machina
rewrapping your Soul, never to be seen again

Mermaid

I find myself delving deeper and deeper into this:

like digging through the ocean from a sight above the precipice
with a dolphin shovel made by mer-maid hands.

First I'll uncover a layer of salt,
then crystal,
then diamonds,
then something holy and profound;
something that can only be reached at abysmal decades--
something that can only survive treacherous temperatures and wanton hope
(only bacteria would venture to such heights).

Then, the shovel will shrink
in comparison to the ocean floor.
And when I believe that I've hit the bottom of the maelstrom,
and that I've found myself within the core of the Earth,
the whirlpool will kidnap me somewhere--
a place predestined or predetermined,
chosen perhaps by the fate of humanity
or by "His loving hand".

I will carousel back, I imagine;
It will flounder down nicely with me,
and we will be sitting at the precipice together instead,
eating peanut butter and gluten-free bread,
tossing our leftovers at the loquacious seagulls,
never looking down.

seven words

She backed her knife’s momentum with her memories

and swamped the kitchen with the clatter of a

television set droning,

Which reminded her of The Now,

and familiar voices that rebounded

off the edges of her brain into the air.

These stories—The Old, as she called it—were

delicately garnished over her freshly-cooked pancit

like the juice of a Filipino orange.

A bucket of auspicious promises and tribulations

was pouring its insides out from her head to her hands,

decanting some nostalgia

onto the savory juices of burnt garlic and yellow onions,

patis and soy sauce,

yesterday’s jasmine rice sautéed with eggs and tomatoes.

But the housefly didn’t mind it;

(was there something he missed?)—

his saliva spilled waterfalls and his mind

digressed, dumb over his five "human” senses.

But can you really blame him?

---

I had to write this poem for my Beginning Poetry Writing class. We had to write a poem with the following words: momentum, clatter, edge, delicate, orange, bucket, and housefly.