Tuesday, June 26, 2012

Enchanté Moi

Life is confusing and often times angering, so I write poetry to deal with it instead of slapping people. Generally speaking I write my blog about the ups, and I write my poetry about the downs. I don't know why it works out that way for me, because I know plenty of people who write poetry about the butterflies and trees of life but it's just not me.

A tip on how to read these: I write poetry like prose, as in you shouldn't pause at line breaks but only at punctuation. I usually want my line breaks instead to give emphasis to meaning or feeling of a word or phrase.


I've always valued integrity
but have only just realized
it's always been the lack thereof
that's driven me from other guys.
I tell you that you've got it
and you just bat your eyes;
I never thought we'd be here
where you force what you want under disguise.
You can't set me free,
but you can make me despise
your efforts to give me what I have.
You've let the water rise,
covering everything you want to show,
but no matter how you try, you can't devise
a plan to actually not care.
At some point you also will realize
how much you like being with someone with integrity.


She let life wash over her
like a huge tidal wave
and as the ocean held
her body and choked her lungs
she could die happy
because she didn't have to fight it.

Please Hear Me

Over and through
I repeat it in my thoughts
I shape it with my tongue.
Words I long to
whisper in your mind.
Words I mean
to do to you, as they have to me.
But how might they be mailed
or conveyed through the wire?
So instead they are willed
to your wintered
Enchanté moi.

Little Swimmer

She swims around
with a tiny pink Speedo lifevest strapped
around her teeny ribcage.
Dark skin,
dark hair,
dark eyes.
She is beautiful
at the age of three.
As her father instructs
her, she splashes hard
against the water,
singing in a little, strong voice
with words of her Indian heritage.
Little eyes are alive with joy.
Lovely woven gold
earrings struggle to shine
as brightly as she.
Golden glints
from the sun
strain to be as rich
as she.
Then she's slipping the smallest sandals
on as her mom helps her
into a light pink robe.
She stands
for a moment
between her makers,
sipping a water
sized for her hand
with the hood of her robe pulled up.
She looks as
the world's smallest boxer
between her trainers
after her best workout of the year:
confidence is her robe,
the Word is her water,
love are her jewels.
And though she is little,
she is fierce.

So Difficult To Tell Me You Love Me

The days when I get the most angry
at you are the nights
when I cry to God,
asking “What is so wrong with me
that no one can love me
Prayers like these
have always made me cry
and this day is no exception.
I want to give up on you.
10 days without your voice.
No letters at all.
You won't even be my friend
and yet for some reason the little voice
within me keeps crying out:
“he'll come back . . .
if he could just keep seeing how much you love him . . .
he'll come back . . .
if you can just keep showing him your love.”
But I'm beginning to hate that little voice.
I'm beginning to hate thinking of you.
But you've already yelled the same at me
so I know you wouldn't care even if you knew.
You've been happy to hurt me and I've been loyal.
You've been quick to cut me out and I've worn your clothes.
You have taken off my necklace
and I have carried the miles between us.
What have I to show for it now?
A month-old letter
marked Return To Sender
that might end up being my last to you.
I wish everything to be the last to you,
but only God and time
will tell whether the little voice crying out within me
will be snuffed by your big thumb.

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