Tense weaves under the light ceiling
Wind comes to sweep the vague emptiness
Short and thin trail
Silently weaving our thread
No one notices the shine
Almost invisible in the hand
Spinning the trail of fate
Dust turns into a song
We are of pure silk
Born from fatigue and tenderness
Breathing through the cracks
Where the light throws its parties
Thread by thread
Cold white
Sun touches the ends of the paper
Tangled sky falls
Light flight without a hat
Everything beautiful soon fades
No one notices the shine
Almost invisible in the hand
Thin trail of fate
Dust turns into a song
We are of pure silk
Born from fatigue and tenderness
Breathing through the cracks
Where the light throws its parties
Thread by thread
Cold white
Weightless
Without any trace
Silk that disappears
Changes its name
Forgets to be
We are of pure silk
Born from fatigue and tenderness
Breathing through the cracks
Where the light throws its parties
Thread by thread
Cold white
when she took the job no one was honest at all
the dishes were stacked higher than a giraffe is tall
How long have they been like this? She asked the boss
He hemmed and hawed, and stirred up red sauce
Seriously, is this kitchen always going to be this messy?
Are there going to be dishes to the ceiling? Asked Tessy
He did not answer, but she discovered the very next day
This pile up of dishes to the ceiling is always the way
the ceiling was in a whispering mode
Greek to me because it was in code
made it difficult to fall asleep
Have you ever heard a ceiling speak?
ceiling fan soothing
motor floater noise cooing
mortician cutting
Never been to jail,
But my thoughts come,
Tattered and confined,
Like the two cellular bars—
That confine me.
Where there once was room for two
Now stands a solitary mast,
On an empty prairie
Whose sole conversation is—
Whispers to the wind
Where we used to laugh,
Now only silence's tyranny rules—
And dead signals from you.
The nights now fold like collars
And I button the silence over my throat
Tightly, chocking...
Enervating.
Storms are normal, they say.
But this came like the devil’s wind—
Stripped the roof, left me clutching splinters.
When I needed your anchor,
I found only static.
Like the noise before the storm
Now these distances are cold—
To the touch,
And without coverage.
Now I teeter,
Rust consuming my base — station,
Like a diseased splinter.
Should I rush the edge?
And take flight
Or harness my emptiness
On the masts high?
Or medicate to cure—
This disease?
Confined, drink won’t satiate
And hope is a sardonic—
Voice
Should I shout?
So you hear my cry
Or should I stay this way?
Let the signal die
Or stay,
And fight—
The demon in my ceiling?
Or pull the cord…?
One woman's glass ceiling is another man's wood floor
but there's no such thing for a second-class citizen
of a third world country
as
there's no moving up gender is against her
sexual orientation too considered 'half a witness'
in testimony
with
neither voice nor choice can't vote
or
leave home alone
unless
with consent
can't emigrate (passport permission required)
and
as for caste if she were a Dalit
(lowest of the low)
there's nowhere to go
so
between me and you, flee, be a refugee,
what's a poor girl to do?
I was told the sky was endless,
But mine was a feather away
A low lid of shadows.
Every step echoes in a room
That was never meant to hold me.
Still, they say, reach higher.
But my hands find only fog,
And my faith slips through it
Like water through open fingers.
In despair, or deep sleep
I open my eyes
But I’m blind
Feeling my way through a world
That swears there’s light above me.
Tweet tweet tweet
I hear the birds speak
I wonder what they say
Perhaps it’s a song
Or a prayer strong
To welcome golden day
The sunshine glows
And wouldn’t you know
By their cheerful chirps
Perhaps they’ve learned
To get the early worm
And whistle while you work
I lay here nude
Enjoying their tune
Of rainbow inflections
Tan ceiling fan on
Creating my own song
Sunny disposition suggestion
Good morning soupers
May you all be troupers
As you earn that early worm
May you keep hope
With or without clothes
As the world turns
The ceiling blinked first—it told me I was looking up too much,
time laughed in a corner, counting backwards just to mock me,
my shadow packed its bags and left a sticky note:
"You're thinking too hard. I need air."
The fan above spun secrets, whispering in Morse code,
I'm not sure if it cursed me or told me the meaning of life,
(too lazy to translate), I sipped gravity like tea,
watched ants reinvent capitalism on the edge of the desk,
and somewhere, in a parallel kitchen, my slice of toast is still falling,
but never touches the floor, floating between unknown dimensions,
while my thoughts dance among the dust threads of the universe,
seeking answers to unspoken questions, in the silence of a ceiling with thoughts.
It's roots are a foothold
To a mainstay stem
That shoots arms so strong
To hold person and string
Rope and note in his bag
Dire fully, he scrutinizes it
Till he locates a stronger hand
Fit to send him to dead-land
Throngs are amassed, astounded
Officers seek for testaments
His loved ones are richly wailing
Now he's like a drooping ceiling
Sometimes I don't think at all
Nights like this having staring contests with the ceiling
I concentrate on the little sparkly bits in the vast field of white
The nothingness
the lid to my Universe
Sometimes I want to rip it away
Leave myself exposed
For the elements to come pick the flesh off my bones
finish tearing me apart so that I don't have to
Not think at all
Put the lid back on when you're done
Two mismatched shoes lie
under the couch and one
behind the mahogany chair.
One seems to be missing.
There are a watch and a phone
along with a pair of earrings
on the table beside the chair
and various items of clothing
here and there on the carpet.
A couple lies somewhat
tangled in the midst of all,
looking up and talking about
shadows of the fan on the ceiling
and hugging and laughing.
Two people close and happy.
Now imagine who they are.
Twenty- or thirty somethings?
Even forties maybe?
But no. They are late eighties
and early nineties, rediscovering
a portion of their youth that is
wondrously sweeter and more
precious at this time of life.
Quote: When these corporal bodies of ours have blown away into the wind like shredded ribbons loosed from a kite, towards glass ceiling skies we will fly, then go to a place where no one ever truly dies.
Up in heaven the flowers are blooming softly and with great intent
for God pitched a great big tent up there, for those who need it most
No greater joy than to live for all eternity wrapped in His loving light
Heaven, a place where even eagles say goodnight...
Up in heaven there is no war, no famine and no disease
for love is the warrior that never ceases to exist
and compassion is the gold ring of great, great mercy
No safer place to be than in the Kingdom of God
where Angels sing and trumpets blare
and we are like rare porcelain to His eyes
Heaven, a place where even butterflies say bye-bye.
The lazy old wooden fan
worked his tired arms
twisting ‘round ‘n ‘round
Straining against the hot air
trying to push the room’s heavy
layered heat into motion.
The still air resisted
hesitated
trapped within flat walls
Dead air suspended
hanging it be
as stagnant
as were his parting words.
Today though he be gone,
the slow fan blades of his betrayal
still turn ‘round ‘n ‘round,
wringing my heart daily
His stuttering words of good-bye
cutting more deeply
with each turn of thought.
Now I be nothing
but a heavy heat
of dead-ed air
Holding the broken
of my stagnant
heart.
outstretched in space-
a fingertip touch of God's grace
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