Year of the Poem

May 13th: Untitled.

Mon, 13 May 2013 12:21:33 -0400

Dandelion suns sprinkle through emerald green
grass pastures as pinpoints of happiness
scattered carelessly by the young Nature of spring.
She knows not the cultivated rows of daffodils
and lilac trees that line the paths in a regiment form,
placed carefully by landscapers to optimize beauty.
But still the light of dandelions brings a smile
to passing wanderers of the field. Enticing
yellow pillows intermingled with plush
green is just what a picnicker needs to signal stop:
this is where you eat.
A feast enjoyed blanket free, for the field
is blanket enough. Hints of morning dew still
cooling off your legs, and little ant patrons come to carry
off your crumbs. The self-cleaning lunch table
gives you more time to read aloud
among the cheery dandelions
that called you over in the first place,
trying to return the favor of their beauty with your words.

April 13th (revision of yesterday): My Favorite Time of Day

Sat, 13 Apr 2013 14:55:29 -0400

Entangled bodies sleep
snuggled safely in their passion.

Licks of fire linger longer,
embers still glow fiercely.

Like breath, lips brush
soft and slow.

Pent up rain, released
from summer’s dense clouds.

Entangled limbs stretch
waking slowly to the dawn:

Sun kisses the horizon with golden, rosy hues;
“these first signs of morning are better shared with you.”

April 12

Fri, 12 Apr 2013 18:36:00 -0400

Lovers sleep, their entwined
bodies resonate passion.
Licks of fire linger,
embers of elm still glow.
Lovers’ lips brush
soft and slow, like breath.
Dense clouds in summer’s sky
release their pent up rain.
Lovers stretch entangled limbs
waking slowly to the dawn:

Sun kisses the horizon with golden, rosy hues;
“these first signs of morning are always better shared with you.”

April 3rd

Wed, 03 Apr 2013 23:15:05 -0400

Words trip on the tongue
as you try to express yourself
eloquently, barbarically, softly, sweetly.
Your voice transformed before my ears
into an incommunicable mass of sounds
as I swallowed salt water smiling.

She speaks for you, he speaks for you,
but nobody ever says what you really mean.
Subtle nuances have lost their touch
in the translation of human gesture.
True words are lost to carelessness,
your life is lost to laziness.

March 31st

Sun, 31 Mar 2013 23:47:00 -0400

An ass slap is like a sexual clap; congratulations
on a job well done, it’s been fun but I’m done
it’s on to the next one he says smiling slyly
slinking out the door.

Me lying naked on the bed still wanting more
I feel like a whore not because I fucked him
but because I didn’t love him, didn’t want it
when he started but now that he’s finished
I want love from him.

Ah, you’re so cool, you were always so cool
I convince him boosting egos while I break
mine thrashing for a life line as I’m wined
and dined by him, denied the right to say no
by him. Enthralled by him.

You see I’m trapped in this paradox of who I should be:
Strong and wild or weak and mild my mind can’t decide
so I hide from his eyes for a while.

December 27th

Thu, 27 Dec 2012 14:10:26 -0500

Encased in ice,

work to rub down the exterior

with the warm friction of love.

Superiority blows in a wave

of frost that covers.

Attempt to peer into the Arctic waters

but the plunge leaves no breathe. Retreat.

Unreciprocated warmth

is hard to sustain: fingertips turn blue.

A groove is hollowed

in ice but until fire melts ice

from the inside, it remains

Wait, patient and chilled

hopeful for reciprocal, frictional, warm love.

December 26th: Photosynthesis by Moonlight

Wed, 26 Dec 2012 10:58:23 -0500

Light brighter than stars
illuminates the full moon’s
high tide tonight. Waves
worship the sacred silence
as they crash upon the shore.

The beckoning water holds little orbs
of phytoplankton shining
religiously on sand.
Salt water stars beg
me to wade in to this cool,
aquatic sky.

A goddess reaching
towards chimerical twinkling stars,
I float through the sacred
aquatic cosmos.

December 25th: For my Father, an ode.

Tue, 25 Dec 2012 22:49:49 -0500

I dreamt I heard my father’s voice

while I was gone at school,

and as he spoke I heard the words

he’d told me as his rules:

“Remember who you are” he’d say
when I left for the night
“You represent our family”
and boy was he so right.

I’d see his friend while I was out

-I admit it pretty weird-

but it made be a better kid,

for his opinion I did fear.

He had some other sayings,

less ominous and stern

I heard inside that dream of mine

and for which I still yearn.

“Who are they?” he’d ask “and why

are they saying this?” I’d

roll my eyes and whine at him

and open my arms real wide,

“Oh I don’t know, but yes it’s true!”

I’d argue vehemently

and now I’m glad for I have learned

what doubt can do for me.

Towards the end of that dream I had

he asked me “When’re we off?”.

so foolishly I answered “soon”

and he had quite the laugh.

“Don’t you know, my babygirl,

what ‘soon’ is in Chinese?
It’s maybe never!—Don’t give me that

come on, we’ve gotta breeze.”

And off we went inside my dream

to dance among the clouds

where anything was possible

and all hopes were allowed.

Ah, when I woke I felt his voice

fade back to what it is

but now can carry his wisdom

inside of me with bliss.

And every day while I’m at school

I try to make you proud.

I listen to that manly voice

inside that’s very loud.

It sounds like you, for that I’m glad

(though sometimes won’t admit)

cause you always knew just what to do

when you got in a rut.

For even though it’s hard to talk

and sometimes you’re not heard,

I love you dad, with all my heart

on that I give my word.

December 9th: Perhaps the World Ends Here.

Sun, 09 Dec 2012 17:01:00 -0500

The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.

The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on.

We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knee under it.

It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women.

At this table we gossip, recall enemies and ghosts of former lovers.

Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor fallen-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table.

This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.

Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.

We have given birth at this table, and prepared our parents for burial here.

At this table we sing, with joy and sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks.

Perhaps, the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.

-Joy Harjo

November 27

Tue, 20 Nov 2012 13:47:00 -0500

Angel Dust Blush

The harp-like sounds—amplified angelic laughter
in the highest octave—rain down in the form
of powdered dust. A harsh bristled brush
coats an eery cotton candy glow over the natural
hue of already rosy cheeks from a compact
conveniently pressed with Angel Dust Blush.

Pillows of innocence—generally reserved for small girls
and dolls—exudes false cherubic smiles on dark skinned flesh,
masking the wears of age and the wisdom of experience.
I present the color of every flat female character
in a D-list director’s male-centric love story:
It is the color of child-like love; of happiness
without heartache; of triumph without failure;
brightness but no depth. It is pretty, but hollow.

A poem about this color, that I had to name and describe to someone who can’t see.

November 7

Wed, 07 Nov 2012 20:24:25 -0500

The light scent of freesia buds
floated through the night, as intrepid
fingers danced across the air, blooming
emphasis into each word. The juicy
mandarin undertones inevitably
enveloped innocence as punctuated
movements now smooth with expertise
peel the rind, exposing insides.
The subtleness of cucumber lingers,
coating the sweet thirst-quenching moment
in a thick green skin, impervious
to a once intoxicating touch.

I spray the liquid memory onto my pulsing flesh
and breathing in what used to be, I wonder what comes next.

November 5

Mon, 05 Nov 2012 19:36:14 -0500

The trouble with daydreaming or, how I came to be alone.

Things aren’t the way you think
they are, when you’re in your imagination.
My night is blurred by constant
fictitious interpretations of mundane things
blown out of proportion by my mischievous mind.
The cosmic size of my insides
are present in my actions
as the mental block that holds back
emotion unwinds and I am free to feel.
For a separate entity the present that I want
exists, a fantasy that’s functional—
but only for a moment. It ends and I am left, lingering
between two worlds. My head grows
heavy with words, inadequate
and flailing in attempt to grasp
abstractions created in my image
only moments ago. Unaware and unfazed
I am untouchable, impenetrable,
a fortress of solitude,
alone and unreachable.

October 30th

Tue, 30 Oct 2012 19:35:53 -0400

The leaves of hope
on my gingko tree heart
have fallen together
in complacency.

I will settle for less,
I will be satisfied
with what I have.
I will only cry alone.

October 1

Tue, 02 Oct 2012 01:08:00 -0400

Soothing scents of coffee pierce my nostrils,
reasoning me out of my plush twin bed.
The cold sting of autumn rushes to greet
My bare skin freshly exposed from down warmth.
Cascading the stairs to the cold kitchen,
I embark on my daily life cycle.
Autopilot opens the fridge, creamer
Blends a liquid performance in my cup.
Blurry eyes and slurry speech self destruct
As delicious first sips dance down my throat.
Thoroughly awake, shower construction begins.
Turning the knob all the way to the left,
I avoid the stream until conduction
Moves heat through the pipes. Music on, I’m deaf
To the masses, missing all connections.
Steam balloons, fills the room, aromatic
Shampoo seasoning the drops suspended.
I linger, unsure of how clean I just got.
Cycling through again, I lather, rinse,
turn the water off. My fingers constrict
the towel around my chest, forbidden
from frolicking to the ground. In terror
I see my face, blurred, through mystic steam
On the mirror. Oh dear, I remark, what
A job to make that good looking. I play
Artist as a cool topaz shirt layers
My light toffee skin, hidden by black stretch
Yoga pants on my lower half. I spray
Perfume in oscillations around me,
Stepping into the scent that pushed us out
Of friendship. Last, I don fur boots before
Leaving the house, only to return
To a kitchen full of mom’s home cooking.

-Emily Penna

August 22

Thu, 23 Aug 2012 02:20:00 -0400

My bike cycles
me through life
cycles; ups and downs
and ins and outs
with overlaps in between
of horizontal and vertical
interlays of living beings.
You moved in from out
and up from down
after a single after dinner
coffee group get together
with mutual friends.

It’s funny how the negation of one
can bring so much more positivity.

August 4

Sun, 05 Aug 2012 19:07:15 -0400

Encased in ice
I work to rub down your exterior
with the warm friction
of my love.
Your air of superiority
covers me in a wave of frost;
I attempt to peer into the Arctic waters
that are your eyes, but the plunge
leaves me short of breathe. I retreat.
Unreciprocated warmth
is hard to sustain: I can feel
my fingertips turning blue.
I have hollowed a groove
in your ice where I stand
but until you light the fire of love
from the inside, the ice remains.
I wait, patient and chilled
hopeful for reciprocal, frictional, warm love.

July 30

Tue, 31 Jul 2012 00:38:06 -0400

Body language plants a seed of intrigue
as your movements converse with mine.
Fertilized by smiles and small spurts
of carbon dioxide, a shoot emerges.
Aware of its’ frailty,
every step is consciously calculated
for neither of us want to trample
the plant before it blooms
(or after, for that matter).

Careful observations confirm the roots
have taken hold of the surrounding dirt,
as nitrogen kisses and hands
of hydrogen holding oxygen
are drawn up the stalk.

A fruit begins to form, but
it is too early to tell
if it will be allowed to ripen
to perfection, or prematurely plucked.

July 25

Wed, 25 Jul 2012 22:37:01 -0400

Your presence roots me;
the present of this moment
is all I need now.

July 11

Thu, 12 Jul 2012 01:48:04 -0400

Lurking
you wait
poised to pounce
from the dark shadows
on an already dark night.

Selfishly
you imagine
having your way
with my physical being
where I used to play.

Tenderly
you gaze
as you watch
me arrive; sexual demons
are seen swarming my head.

Retreating
you decide
to leave me be,
attempting to understand
what makes my body shake.

July 8

Sun, 08 Jul 2012 01:35:16 -0400

Tender words ripened my world
at an age meant for development
intending to create a mature ripeness.
I am bruised by careless
mishandling, imprinted by fingertips
positioned most detrimentally.
Despite premature sweetness
I embrace the world openhearted
exposing my bruised fruits
proudly, knowing it makes me modest.
For if we can expose
our most damaged goods,
we are free to change and become
what the world needs of us.

-Emily Penna