April rain comes hastily,
unexpectedly, like the fleeing rogues of
flaming, crackling farms, clattering on the
roofs of waylaid shelters on
the roads of banishment —
uncompromised,
singing light songs from a
heavy-storming sky band, grey and grieving.
Follow in the footsteps of April rain —
so light, so infrequent, and cautious,
though it rains down thin spikes of
frazzled water, young and ravenous,
for the initiation of roaming soils.
Rutted twittens, ivy shadowed
flecked with fuchsia blooms
as spring nods gaily
to wake dozy summer
and clattering of feet
on the sparse cobbles
that meander in quaintness
toward sprawling flea markets
where bustle and laughter
of children, echo, larkish
amid the ruddy traders
who grin and joke
behind their wobbly trestles
draped in gingham cloth
that sport a shambles
of vibrant, ancient treasures.
On warm nights when even silence hears
a pin drop, a cricket's sound;
the stiletto red heels of Ella start chasing
vulnerable hearts already committed,
while their darlings
are left in bed crying.
Stiletto heels aren't comfortable,
they make a lot of noise...
clattering on those cobblestone streets
of the sea city, where a drunk guy winks
at the sexpot of Venice...
crossing bridges built with marble stone.
Ella chases vulnerable hearts
that are already committed to others,
and as long as they are satisfied,
she feels no heavy guilt inside.
Night ladies adore red stiletto heels,
they hustle for money to buy rubies;
they add another name to their long list,
no victim will ever escape their threat.
Night sparks open as the city stirs
Carts roll in with clattering metal and whirs
Charcoal pops where the isaw turns
Smoke drawing ribbons as the skewer burns
Kwek-kwek stacked like tiny setting suns
Crisp shells waiting for the rush of hungry ones
Fish balls jitter in their bubbling bath
Vendors calling routes like a seasoned craft
Balut passed warmly like a whispered trust
Salt and broth rising through the evening dust
Every corner alive bold and bright
Manila seasons life bite after bite
In the cool, white
fluorescent light
a scalpel rasps, whispering,
insisting on detail.
A chisel flicks,
deft and sure,
snicking, razing,
in the clean steam
of icebreath.
Formless, frosty
bulbous ice
has pattern
punched into it.
An awl starts clattering,
keen steel stabbing
shards of crystal free
to shower down
as glassy shrapnel.
Ruth Amid the Corn
takes form,
growing
as matter falls away.
Final flurries of fussing,
flowers wreathed around,
and the beauty is inched
into the fug
of the banquet,
sweating.
Ruth weeps unseen,
pristine for now,
but already warming.
Sitting down, face set like a flint, I was afraid to make God frown, a beam of light pierced my crown...
Flipped my world upside down...
Claimed to be satan but it wasn't a demon of any renown.
Lunged toward me with a sword, sharp edged, gleams like gold, "I just want to break your mold", she said, she etched, those words in my memory,
I called it bold.
I had no choice, I drew my blade, I pray that God will be my aid. Clash! And I saw a flash, it was not a nightmare. Bash! My lungs were not robbed of air. Truth rang with every slash, "is it you I have to thrash?"
I was cornered then alas. I closed my lids, I gave her the pass. Kill me now, let my soul transpass.
Her silence echoes like thunder, as she buried her sword in my chest. End me, now put me to rest.
But the heavens did not claim my heart that night, clattering of chains that once bound me, held me, ever so tight, is what they got, from me that night.
My delight...
42 Mirrors
By Lucien Quincy Senna
Mirror, mirror
tell me all,
Who I am
Who I was,
painted seagreen with vanity
or socketed modesty.
Pride and pain
my old pretenders.
I am full of dead men's bones,
their advance over me.
I trashed and trotted
other people's causes,
statecraft of the most
sinister skull-duggery.
Mirror, mirror
see me now,
my strawberry leaves
for I am no longer twenty-four.
Pinking the raw edge of silk,
trusting it all.
Then that Ramshackle Empire
came clattering for me
a penal code
institutions for troubled women
"Pull your bellies between your knees!" said the nurse.
The hours pass upon the eastern turn
my faith anew while I was interred there,
until I somersaulted
out of the deep waters.
An ocean greyhound
who was simply considered
a whited sepulchre.
A mask for women over forty.
Mashed up and burning.
I hate when I’m shopping and that happens.
Empty.
I never went home after that.
Hurts like popcorn in the microwave, burning.
Seething.
When I’m shopping for cooking utensils or things I can’t recall.
That I can’t recover in my bright eyes.
I’m in the store and there is clattering. Stop, slow motion.
And things like that.
I went to the garbage dump after that.
Tried to throw myself away.
An old banana peel grabbed my wrist-
Then tossed me back, and no one knows.
The crowd is gone.
Even the banners have tumbled,
damp scraps collapse against fences,
glued there by storm and breath.
Here, at mile thirteen,
the body speaks its own dialect:
ribs clattering like loose screen,
calves stuttering,
lungs threading sparks through the fabric
of my chest.
Still, I keep faith with motion.
Each footfall a defective prayer,
each muscle shivering,
but unwilling to betray me.
I remember the child I was,
running shoelaces through fields,
believing the world boundless,
believing endurance implied joy.
Now I know endurance
is the art of carrying grief
without letting it drown me.
It is learning to trust
that a horizon recedes
only to teach patience.
The audience disappears.
Even shadows seem to lag.
The only voice left
is the one I forge
between heartbeat and breath.
I do not race to conquer distance.
I race to prove
that I am still becoming
that even when torn open by fatigue,
the soul can strike a lantern
from pain.
And if the finish waits, let it wait.
Let it wait.
Here, in the thirteenth mile.
The feeling of a ceramic mug being formed.
Mental blocks, not normal.
Just the clattering of pencils as if they are a cure.
Taking time out of nothing.
Taking tempered emotions.
Stemming and steaming.
I have enough opportunities.
They said that.
I have enough capacity.
Struggles, and other swirling winds.
When the thoughts escape.
The doorway gets caved in.
The ceramic mug is formed.
Waits for the way cameras speak.
Not a soft sound.
Just the sun and back.
They say I should consider not making connections.
They say I make them confused.
My mental block is endless.
I wish people would stop trying.
If the cure was found…
Then the moon landing is endless as me.
Stones bashing against my glass barrier
Clattering all night through
I just want to sleep as much as I weep
What am I s'pposed to do?
Stones bashing against my glass barrier
You say that you're glad as can be
I just wish some day, they'll be better for you
I just wish your blind eyes could se
I know if this country of ours is tiger
sometimes would go hunting
and sometimes may be hunted upon
now, how do we know whether tis prey or predator?,
which cry is prey and which one is predator?,
do we call such notion revolution or sigh or development
or growth.
Which at the moment is like clattering?, metering?,
nary-freding or waking?, eh?.
I wonder how the latest let say woods in this side of world are wishing to grow how
clattering all the ways somehow non chalant, somehow
withering flea and folly.
the problem is not even the furnance so to say
even though we will never waste much time let say
growing perishable tomatoes.
Of course farmers of tomatoes are necessary and
the other blossomings-
the problem of tendency is the woods nowadays, behold
whatever windows and doors?.
Yes, don't tell me that some biscuits and other cookies
will help to enliven peaceful parties and programmes.
One day the moon is another place, a mid flotsam
nightmare of titanic is another passion of a haunting
ho?.
When I imagine something it worries me much, whether
the moon is prone or vulnerable like a science or car's
or like cat or dog that sometimes walk west or north
or raise or groom them?.
One day the moon is hither or thither or gal glassing
and then something is shadowing or clattering like atom
let say in Mars?- and still the fact that sometimes
my country is like the moon worries me so?, for who
will pass a leaning on somehow Monrovia shard or
anyhow draw?, or a sort of cell low?, or hunting tonight?.
One day the moon intermingling tell us why and what is
trespassing- our words like sacredness - truth - dream -
justice - power - politics - are no longer holding or
brotherly, lest shatter or wither or weather - hauntingly?.
Agitated by the plight
Of the famine hit earth,
As a sign of consolation,
Tears shed by the clouds
Come down as raindrops
From the sieve of the sky
Clattering on windows,
Thumping on roofs…
A musical concert
For the living, below!
Plopping in puddles,
Forming brooks and creeks,
Soak every land
They come across,
With love, unbiased!
Just like the separated souls
Reunite with the Supreme Soul,
Raindrops do descend to become
One with their source!
A homecoming for them!!
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