Echo’s Lament

John_William_Waterhouse_Echo_And_Narcissus

Echo And Narcissus, John William Waterhouse (1903)

Echo’s Lament

I am not yet ready to live

and yield my love to another

 

I have not yet explored

the wonders of choice

having none to choose from

other than my unanswered desire

 

My waning heart cannot see

beyond the beauty by the pond

who will not see me

 

as I diminish with daylight

you won’t see even less

 

I will not waste time

embracing another

 

You are kind and fair

but reflection can never compare

 

So much the better;

had I caught your eye

 

Your gaze reflected

upon my echo

repeated back

into your flawless eyes

reflecting into the echo

chambered within my

unrequited heart

would echo my loss

onto your being

 

reflecting an infinite wound

 

and I adore you too much

to even risk destroying a world

where you can only find love

at the surface of you

 

I’d sooner die than crush

even the façade of you and

 

I’d sooner die than live

without my beloved

 

I’d sooner die and wither

like crystalized narcissus

in a December evening frost

 

I’d sooner die in a winter whisper

heard only by the lonely

and I’d sooner die

sooner still

 

I’d sooner die

and fall

into nothing

but sound

 

I’d sooner die

sooner…

die

** *

Written for Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Narcissus (Vanity/Narcissism), hosted by Susan. I chose to give voice to Echo, the mountain nymph, because of course I did.

Because of course I did.

I did.

 

Ode to Good Senses

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Photo by Yoann Boyer on Unsplash

Ode to Good Senses

I have the greatest nose I know

I can detect strawberry,

Spiced cinnamon

And encapsulating earth-tones

Of her presence

 

My ears are tremendous acoustically

Bringing me songs of her laughter

Cocooning me in the

Comforting confines

Of her cooing voice,

Granting warm pathways to her

Innermost ideas

The percussive reassurance of her

Light snoring, like raindrops

Shushing the roof above us

 

These astonishing eyes of mine

Take in the angles of her smile

At angles where gods and goddess

Are perceived, but pale in comparison

To the sight of her in flannel pajamas

Doubled-over, compressed

Tickled, in-spite of herself

By our silly whimsy

 

My body is buoyed by

A buffet of sensation

Of touching and tenderness

Of her connection

We cuddle and exalt

Life with definition

We touch and connect

And flush as cells rush

We infuse and blend

Molecules, use, renew

Our fire, chemically tuned

To our new, sacred element

We touch and forge,

We kiss, and sparks tell

We embrace, and I face the folly

Of oneness within our absurd bliss

 

I taste supernovas

Of past lives

On her lips,

Elemental fire-quenched eclipse

Craving her flavor rewrites code and creed

I drink her in abundance; she is

More than I needed and never enough

 

But there is something more

Within her, beyond perception

Greater than inhaling her presence

More tremendous than her vibrations

Transcending her astonishing spectrum

More buoyant than her touch

Beyond infinity of her taste

 

I cannot smell, hear, see, feel, or taste it

But I know it to be the purest form of her

As great as my fine senses are

I am grateful to find

Something greater in her.

** *

Written for Wifey, on her birthday on November 12.

Shared at Poets United, Poetry Pantry #378.

 

 

The Laundry

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Photo by Jesse Bowser on Unsplash

The Laundry

Once upon an evening dreamy, reclined beyond conscience unseemly

Clean-laundry piled shotgun beside me burst forth with Terri Ann’s allure.

Her voice apparent, yet quite untimely, bubbled with laughter, light and finely-

Tuned for my perception, winding her time, which ended years before

A decade before, less or more. Is my mom’s soul now laundry lore?

I’m just baked. I must ignore.

 

We watched cartoons and tripped fantastic, Kush-soaked reflections, quite elastic.

Asked laundry-mother what traumatic lesson her spirit had in store?

Her laughter warmed peripherals, soft linen, looming lavender smells

Her soothing hearth of laughter tells me, unseen, with heart a-pure

Soothing song sang as she gathered with mother’s heart, rang, not demure

Laundry said, “You must endure.”

 

I laughed at her linen reprisal as if she sensed my suicidal,

Un-suspenseful thought-revivals. I asked clean laundry, “Is there more?”

For to suffer life in silence, its smearing rife with leering violence,

Abysmal veering into blindness; is that our fate, and nothing more?

Subliminal closed-mindedness? Should I get baked and just ignore?

Spit at fate, and what’s in-store?

 

My laundry-mother laughed disarming laughs, belying life’s alarming

Nature, nurturing and charming me, unanswered, insecure.

Her non-answers thrust upon me like a thirst quenched by tsunami

Voicing visions far beyond me, unseen, she sings with heart a-pure

She stings my heart, weary, unsure, with momma’s voice ringing a cure

Laundry sang, “You must endure.”

** *

Written for dVerse Poetics’ The voice of the monster, hosted by Björn. I know I’m a day late, but I thought I’d share an actual ghost story that happened to me about a week before Halloween, when my mom visited me during a low point. I’m agnostic, but I believe my mom dropped by to kick my ass, get me to stop feeling for myself and keep grinding for the fam. Perhaps in my case, the monster was my depression? (Who am I kidding? It’s almost always my monster.)

Go here to read other spooky stories.

 

But Much More Than That

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Photo by frank cordoba on Unsplash

But Much More Than That

Red-shifted light is

moving away from us at

unimaginable speeds.

 

Nature’s senescence

will overtake us before

we could conjure a method

of overcoming physics.

 

Red hue of dim light

surrounds us now, painting your

rosy silhouette kneeling

upon tangled plum bedsheets,

 

facing away from

me, preening your neck to peer

my darkness, closing behind

you, smiling coyly with

 

licentious lips that

I imagine must taste of

bourbon and fizzy ginger,

its bubbles catching a faint

 

gleam in your eyes as

I fall into you, and I’m

overwhelmed by a vision

of blue ocean lapping at

 

your sun-kissed skin as

you serenely swim away

from my anchored boat moored at

the edge of my comfort-zone

 

I page through my book,

pretending not to obsess

over your safety as you

let currents increase distance,

 

peeking over your

shoulder, confirming I’d be

there, right where you left me, no

longer in the red. You are

 

to the left of me

and my teasing left you with

the impression that I had

forgotten your name.

 

You tsk me for it

from behind wine lips and we

collapse in rose-hued laughter.

***

Shared at Poets United Poetry Pantry # 376

Smirking Dragon

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Photo by robbertdb on Unsplash

Smirking Dragon

As the sun settled into soft angles

just above igniting western skies,

 

it spotlights a cumulus cloud curiously

shaped like a coiled, smirking dragon

lazily floating eastbound, her neck and

 

grinning head preening north by northwest,

drawing your attention toward Orcas Island

 

and one of the most perfect moments of

your life, when you were inexplicably

comfortable in your own skin while both

 

alone and in unfamiliar company

at a destination wedding you attended

 

against your will, watching two outliers

pledge their lives to each other as you’d done

twice over, with the second time inexplicably

 

working out much better than the first,

which compelled you to make that journey

 

in the first place to that unfamiliar island

surrounded by unacquainted people

to witness an unfamiliar couple

 

pledge their lives to one another in a

series of moments the smirking dragon

 

reminds you that can only be described as perfect.

As the dragon cranes her neck northwestward,

it evaporates into the ether,

 

leaving only her fluffy scaly body and

a disembodied smirking head, which also

 

slowly vanished from misty existence

leaving you wondering why your second

attempt at sharing your world with a woman

 

worked wonders while your first effort failed

spectacularly, or why your second trip to

 

Orcas Island was fun, but not nearly as

magical as that first one, or why that beautiful

smiling couple of strangers beginning their lives

 

together ultimately could not fulfil

their pledge to one another even after

 

committing to create another beautiful,

smiling, giggling, spunky stranger together, but

then it hits you as the headless dragon corpse

 

became just another cloud fading away from

the settling sun, which ignites the western sky

 

as eastern clouds are devoured by earth’s shadow.

We often chase perfect destinations

seeking to relive perfect moments, as

 

if we were living ghosts who for fleeting

moments have forgotten how to live. But

 

we have far more in common with misting

smirking cumulus dragons that we see

than the ghosts we chase in familiar places.

***

 

Shared at imaginary garden with real toads.

The Trouble with Bonding

Kintsugi

Image source: Google

The Trouble with Bonding

My fractures run deep

with jagged curves back in time

misaligned by variances between

what was and what should’ve been.

 

I pretended

to be whole

again and again,

blending my façade

with her charade,

becoming a beautiful lie

that died

the moment we tried

rocky weather together

whenever and wherever

our rhyme got sloppy and

disjointed.

 

We pointed out each other’s flaws

and clawed ourselves apart. My heart

mistook love for a pleasure found

oozing pillow-talk

into the next girl’s

midnight bedsheets;

repeatedly pressed this error

into her replacement’s bed too,

but she fled my good intentions

just as I was finding leverage

to press solid meaning into her…

into her…

 

Are these mildly lewd sex metaphors

doing anything for you? Because

I could probably say plainly that

 

I had mostly good sex

with mostly good women

for mostly bad reasons

 

not for love, pleasure,

not even for affection

mostly, a self-deception

 

as I mostly engaged in the self-delusion

that I loved them

or that I loved myself, when

 

I was clearly too broken to do either,

 

but I suppose it’s better that I couch it

in some wrecked flower and

tangled bedsheet nonsense.

 

I’m wrecking the rhythm of this poem.

I apologize. Now, where was I?

 

Into her wake,

serene surface broken

by her rippling,

departing waves

I wandered,

my fractures,

deep with jagged

curves back in time

misaligned

by variances between

what was her own brokenness and

what should’ve been

her pristine perfection that

should’ve saved us both

but didn’t.

 

Looking back, I know now that her imperfections

were perfectly wondrous and uniquely lovely.

But it took another woman with her own unique

deep, jagged, fractures curving into my own

that helped me appreciate my own failings

from wondrous newly tacked angles.

 

This poem is uneven

and not as pretty

as I had hoped it would be.

 

But it is pure gold

where it needs to be.

***

Written for Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Kintsugi: Art of Mending, Posted by Sumana Roy.