Stanzas & What Have You's

Long time no scribbs. But I waste time with pleasantries lol. So a couple of my co-workers/friends (I shall refer to them as P.Diddy and Sir Rugs-A-Lot) were riding my hyde about posting my emotional entrails on a more accessible online setting lol. So here you are Dearests. A bit of romantically written fare for your reading digestion. Bon apettite, or here's a Mylanta. Whichever...



Dreams Go True

It is not mine to hold.
Forgive me for
pacing the periphery.
Admiring, and smiling.
It can't be helped sometimes.

It glows and shimmers,
light dances about.
It's enthralling.
It's beauty is undeniable;
enchantment is unavoidable.

It is said that
dreams come true,
you need only believe.
I've seen it come to pass,
as it's been said.

But they also go.
Not meant for all,
merely vivid visitors.
And even in knowing
you're still hopelessly spellbound.

This is omitted from the story books.

You'll see it come,
and your heart is on fire.
It pauses and kisses your eyes,
then vanishes.
Or sometimes stays to hover.

Still in view but
out of reach.
It is a plush cruelty.
The pain is exquisite and sharp,
but somehow you're enraptured.

You've waited and now
it's finally here.
But it quivers at your advance
and draws back at your approach.
Not meant for you.

It passes through you
leaving no gift,
but a profound hollow.
This is sometimes life's way.
The tragic made precious.

It refuses to be held,
so drink in the warmth.
It helps soothe the ache.
Delight in it's ribbons of light,
for they won't be possessed.

The dream has come,
but is harsh in it's purity.
Watch silent and humble,
with happy eyes and leadened heart.
It is not yours to hold.



A Me Manifesto

Intolerance is my adversary.
Compassion is my creed.
Friendships are treasured.
Arrogance is despised.
Art is music to my eyes.
Music is art to my soul.
Dance is music making love to my body.
My sarcasm is light-hearted.
My easiness not without pensiveness.
My pen is the key to me.
Knowledge is my lust.
Sensuality is my thirst.
My anguish gives my joy wings.
The ocean is my hallowed ground.
The stars are my mind's ocean.
The sunrise is my sonnet.
The sunset is my serenade.
The night is my lover.
Life is love, really.
Love is my symphony,
and God is my conductor.



Treasured Chest

I'll keep you safe.
In this fortress of blood and bone.
You've ran from terrorism
for so long. Between
palm and sleeve and back again.

Pierced by bullets.
Disfigured by daggers.
Gripped in callous hands.
Ran through shredders.
Blown to smithereens.
Ground in to gravel under foot.
Tossed into the dust.
Chained down with barbed wire.
Left in the rain to wither
and waste.

I am amazed. And forever
in your debt.
Please let me offer you sanctuary.
Your place is prepared. You can recover
and rest until the aches wain.
Leave your weary, your nervous,
your anguish, your dismay;
leave all on the doorstep of my skin
to rinse away. You can breathe easy now.
Sleep deeply and dream vibrant.
I'll only rouse you when you're
truly needed.
Please let yourself melt into comfort.

In this chest pillowed with countless hopes,
tears of joy, music and memories tightly bound
by golden threads of strength and perseverance.
Lined with shelves of orchids of love
that are never out of bloom.
Behind these sentinal ribs and flagpost spine
flying colors declaring war on all
guilty of your obscene abuse.
You can find solace here.
I'll leave you here to rest
and lock the door behind me, so you've nothing to fear anymore.
I'll have the key here, hidden under my tongue.

The lies. The hurt. The broken vows. The apathy.
The disregard. The misdirection. The ill intention.
Leave them all to me.
You won't even know they're there.
I'll slough them all away.

I can see that your breathing is labored.
You're bruises are darkening
and deepening before my eyes, and that
deep gash in your center is still weeping.
Even though you said "it's fine", behind
your smile, I can see you wince every time
you draw breath.
I'll tend to your wounds, my most precious treasure,
and leave you here in peace, to heal and thrive.

I'm so sorry, I was not attentive enough.
You were thrashed about for years,
and I was foolish enough
to believe you when you said
"it's fine".

See look, they don't even realize you're gone.
But You. You mean everything to me.
Could you just promise me to not go cold?
Promise me you'll not
grow black and hardened
glassy as obsidian.
Give me your word
that you won't shatter away, shard by shard,
leaving me only with splinters of
all you'd hoped to give.

Just promise me, and I'll keep you safe
and locked away.
Until one that is worthy, is granted the key.



Table For Two

The one by the window.
Where the reflection of the
small tabletop candle against the glass
is a sore loser to the city skyline.
All blazing and glorious.

Yes. This'll do nicely.

I've already ordered your drink.
A dry pinot noir, which will go
wonderfully with your steak.
You always get the steak,
and save me the asparagus.

The wine glass is lonely for you.

You'll talk of things that paint smiles
on my face, and paint fire on my skin
when you run your finger along the
inside of my wrist, the way you always do.
My eyes love seeing you loving me, and vice versa.

I'm lonely for you as well.

These hands, these ears, this heart, this tongue,
these hips and neck, these eyes and thighs.
All yours. Waiting for you to take your seat.
To feast from my heart's horn of plenty.
The table is set and everything's ready.

But you're nowhere to be found. I always knew you wouldn't come.



"Behold, The Self-Saboteur Extraordinaire!"

That's my stage name. And I am exceedingly skilled. I've had top billing in this varitable Follies L'Amour for two decades strong. I'm the toast of the town; you should see the standing o I get when I laugh as I cry. I'm fucking royalty on that stage. They deliver their lines and I wish you could see it ooze from me like honey; with all the strength and nonchalant of a noble. My heels strike like flint as they watch my feminine gait explode across the stage with the force of a clydesdale. I leave them all dumbfounded and in awe, as I pretend not to see it coming, but know all the while what's in store. I'm fucking legendary.

"You're AMAZING!" they say. You should hear the shiver in their voices as their eyes water. "You're my every dream come true," I've heard it all. "Wonderful!" "Incredible!" But. But is the final curtain. I wave to the crowd, flash a smile and blow a kiss. Just to make the memory stick. Take a bow and exit stage left. After washing off the makeup and taking off the costume I head to the back alley for a smoke. I duck into a dark corner and watch the other girls in the show with their lovers. How they're longed for and pined over. How they're adored and glow soft and golden in their lover's eyes. Off the stage, where it's real and tangible. Where the compliments are heartfelt and the tears are genuine. Their own personal red carpet, around the clock. It must be sublime. To stare into his eyes, with your hands filled with his, and his heart filled with yours, and to know with all certainty that it doesn't get any more real than this. I've done it before, but "But" is called and the curtain falls and that's the end of that. But out here in the alley, where it's real and where it counts; that would be my most treasured role yet.

I take the stage every night and play my part. But I secretly hope that he'll blow his lines, grab my hand and then it'll be my turn in that beautiful alley. He'll tell me that he's been waiting for me, and I'll tell him that he's made the wait worth every minute, and that alley will finally be mine. That's my motivation to take the stage every night. The one performance that'd make all the others before it worth these years of strain and work. The finale of finales. So I make my big doe eyes and "walk right into it", brush it off and strut off unaffected. But I've tired if this production. I'm ready for my name to be taken off the marquee. I'm through with the "Buts" and exiting stage left and being a voyeur to the reality that I crave. But the night has fallen and they're yelling "places!", so I take the stage again and ready myself for another performance. Wishing, praying, hoping, yearning, that it'll be for the last time.



The Real

I am tangible.
I cannot grant wishes,
I cannot disappear in a puff of mist
or defy gravity.
I am not of pristine visage or perfect form.
My fingertips shoot not lightning
nor my lips breathe fire.
I am no nymph, or goddess,
or sprite or creature of tall tales.
I am weathered.
Flawed, glorious and monumental
as great canyons and dizzying summits.
Of erosion is birthed great beauty.
With eon's wear, breath-taking depths are carved.
Rained-upon but smoothed as river stone.
Unforgiving desert sun leaves warm, soft earth underfoot;
as is my heart.
I can never be of dreams,
for I am of unpolished majesty.
Forged of harsh elements.
I am not of the imagined.
My hands are sore but steadfast.
My hips sway as the stream swells and contracts.
My lips hold sorrows,
yet release torrents of night-blooming jasmine.
My heart of broken eagle's wings,
still strong as quartz,
will help your heart take flight, and soar with yours.
My love is immense and gentle
as evening's cloak singing day to rest,
awakening the heaven's diamonds
as my kiss strikes flint in your eyes.
I am not of fairy tales.
I am of reality severe, and voluptuous harmony.
Precious as the dragonfly's wing is delicate.
I am imperfect,
with richness rivalling sunset's scarlet and tangerine ballet.
I am real. I am present.



Her Name Was Quiva

My mother told me the story
as a young girl.
She herself was a just a girl
when she first saw her.
Her name was Quiva
and she married their neighbor's son.
Stylish wardrobe, hair just so,
beautiful face, graceful physique,
poised and well-spoken.
"I used to stop and stare at her in awe,"
my mother said. They said she was a genius,
but female brain power didn't pan out for much
in those days.
"She looked like Dianne Carroll in her prime,"
and she encouraged all the young girls to do well in school.

Quiva married the neighbor's son,
and he would beat her bloody.
Her amazing mind was muted to become
his bloodied baby factory.
"You could see it drove her crazy,"
my mother said.

Crazy enough to let the needle
tease the valley of her forearm and bicep.
Letting the lethal liquid ease through her veins
until the jagged edges of the broken glass
of her shattered life were made dull enough
for her to pass out without having to cry first.

It wasn't until my teenage years that I realized,
the story was a warning.

That women of our persuasion
had be ambidextrous.
Be able to wield two swords simultaneously.
Fight like hell to make a life for ourselves,
and fight off hell in the shape of
broad shoulders, bright smiles
and granite fists that would come to call;
in the name of love of course.
But whose love taps would black your eye,
splinter ribs and snap your neck
if you let him get the upper hand.

It wasn't until I became her, that I became me.
His first born in my belly,
his clenched fingers around my windpipe
and in the fray of my lungs
trying to punch through his grip in search of air,
I saw Quiva's reflection in his manic eyes.

So clawed like a demon and fought off hell,
crawled my way back from the edge of oblivion.
And when I was able to stand again
I was standing alone, but Quiva's story filled my shoes.
My mother saw her years later; she hadn't succumbed.
She looked weathered but well.

And I can't help but wonder, could my mother see Quiva
behind my eyes as a girl of 9 years old?
Is her story a verbal heirloom to bequeath
to little girls with copper skin and open hearts?
If my daughter ever comes back from oblivion
to fill my arms, I'll hold her close, kiss her nose
and dive into her eyes to see if her heart
is as loyal as the Pacific is wide.
And should it be so, I will cry for her.

Her name was Quiva, and she gave me her story.
She is me, and I am broken and brave;
She is my mother, who gave me quiet strength.
I fought off hell, and I still believe in magic.
I fought like hell, and I still dare to dream.
Her name was Quiva, and her story fills my shoes.



Welcome Mat

"For those with broken hearts, that still keep pushing. We are one in the same..." - Me ♥

You invited me in.
Even though your place
had just been rammsacked.
Broken pictures and precious memories
strewn about.
I see the mess, and I can relate.
The disappointment and confusion
are too familiar.
It's happened to me before too.
Having what you hold dear
destroyed in one calamitous crash.
I'd like to offer my hands.
To help patch holes and
sweep up shards of glass;
help you make it good
and comfortable again.
But it's not not my place.
Emotions may still be raw
and nerve endings still tender,
and I don't want to touch things
you'd rather me not touch so
I'll sit in a corner quietly.

You don't ignore me
but you're busy
with tending to your space.
Eyes darting here and there,
you quietly make plans
and form checklists.
I am curious
of your silent strategy,
but it's not my place.
So I'll try to make you smile
and offer warm energy
with hopes of lightening the air
and making the clean-up
seem less daunting.
I'll speak softly of pleasant things
to soothe your mood.

Even through the mess
I can see your wonderful taste.
An eclectic decor with
remarkable accent pieces.
You keep a beautiful home.
I have some artwork
for your walls and coffee tables
that I'd like to give to you.
I think they'd breathe life
back into the room.
They might not be as bold
or avant-garde as what was there before,
but they have a subtle complexity
that I think would compliment
your style nicely.
But I could be mistaken.
I won't push but
should you be interested,
you're more than welcome.

You waved me in with
a bit of hesitation
but genuine kindness.
Kindness seems to be your custom.
I want to make this
room of disheveled dreams
feel like home to you again.
But it's your home
and I a stranger in it.
It's not my place.

So I'll keep you company.
Relishing your company as well
because I've now realized
that even though my place
is almost better than it was
before my own horrible burglary,
I'm there alone.
Which is usually fine,
but seeing your place
reminded me of mine.
And I see the situation
is well under control but sometimes,
it's nice to be with someone that understands.

You'll have your place
good as new in no time.
You're of strong heart
and beautiful mind.
You don't need help
and aren't asking. But
should you suddenly feel
to the contrary,
I'm here.

So I'll sit quietly.
Even through the mess I can see
that you have wonderful taste.
I can see you.