Monday, August 20, 2012

Yellow Sky in Little Utopia

As the sky moves
flowers lean into the light

He said that once he loved a woman
in all her yellow hair
strangled me in passion free

He placed a string of yellow around my arm
and shared with me his penchant tongue
Our blood will soak into the sand, he cried

He held her smile and her rosy cheeks
and placed them on top of a pillow
wrapped his indulgence around my skin

possibilities slant with the tip of a branch
this mild distraction, quaint memory of Candace
his harmless notes, a mask of menace

The leaves have rearranged in this yellow sky
I move the light, shadows drawn
dark rain leaks from a star

Through winds at night she worshiped me, he tells
leaf-vein and artery loose, he pulls her air tight
Her breath drains free

The salt from her tears swelters in this tireless dream
tangled into the hallows of her withered scream
I know that she has turned yellow like me

Inspired by Shawna's Poetic Words list
Shared at dVerse Poets on Open Link Night

Saturday, August 18, 2012

Sun King

In a harmonious mix of voice and spring
to him by whom the clouds linger and strew
spurious wing, where we hear the annual ring
in the womb, our dreams belong to the Sun King

 My littlest bean
wild at play 
on a summer day


 and treasure

and the five points of my star
trailing the woods.

Happy Summer!

Written for dVerse Poets where Karin hosts Poetic, as a reflection on Summer.

Tuesday, August 14, 2012

Sand Dune

Inside a circle of stone, I stood
under a star-studded sky
He held, unshared, the silence in the air
In this old glittering place
in the changing of light
at the edge of the sea
He feeds me strange fruit
picked from a thin case
that widens and swallows in space

He opens his eyes wide
until the roots of his vision are torn
My mouth is full of berries
pulp and juice, leaking out into the sea
The women in the caves are smiling at me
I smell the sour tongue
of the one who is winding my mind
Hissing and sucking, the curve of the water
that pours from the umbilical sea

In the sand dune, he gathers my hand
inching towards the wet skull of low tide
Crying and spreading velvet feathers,
waxwings tangle the thoughts in my head
He soaks my skin in the chalky shore
where white foam scatters
reminding me of birth and the bitter taste
of wishes on a sun swept beach
where night rolls into the sea

Shared at dVerse Poets on Open Link Night

Monday, August 6, 2012

Cherry Blossom Seeds

In the early melody of morning
a string of amethyst ribbons
around the pine fire ring
Birth seeds and a song steals
what the bright bird sees
A cloud passes without delay
silent wounds hover over head

Bits of bad news, stained in paper
cut across a blown sky
in the east, the winter seed blooms
A cold fold of flesh
hangs in glass, bent sideways
retracing the whispers
left behind from rain

A lonely sight settles under a madrona tree
peeling red bark away in thin sheets
leaving silver satin skin
at an infectious height
In the west, cups are filling
with ample water
holding the world clear

I cut a piece of cloth and a shred of hair
place it inside the bowl
where a red rose blooms
Their pain will dry in ice and stone
birth seeds the ones who are left to fly
This night is mine for dance
a smile falls from the sky

Written for Shawna's Poetic Words List
Shared at dVerse Poets on Open Link Night

Saturday, August 4, 2012


I made my way down the steep hill, bare feet above mossy felt, shedding the scales of youthful joy and momentous laughter, knowing each time that  my mother would be pleased. My bangles chiming along the way, doing their own enchanting dance around my slender arms, I would hurry home down the hill.

Aji, my father's mother, filled this jar especially well. She added a few sugary kisses and a bag of lemon drop lollies, the candy she would send me on my way with. Our weekly jar of ghee, butter, my mother would wait for so anxiously. She rarely went up to Aji's house herself, although we lived at the bottom of the hill and she owned the house we lived in. I would imagine that she would much rather keep her distance from Aji, for her moments alone with my grandmother would probably be spent grumbling about my father.

On those mild summer mornings, I was her messenger. Waking up early to the sound of bhajan, Indian chanting, the house slightly stale from a tang of masala and onion, for the evening’s dinner was always curried, I would find my mother dressed in silk, sweeping the back porch. She would ask me to wash up and pick out a dress. I had so many, stitched with lace, soft cotton, and sewn together in her moments just for me. I gathered up the yellow one with a ruffled collar and three white buttons along the chest, a mirage of speckled bangles, I rarely lived without, and I would wander through our house waiting for a jar. My mother would give me an empty one, still oily from last week’s ghee, and I would scurry away, over the hill. In all of my four years of life, this was my one chore. Hardly did I consider it much of a chore, rather a privilege being able to collect my grandmother's treasured butter and delivering it to my mother to simmer and sauté the weeks chicken and lamb and chickpea and potato dinners.

I'd sit at Aji's table next to her handicapped son, my uncle Jai Ram, he was much younger than my father. Not saying much, he would smile at me plenty, I remember the fear in my belly when he would give out a grin. I waited, drinking fresh milk from a small porcelain cup and eating spoonfuls of honey while Aji filled my mother's jar. Down the hill, my mother waited for me, only coming to see Aji when my father allowed.

After two seasons of honey and butter breakfasts and my delivery down the hill, we waved goodbye to our island with the hills. That would be the last that I would know of Aji. I like to imagine that she would continue to wake up early those mornings, boiling, watching it foam and sputter, caramelizing and carefully separating; spreading out her glass containers, smelling of nutty butter, cleaning up after Jai Ram.

Years later, my father would occasionally surprise me with a bagful of lemon drops. I couldn't quite taste these without craving honey and the smell of sautéed butter.

Written for dVerse Poets where Brain is helping us share a childhood memory, or other bits of history.

Thursday, August 2, 2012


When a silk tread wraps around the moon
sibling love is bound in bandhan
shedding warmth in a lunar breeze
as the air fills with sugar and swoon

Sibling love, bound in bandhan
entwined silk, golden treads adorned by beads
as the air fills with sugar and swoon
their bond growing like weeds

Entwined silk, golden treads adorned by beads
tied to the hands of their brothers
their bond growing like weeds
the height of affection flatters

Tied to the hands of their brothers
shedding warmth in a lunar breeze
the height of affection flatters
silk treads wrap around the moon

Today is the celebration of Raksha Bandhan, falling on the full moon, in the Hindu calendar. This is when a sister denotes her devotion to her brother, who in turn vows to hold her in his protection for a lifetime long. Happy Brother's Day!
Shared at dVerse Poets, thank you Samuel for this challenge in pantoum.