I'm not eloquent at descriptions.
My tongue gets tied trying to push my thoughts out.
My mind gets foggy when I try describing
the "where's", the "who's", the "why's", the "what's.
I guess I'm not very good at explaining.
Expressing my feelings I also often fail.
The "who's" I fathom will be so frustrated
trying to decipher my "what's" so frail.
I recon the reason is somewhat ambiguous.
The "why's" don't bother using common sense.
They shut the door in poor "what's" the name's face.
The tension grows thicker, and the air becomes dense.
Overflowing with guilt from all this commotion,
Refuge they'd seek at the redemption's lair
Vehemently trying to make peace with all the emotions,
I hurriedly ran in array and despair.
I knocked at the door slightly embarrassed.
Determined and ready I was, to finally explain.
But the "where's" was the only one sternly waiting.
So, all this commotion, and heartache, was in vain.
Besa Dede Monday, May 12, 2025
This morning we jogged early
I was back in my flat by six-thirty
From my tenth floor view of the Charles River basin,
The morning was incandescently flushed by the peach-colored sun.
The transparent clouds seemed stylistically stained, artfully workshopped,
which offered a softened, Tiffany glass effect wholly worthy of worship.
I can’t stop to admire it. I’m jamming things into suitcases.
Cramming things into boxes, giving things away.
I had a second interview Monday afternoon, for Johns Hopkins med school. They put the question to me:
“The semester starts in 18 days - can you do that?”
“Yes,” I replied, and just like that, I'm a Blue Jay.
Of course, I had to withdraw from the masters program but Harvard gave me a full (95K) refund - I think they’re more excited about my med school admission than I am.
I’m not afraid of discordant notes.
They change the landscape.
Take us to new emotional places.
Any major work is going to have them.
.
.
A song for this:
Hang on Little Tomato by Pink Martini
It's Amazing by Jem
a raised voice of arrogance
manipulating the verses of heresy
blunt ironic poems
flowering sugar-coated promises
throughout ages
slander mongering
in every burst of man’s sweat
no blood ever spurt off
Dwelling
In the arches
Of dark corners that reach
The entombment of my stale mind,
Frozen
In time;
Freshly scarred by
Unfulfilled musings led
By stoic apathy singing
Tunes of
Friction,
Fluctuating
Amidst piercing thistles,
And crucifying vines flooding
My core.
God's world is in harmonious motion
following a perfect rhythm ~
save heart that's discontent
07-February-2023
Sounds discordant around abound
We instantly react
Likewise for fearful thoughts that hound
Tranquility detract
Aversion and desire
Send to funeral pyre
Be free, aglow, afire
Crow’s caw mordant
Sounds discordant
28-November-2021
Quietus
The discordant words sat long with her.
The words sat slowly soaking--
soaking in a marinade of thoughts,
thoughts seasoned with reason
In thoughts seasoned with reason,
the words were permeated and saturated--
permeated and saturated
with knowledge and wisdom
With knowledge and wisdom
the woman could finally respond.
She could respond with insight and intuition--
the insight and intuition of a sage woman
A sage woman could now respond,
a woman who knew how to season her words.
The woman who knew how to season her words--
She seasoned her words with grace.
A soul in flames daunting the discordant canvas, eradicating the supreme veil. To be
drenched in apathy coincides inversely with the stench of a bitter legacy. Severed
souls search asunder for a subversive scent, only to be oppressed in an overt art.
Begging death for a drenching darkness to obliterate this dire desolation. Complete
in nocturne this grotesque being of infinite hate commands coercively.
"She is the fire within me
and you're my deviation from the norm"
You were right,
and that's the heartbeat of insanity
pulsing my roots from your sweet poisoned ground.
I'm the butterfly pinned in your display case -
will their reverent eyes be enough
to satisfy when you sleep alone?
My wings are bleeding
and you, with a lemon-soaked band-aid -
you think I'm smiling.
Wherefore, Romeo?
Did you climb down from your balcony
of ice sculpture promises
and meet him in the garden
before a single word escaped his lips?
He must have gotten the invitation:
"Hush, wink, baby - forever a lie
from dark eyes and sugared tongue."
The smell of spring
is still that plantation hillside
and autumn, the canal, blue as
the rose held tightly in travel-weary hands,
but this sunlight streaming in
is the chill on my breath
that hides your reflection in the bedroom mirror.
Played like a drunken game…
next time, I'll choose truth.
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