my daughter is kowtowing to her piano tutor as he leaves our home,
which is a bit much
there's no need to turn on the heating in the car
as it takes too long to heat up, so let's save the battery
the sky was looking like it had just attended a funeral,
which is a simile stolen from a student's homework
i've folded up forty pairs of socks as an art piece
and at the jazz club i must begin the applause for the solos
does anyone own a battery powered travel hair dryer?
If your mind now Frightens You —
Do not conclude the Light
It has folded up its Silver Wings
And vanished from your Sight —
The Brain is but a timid Room
That echoes when alone —
It magnifies your Whispered Fears
And crowns it with a Throne —
But Fear is only Sound and Shade —
A guest that begs to stay —
It cannot sign the Deeds of You
Nor steal your Name away —
The Heart still walks a Secret Path
Where Mercy learns your Face —
And waits beside the trembling Gate
With infinite Embrace —
So if your Mind should frighten You —
It proves the Soul is near —
For only those who can not hope
Are startled by Despair.
We want long sleeves sometimes.
But that’s what death is.
A short sleeve tee.
Folded away.
Layers of fabric of time.
Unfolding on my being.
Tugged over my head.
Too small somehow.
Death becomes whole.
Like a tee shirt with a hole, but can be salvaged.
We throw on a long sleeve jacket.
That’s what death is.
Tragic and worn everywhere.
Trying to keep warm but not overheated.
That’s what death is.
Could get thrown away easily.
Not knowing I am next in line.
Tragic.
Torn.
Folded up within.
I could die at any time.
That’s the magic of tee shirt weather.
I already accepted.
The gold metal, the grinding sounds.
Every type of glue that isn’t as good as a nail.
Unknowingly.
I already accepted.
The sweaty feeling.
Wings falling off.
Brand new socks that have tears.
I already accepted.
How everyone is congratulating me.
Smoky and no eyes.
An award like a gravestone.
I already accepted that lock of hair.
I already accepted an apple with a bite mark.
I already accepted the howling staircase.
I already accepted help from a werewolf who can’t remember anything.
I already signed that slip of paper.
That tells them I can stay in the hospital.
Got folded up.
And poof.
I already accepted.
And they say they have proof.
“In my empty heart – only memories” by poet
Today our mother had his bed removed
and took posters down – even things he’d drawn
depicting stuff of which she’d disapproved.
Those posters that revealed his heart – all gone!
She took his dresser out, and all his clothes
she folded up to donate to Good Will.
His nice suits in the closet – even those -
as well as knick-knacks on the window sill!
I understand the pain she’s going through.
What good is there in taking all away?
The rest of our family's grieving too.
I press to my face a saved shirt of grey.
It was his favorite. In his empty room,
my tears release. I’m standing in a tomb.
Like ten pairs of socks all folded up.
Or the blanket with a smiling sense.
I have enough waiting rooms to go around.
Here in my home.
Someone is hiding, like a small chunk of metal.
Sandpaper destroys imperfections with a whoosh.
Someone is waiting.
So,
Here it is:
When I have feelings, the circles come back.
Circling, spinning, whimsical.
They are harmful.
Everything is very calculated in my mind.
And then I repeat it.
Someone is.
Like an avocado slice.
So perfect.
Just like the beaches that I imagined.
Slices all folded up.
Here in my home.
I have a toaster oven, rug, and me.
We all have feelings circling back.
So does the light switch.
And all the people hiding in places I don’t know exist.
Everyone who is watching.
I know you want to watch me and my feelings.
Good luck because:
A new one is coming soon.
I have a cup in my hand.
Spilling it.
Then I pour some into my hands.
Laughing.
So I get more.
Sipping coffee from my palms.
Beautiful.
The journal.
Pages.
Folded up, turning into paper airplanes.
A journal is like…
When my car sputters in the winter,
But it starts up anyway.
Crying.
It’s cold.
Pulling out of the driveway, carefully.
I used to carry my flashlight.
Sweeping the light around.
These days?
I don’t know where light comes from.
Just sparkles.
And reflections in empty trash cans.
I threw away my phone.
I didn’t think they would actually take it.
But the garbage truck comes at 6:00 am every morning.
Earthquakes seem very long.
So I think I imagined it.
Cowering for three hours.
Until I get anxious and want a cup of coffee.
I pour a cup of coffee.
But the shaking makes me drop it again.
On the wings of winter afloat abandoned in northern wind,
the wilted leaves of longing waft away rustling recluse,
my frosted nest clings captive to the skeletal tree,
I count in heartbeat the footsteps of frozen twilight hour.
The elan of earnestness turns into arctic embrace,
as you fly away to the sun shine sky of indigo incognito.
In the frosted debris of desolation in the glacial nest,
I hibernate in memory with the frozen feather you leave.
The lonely bird languishes with the wings twisted in torment,
folded up within the mangled manor of the marooned mind.
I can’t fly in the wake of your evanescent flight,
my heart’s fervent warmth dissipates unfelt.
The latent desire to span the sky sinks in the sad eyes,
the feelings fail to touch the remote reminiscence,
as I find the defoliated trees dance in the snow sonata,
attuned to the melody of the song of winter wonders.
The winter blizzard blowing in my wanton world
immobilizes the weary wings of my frigid fervor,
brings the breath of old times through the frosted door of mind,
in my winter slumber I dream you will return in spring.
Astraea
The Starry One
While they slept
she folded up
her two sisters
between two great wings
holding them tight
like she was protecting them
on the LA Metro Red Line.
The next day
nothing happened to them
while they walked to work.
A few feathers fell
which others
picked up and slid
into purses, pockets
or hair.
She awoke
in an empty warehouse-
Los Angeles Street-
and waits,
nearly bound, struck by daylight,
no longer a star-
barely a goddess.
Summer sky sparkles under huge bursts of light
Spiraling rockets and rainbows of color delight
Kiddie rides and merry-go-rounds spinning around
While roller coasters lift one high off the ground
Vendors sell hotdogs and pink cotton candy galore
Even if you win a prize, you come back for more
The midway is lively with strange, exotic shows
Sporty guys have their gals, and the gals their beaus
Warm breezes waft through the open-air cantina
A wandering stilt walker plays a squeaky concertina
The dads will gain bragging rights ringing the bell
A barker guesses mom’s weight, but she’ll never tell
Then, too soon the fun was over, tents folded up
All I brought home was a tiny, plastic loving cup!
written February 25, 2022
To jab or not to jab, why is it even a question?
Get the shot or don’t, it shouldn’t be a global inquisition.
This site is for poetry, not sharing your views on a blog.
Post it as a poem, then you won’t agitate the dog.
The only genes being changed are folded up in a drawer.
Come up with new material, this is really a bore.
I’ve had family die because they thought like you.
They listened to the same lies that you now spew.
Keep your opinions to your bloody self.
I think your facts are checked by an elf on a shelf.
If you don’t want the vaccine that is entirely up to you.
Do you see any blogs by those of us who do?
Go get a pill that can help with your mental type.
The government is not trying to kill us, that’s just hype.
Use your words as a poet if you have such wit.
I read your crazy blog your words are just spit.
In the cerulean fervent sky
my songbird of yearning soared high,
glided in the rippling amorous breeze
that wafted your fragrance to me,
until the splitting storm surged
and crushed the wings of longing.
The crippled bird lost the flight,
folded up the collapsed wings,
painfully wrinkled like fallen dry leaf,
drifting in the niche of my mangled mind
that turned into a ruined nest,
made of shattered stem called emotion.
In the frosty stillness of winter
the singing bird became silent,
its aborted flight of abandoned passion
could no longer find the sparkling sky,
tears froze in blue crevasse of glacial gloom,
the pain of broken heart congealed confined.
Someday under the bejeweled night sky,
traveling down the memory lane
you would remember me as a fading star
that lost its orbit and got sucked up
by the blue hole of dense despair
and disappeared from your sky forever.
October 30, 2021
Contest : Blue
Sponsor : Mystic Rose Rose
My footwear in hand,
Trousers folded up to fend,
Dunk in tide I stand,
Unsteady a bit,
Sands under feet digging pits
When two huge waves hit
Splashing sea water,
Wetting me and all my wits,
Clueless I totter.
___________________________
Haiku |30.06.2021|
I listened to Choi’s story and I wondered
What kind of people allow a five-year-old
to live on the street by himself, sleeping in bathrooms?
Were these people too preoccupied to care?
His humble unassuming, shy ways
Were in contrast to every neglected five-year-old I have met.
They are usually all folded up with cross arms
Glaring, refusing to do anything an adult asks.
Seoul born Choi looked surprised at the audience’s reaction.
I do not believe he has encountered much approval or admiration
In his life, which started out early on in an orphanage
Where people beat him.
When he opened up and sang, I felt I was listening to an angel.
Possibly this is why he was allowed to live on the street at five.
Perhaps people sensed he was other-worldly, untouchable.
His singing is too.
As the day is folded up like
An old woman's wrapper and
The sun in it has been blinded by
The orange clouds of heaven. As
The twilight starts playing with dusts
But, fills noses with the sweet fragrance
Of flourishing petals. The night will
Crawl in like a snail does on a wall
The stars will peep out to
adorn the boring sky; crickets will be
praising thy mighty with
Their tiny tones, while frogs
Will be croaking in cursing the oppressors
The owl will perch on a dying tree; starring at
A soul dessolating a body, so that
At end of the people's sorrowful
wailing, he will hoot in mockery to
Embrace their hot dropping tears
The crow will sit on a bench
of graveyards, looking
At our undying dead walking
around the woods and hoods;
mumbling the secrecy of their deaths
The mauraders: travellers of every
nooks and crannies of the earth
while silence walks the lands.
(c) D.O Isma'eel
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