love

“My Stowaway”

Little boy, my stowaway, curled beneath my heart,
drifting sleepy soft and coy, never far apart.
Do you smile I wonder now, when I say goodnight,
do you calm at the sweet songs, so you sleep so tight?

In the morn’ I wonder if, you smile as just I do?
Looking forward to each day I get to spend with you?
I can feel each little stretch, little foot and fist,
every hiccup on and on, every jump and twist.

And I know you love the most, chocolate milk, ice cream,
asking for that every night, waking me from dreams.
And I know you also hate, loud sounds boom and sneeze,
you kick and punch and bundle tight and make my stomach squeeze.

I wonder what you look like too, how cute will be that nose?
I cannot wait to kiss your cheek, your forehead and your toes.
And will your eyes be like the night, or blue as a bright sky?-
eyes to embrace the whole grand world, with laughter and with sigh.

And when the day comes when we meet, I cannot wait to say,
My little boy, my stowaway, I love you, every day.

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For my little Tamim Mathew Issa – born 9/9/16

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Categories: Creative Writing, Kids, love, Memories, poems, poetry, prose | Tags: , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

“Bedtime Stories”

Let me dim the lights just so,
the shadows creep against the walls
and mad men stumble drunk through halls
and sweethearts scatter wrought with woes.

Let me turn the page just so
the valleys darken long and low
and ice frosts over mountains long
and caverns breathe out broken songs.

Let me pause a line just so
you worry where to sleep and hide
while villains wait with smiles so bright
to tempt the lost out from the night.

Let me read the words just so
you hold the sword up high and strong:
The demons buckle from the throng-
A thousand heroes a mile long.

Let me close the book just so
you lie your weary head and go
where dreams have carved a golden throne
for heroes bedtime story-born.

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“Shell Sounds”

I left my love, unknowingly
who sat unseen and silently
where salty waves crashed from the sea,
and swept the earth from under me.
Where once I drew sweet notes on sand
to watch them dissolve to far lands
and wonder if those dreams thought of
would carry to my future love.
When truly he already knew
the same blue skies that graced my view
and loved the shells and stones that paved
the melting shoreline merged with waves,
the cry of birds and distant laughs
of children in the ocean’s splash,
the way the clouds would lazy slide
like easy thoughts buoyed on my mind.
He watched with me, how the blue skies
would tangerine burst into the night
and reveal the infinity
of fire stars and galaxies
While a friend in the background strums
an old guitar to lonely hums
with family surrounding close
each sharing tales with laughs to boast.
And on the fire spit would smoke
the fresh caught mussels from the coast-
We crack them open, juices spill out
with chili sauce into our mouths
before we settle back on shores
to stuff our ears with seashell lores.

I left my love, to only find
him far from any peaceful kind
in a rough land of concrete waste,
an endless race of do and haste.
But when the fires simmer down
and smoke curls over tired towns,
I hear a whisper from the sound
of your heart to my sleepy brow:
The ebb and rush of salty waves,
the laughs of family playing games,
the peaceful place where memories
eternally live with the ocean breeze-
Much like laying my ear against a shell
to hear the home I love, and know so well.

Categories: Creative Writing, love, Memories, Philippines, poems, poetry, prose | Tags: , , , , | Leave a comment

“Stir”

You have
moved me,
slowly-

a thousand galaxies,
groaning, shifting,
One mile a million years
of silver dust and fire,
smoldering into
the beauty that is
our night

like raindrop grapes
plucked off vine,
skillfully pressed
by hands of women
with smile and song
on wizened lips
a hundred years ago
caught, bottled,
poured slow
in the glass
we share now

a low boil
of stew, hours long
stirred, discerned
subjected
to beef and bouillon,
clove and onion
before the welcome,
parting demise
of it’s patiently
delicious effort
into our
bellies

You have
moved me,
slowly-

so I have learned
the language behind
every expressive
stretch of time,
so slowly stirring
something beautiful
to love.

Categories: Creative Writing, love, poems, poetry, prose | Tags: , , , , | 2 Comments

“Disconnect”

Pull the switch from the back of your head. Disconnect
the torrents that buzz
snap sting pics and passing words and
nothingness evaporating quick,
one second of pixelular pleasure
electrified quick before another.
A face has lost it’s tangible quality, the
movement of expression traded for megabytes,
Warmth of touch light of smile compressed into the electric whir and zap trap of the liquid crystal display.
We worry to pull the cord
as if our existence depended
on this small cellular box, when in fact
It is measured
By the damp of earth beneath our feet
The sizzle crack of stars alight in our eyes
The sensual embrace of an ocean as we
drift and drown onward into the mystery
of here and now.
Where the sounds of laughter stuff your ears, and you feel the joy burst the atoms that make up your body
Where your palms have unearthed tasted and replanted, gardens of love
that reach onward into the hand of a
tangible future
Lit by the light of the Sun
and not by the glow
of a screen.

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“Blue Sentence”

One moment I am piping heavy on woes
contemplating murder on words,
something dark and sad
and so unlike me,
the crippled child
festering sick
and obnoxiously
in my belly.
But you flip me once
with a smile
(and a terrible pun)
and then my woes
are doomed, turned quick
to sunshine, flowers and all those
awful, corny, bright-eyed things
that make me remember
I can laugh, I can love
I am not meant
to tolerate life’s bruises
and all it’s battering worries
like misery men
breaking bottles of beer
with sullen musings, spilled, cut loose,
quick, from lonely, sorry mouths:
“Oh drink the bitters! Cheers to life!
You beat me hard, old dog.
I am granite, I am god, I can
love the bruise and beat
and terrible trod
that life socks at me
hard! Hah.”

No, not on your watch.
You are like the period at the
end of every blue
sentence,
one with a smiley face
so imperfectly
inked there
with love.

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“Before”

When you slow inhale
the earthy scent
of a morning just
before the rain.

When one sweet chord
has been struck
and your ears gently strain
for the next, new note.

When the day has slowed
and the wine hasn’t yet
touched down warm
in your belly.

When you wake, still sleepy
your dream now broken,
and you wait to fall
asleep again.

When the pen has paused
and white space awaits
for a word which may
never follow.

I bear those moments
before the next
just as I bear
missing you.

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“Crush”

The boy picked a flower. Oh, how the girl made him goofy. Weak kneed. Jitter
hungry sleep deprived. She laughed, he
captured freeze frame smiles like
lemon rind memories
snap shot in the mind, heard
songs crash bang fanfare swing high
alive. But he stopped,

dropped the flower, crushed petals and all with
fine leather shoe, watched
the girl crush like wreckage askew, tendered
every pain like drinking rain on tongue and
striking fists on jaw and
drawing blades gentle and chimney sweep raw
over the hairy scratch of
booze binge depressed
couch swine yell fest days and
shattered all night sleepless tirades until he wakes again and kisses the morning with
a miserable slow fuck you.

Darling. You are
a pretty thing, I have crushed
the flower.

With pulse like
pulled tight cord braced with
straight jacket discomfort across
the neck, he waits for
wine punch kicks and shower spits a
demon launch from lovely lips to
fury rape his reddened ears but

The kiss. The kiss of all damned things
was unexpected, a
butter sweet treat warm and melted like
strong rum bedded round the bottom
of a belly full of trouble
And he slipped that moment once again
in summer halls of childhood laughs
and broken bikes and street skinned knees
when the best cure was always
a kiss and a bandaide.
Opened his eyes,
fine shoes aware of what they crushed
Not flowers no, but a girl
He loved.
So sweetly kissed her back.

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“Word Block”

A liar walked in today. Smiling, sweet, shy
A nod my way, hello. He sat
at a table with drink in hand
and did not say a word
to the men engaged on either side,
the woman smoking, chit-chatty
someone’s boyfriend this, a scandelous that
The voices muted, the notebook opened, and
all night long he fretted
with pen touching pad, pausing
book wide-mouthed, agape, awaiting
a swallowing of sickness
or better yet, love, give me love. But
he could not write
when he thought of her, perfect, lovely her
steady as rain on quiet nights
unscathed, fragrant and so unlike
the grinding mess in his mind
No, he could not write, but he tried
and wrote a poem
of someone else
instead.
After which, he finished his drink.
Closed the book.
And seemed troubled.

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“Cameraman”

Once
I hugged a poet
He was actually a cameraman
recording, watching, click-thinking, ‘I have captured your words, here, in my film reel mind,
next one, please’.
Then one night, he read a poem. It was of
a woman
undressed, filthy, wrong
unabashedly raw.
He loved, kissed,
occupied her, lips mercy locked upon
a train wreck
that broke him.
Yet he stood there, reciting
a poem. For her.
And I thought, how beautiful.
So when the host said
we could hug a poet
I hugged
Him.

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