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dark spaces

Dark Spaces

                We quarreled it away all those
muggy summer nights when the reflections
of train lights blazed in the river.  Hours
after the fact we bit our lips until they were
white under our teeth –
                                 we tried too late to
catch those words up in between our sheets;
we were frantic with it but I think we knew
even then that they were tacked to the sky
with the stars.

It is gone.
                Now I will hold the sheets to your
lips when you try to speak.  I will shut my eyes
to the dark spaces between the stars.  Safely
encased in our closed drapes and covers, I will
lie awake at

Strawberries By Sunset.Admire--
the halcyon of wind carries
industrial merchants
away from golden acres
on which blossoms my treasure
bush-cradled until prosperity.

Listen--
the hush valley whispers
poetry under sheets
necking a residuum evenfall
in which our ghosts remain
kissing strawberries by sunset.

What Makes This Haiku Great                                   What Makes This Haiku Great

                                    a frog floating

available nowlove is like a bruise
lurking just beneath your skin
begging to be born

THREE DAYS FROM NOWfor Daniela Jara's 20th birthday on 6.21.04

three days from now
she will rise up to the playground of angels
fighter jets and zeppelins
burst open the door
translate her body into an equation
of one–hundred twenty pounds moving
nine–point–eight meters per second per second
and tumble from heaven
because she wants to taste the sky
on her birthday

this is the part of the poem
where I should drop metaphors
about falling in love with her
or how she's already fallen from heaven once
or something about shooting stars
or glass ceilings
but this isn't a love poem

I said I would fall alongside her
stretch out fingers to find her
fa

February 2009 Haiku-Wrimo1.

winter rain-
an old pot fills
with moonlight

2.

sunrise...
birdsong falling
from the mountain

3.

just in time
for the newborn-
snow flurries!

4.

gang signs
on the old church door...
winter deepens

5.

stillness...
a cloud
of white breath

6.

deep
in the raven's cry-
southern drawl

7.

midnight walk-
between each star
the cosmos

8.

resting awhile
on Issa's death poem-
the fly

9.

morning thaw-
the bulldog's growl
softens

10.

loneliness...
leek soup cold
in the crock pot

11.

crows
becoming
dusk

12.

one cloud
the shade of mango-
winter's end?

13.

begging
in her

pathos as a punchlineand then, mid-rinse, it hit me.

there's something a touch more troubling
about quiet desperation
showing its face during the
familiar & commonplace.

weeping in the shower; fully lathered,
ears ringing.

red-eyed in the mirror;
shaving cream scattered,
small cut crowning
a procession of teeth.

crying at breakfast;
full stack of pancakes
cooling on the table.

miserable at brunch;
spinach quiche crumbles
collecting on the chin.

it's a fully realized sadness
fit to laugh at, on the screen.
it's a swallowing despair
to bear in skin.

SinfulOur nights are stolen:
our lovers,
our lives
stripped at the door,

leaving only
our scarred bodies
suspended between fleeting present and
uncertain future.

-

In my shed I keep a man
by the name of Isaac. His nails are blue,
his eyelids black from a game we played.
He's kneeling in a cobwebbed corner, teeth
sinking through his lip, a grin
tweaking at his cheeks, still red with rum.
On his chin is balanced a golden moth.
He's staring through her beating wings at
some other, sweetly-coloured world.
At the window taps a haze
of spring in thick blossom, and a carnival
of birds at five AM. I don't always come
out this early. But his moans pulled at my skirt,
and charmed my feet to creep into indigo,
and here I am. He doesn't turn to me,
or blink at the stuttering dawn.
At his lips th

We Watched Ourselves Dissipatewe caught our breath with butterfly nets
and exhaled
the pieces of each other's wings
that stuck in our lungs.
the sky gave a shiver and the stars
unsealed, their firefly cores shimmering
and fluttering
toward us.

plucking them from the air, they slip
between our fingertips
and fall like butterfly wings
to the ground.

we conduct the celestial engagement with
our metallic hearts
that control this unsteady rhythm of
love crescendos
and staccato love-making.
like conductors in an orchestra.

our lives write the love songs.

Refugee's PhotoI want to be the wrinkled photo taken out of a refugee's pocket.

避難民がポケットから出す一枚の皺くちゃの写真に私はなりたい

StrokeThe letters play
double-dutch with their spaces,
whirling in

and out of existence, catching
breaths mid-jump
with a semicolon, mid-word,

whirring by enough
times to make you dizzy as the day
you trickled to the floor,

phone in hand,
unsure how this whole dialing affair
should work, gasping

for enough strength
to mew “help” at a blank receiver
until I dropped

our groceries at your feet,
took you to the witch
who told you your smile

would always be this way –

crooked
as my letters
you can’t read anymore.

it is not enoughit is not enough just to
miss you. i have to learn
how to walk again; how to
live without meat and
kissing, how to sleep
shaped like a balled up
fist. it is not enough
just to miss you. i have
to adopt twins in
Africa, name them Lost
and Weird, forget to
feed them. i have to
go to every pet store
in America and rescue
all the seahorses. i have
to tattoo D A R K B I R D
inside my lip and stand
in children's playgrounds
like a broken arm, creaking. it
is not enough just to miss
you. it has to hurt. i
have to write poems
that last forever, interpret
dreams about buildings
burning down, flies who
leave their partners fo

fat.I once
knelt to kiss
my mother's belly
as it spilled fluidly
over her waistband,

the milky, mottled
soft skin stretched
taut and drawn
in thick puckers

of flesh. I pressed
grateful lips to the swell,
the feathery, darkened scar
where they wrenched us
apart.

She could eat a mango with her eyes closed
Her fingers well acquainted with the fruit's soft hairs
Then peel it back slowly with a sharp paring knife
As I watched, intrigued by how the smooth grain
Of the kitchen table matched the hues of her arm.

But this was one time, when the soft summer night's
breath exhaled long into the kitchenette
That I found her head down, her eyes withdrawn
To a breeze tossed curtain above her.
And I noticed her stomach swelling as a ripening fruit.

And knowing quite well that a seed separated from the tree
At such a young age could fall into another garden
And be fruitful. And this she knew, for her ro

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Katuata

by `AbCat, Dec 19, 2006, 11:31:41 AM
Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Haiku & Eastern

going out with her
was like World War One, except
it was over by Christmas

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Katuataby `AbCat

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A break-up Katuata (5-7-7).

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Submitted on: December 19, 2006
File Size: 168 bytes

Views: 8,787 (1 today)
Favourites: 412 (who?)
Comments: 207
Downloads: 98

Daily Deviation

Given 2009-02-11

Katuata by `AbCat is pithy and clever -- one of my favourite deviations of all time. ( Featured by !lovetodeviate )

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~oviedomedina Oct 21, 2011

Thanks for the lulz!

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`AbCat Oct 29, 2011 Writer

'Twas a pleasure.

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*Only-L Dec 14, 2010 Writer

O_O Epic. xD

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`AbCat Dec 17, 2010 Writer

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~pigeonwhisper Oct 10, 2010 Hobbyist General Artist

HA!

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`AbCat Oct 11, 2010 Writer

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~Mami02 Aug 14, 2010

Very clever

lol, i love it!

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`AbCat Aug 15, 2010 Writer

Thanks. :~)

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*Spamkiller Jan 20, 2010 Hobbyist Digital Artist

I'm featuring this beautiful piece here: [link] .
If you don't want to be featured, please note me and I'll remove it.

Kisses&Hugs
Katia

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`AbCat Jan 20, 2010 Writer

Thank you.

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