Lodged Poems

The Song I Will Not Pass Down

I dreamed a song —  
hush tones and haunted chords.  
A woman loved once,  
and it grew into a tree.  
She watered it with years,  
fed it her voice,  
slept beneath it,  
called the silence love.  
And in the final verse,  
she hung herself in its arms.

I woke with the melody lodged  
between my ribs like a blade.

I turned to you,  
my daughters,  
my mirrors,  
my storms unsoftened by shame.

I almost sang it to you,  
almost let it pass  
from my mouth into your bones,  
like the women before me did —  
lullabies lined with  
martyrdom in a dress.

But I stopped.  
Because I saw your eyes —  
not frightened,  
but awake.

And you, fierce ones,  
you deserve a different song.

'sigh-ants' logic

with-'in tell-all gents'
comes a 'lodged-hic'

that is 'nay-too sure-all'
with respect 'survive-all'


len

Nana Baking Pans

I often gaze through Nana's broken window but today feels distinctly different as I watch the blackbirds pecking at the pears in the avocado trees. Nana harvested the finest ripe avocados and pears, their colors a lovely blend of dark burgundy and green, all from that old, timeworn tree. 
Each year, we meticulously inspect every pear before packing them into a brown barrel. They were moist and delicious on the inside, so easy to peel—those exquisite, ripe pears.  

Today, I am about to open the last marked box of Nana's belongings. Gently, I unwrap the final item, carefully enclosed in an old newspaper. It is her bread pan, the one with two handles, and I notice an old, burnt crumb lodged in one corner. A smile forms on my face, and I weep softly as I say,
 "Hello to you too, Nana."

Still Embedded

I didn’t see the blast--
just felt it after,
in the hush of your retreat.

No scars to stitch,
just words
lodged in soft tissue.
They ache when it rains.

You said, "It's not like I hit you,”
but silence detonates too.
It tears in quiet,
spreads slow as bruising thoughts.

Now I walk crooked,
smile with hesitation,
and check every room
for the pieces I’ve left behind.

Confessional Booth Number 9

Streetlight dander. Jawbone asphalt.
Blink razors carve her iris script.
Rib stars ovulate in feral grates,
mechanical tongue juts a bloodline breath.
Keystroke ruin writes in collapse,
a waveform lodged in sternum glass.
Lipsticked rodeo—a gash in faded denim
Banana-knuckled hands torch filterless ghosts.

Tree-call through copper root systems.
Wire-pluck storm,
vapor chews the stock market 
Cancer caught in molar hush,
brined in citrine static.

She opens her throat like a coin purse.
Spine bows in semaphore.
We dismount the edge—
An incisor cusp,
the confession still blistering
beneath the flesh of no language.

Love Collision

If love breaks you open

And you have a chance to look inside

You might be surprised at what you find

 

If love smashes your expectation

And you have a chance to make your defense

You might be greeted with a surprising strength

 

If love disturbs your every intention

And you have a chance to meet your fear

You might be astonished at the things that become clear

 

If love crashes into your wall of security

And you have a chance to construct better walls

You might be captured by a decision not to rebuild at all

 

If love explodes into a million pieces

And you have a chance to walk away

You might be dazed by the unreachable splinter lodged in your heart to stay

So Fondly Recall

Your gentle  touch,
sparks myriads of,
memories secretly lodged,
sequestered on queue,
awaiting slender threads,
of poignant  smile so warm,
heartfelt dispensation without strain,
at platforms, bus stops, meeting points,
that simple please excuse benign tone,
amidst the daily lifestyle jostle,
to raise the flustered traveller,
from self-imposed scarlet blush,
when items from stuffed bag vanish,
only for my conscientious aunt to interject,
is this item yours if I may ask?
such a genuinely generous citizen,
it’s that pleasure for me now to recall,
fragments of distilled recollection,
return as simple cordial gesture,  
from  vaults where vital matters lay

math them-attic-attacks

anything can happen...
as ridiculous as it sounds

like a...lodged-hic can...

end-tear one's mind and so some...
't'-(rain-a-sour-ass) rump starts yelling farts

claiming that the game board is his and...
so too...is your future


len

December, daughter of winter, descends with a silence that invades my soul

December, daughter of winter, descends with a silence that invades my soul,
Hatred crept slowly and surely into the marrow of my bones, poisoning them,
My breaths release blue beads of carbon dioxide,
Every yellow thought tears at the flesh, a needle lodged in the bleeding heart,
I wished to wear gentleness with grace, but the world covered me
With a thick layer of indifference, a veil of illusory indolence,
My petals of kindness hidden beneath ugly blue sepals,
No one looks beyond them, keeping my solitude intact,
The blue sepals stir waves of sadness in my lonely chest,
Half-smiles and pale feet, signs of deep melancholy,
Months pass and my skin is pierced by thorns, the flesh bleeds,
Dirty blue flows, my spiny armor embraced with pain,
In the world of cold, solitude becomes a silent and safe haven,
The poisoned blue flows through my veins, embracing suffering as a friend,
Guardian of the wounded heart, yet alive and beating beneath the layer of defense,
Accepting this secret burden, I find strength in melancholy.

Presidents and Poets

Their names have become
hollowed out husks
blown about the graveyards
of history. Emperors who once
claimed divine favour 
and the imprimatur of the gods 
now seem profane, despotic
caricatures of their age. 
Loud cheers have ossified
to a silence or a curse lodged
in the throat of the citizenry.
Power still seeps its poisons
into the body politic, 
even now into Prime Ministers, 
Premiers and Presidents
of so called united states.

I look for a place to find
a little peace from the crowd
and the howls of an angry world. 
Where once churches held
a sacred quiet, they too
have become loud stadiums 
for opposing forces, 
doctrinal battlegrounds 
between the lost and the saved.
I retreat to that private space
where like souls meet, a room
somewhere, a forest or a beach,
or a corner of one's own garden
and there teach myself to listen.
I hear what has always been there, 
transcending the reign 
of emperors, wealth, privilege 
and the power of the State. 
And so it is, I hold to my chest 
a well worn book of poems
by that saint, Emily Dickinson,
and here - renew my faith
and find a little rest.

And You Let It Go

How should we let go of our beautiful past?

It's said that everything happens for a reason, but is that true?
Situations demand you to accept it gracefully when it's time to let go of yourself in a person.

When you think of smooth grass tingling through your boots and it feels like a broken piece of glass is lodged in your foot, how does it feel now that it's gone?
"i askes my self" 

Am I moving or is my life at a standstill right now?
wandering through an island of memories all while felling happy yet why am I having trouble breathing? 
Why is the calm breeze turning blue? It's killing me.
Will I make it through it?

It's still unclear if I'm the victim or the perpetrator, and whether anyone will come to my rescue.

Yes, after all of the universe's tries, I finally gave up believing in love.'

Avril

Granite faces—bones of the earth,
Eyes empty, hollow as caves,
Whispering a past that erased her name.
Anger jagged, slicing through her chest,
Like a blade cutting through thorns,
She stays—rooted, unbroken.

Skin stretched tight, a drumskin pulled thin,
Red bandanna masking raven-black hair,
Toes scraped by the road’s jagged kiss.
130 pounds of defiance,
Eyes—dark as the creek’s hidden depths.
Her past lodged like a splinter under skin,
Silent, a growl trapped in worn leather.
Her face, a map of fire’s scorch,
Carved with a strength that won’t bow,
She steps—heavy with unspoken weight.

Badlands stretch, jagged as shattered glass,
Earth’s crust torn open, raw.
Stone bleeds, worn thin by time,
Air smashes against it,
Biting at the jagged teeth of the cliffs.
Rocks split—Paleolithic stories spilled out,
She is just another crack in the skin.

What’s It All About Alfie?

Arrows, what are they good for?
In an embodied dungeon very near to
my molested liver
arrows pile up, bundles of barbs,
each one a love letter
that missed its mark.
Some older ones
still drip an attenuated poison 
from their blunted tips.
Yes, love can be cruel
but it is rarely accurate.
It lives only to maim you
until you know how to live
with yet deeper wounds,
those piercing near misses
lodged between heart
and hope.

Shhhh

One moment you were here
The next one you were gone
The poems that were not for you 
Will be what carry on

I speak through my guitar
It always was that way
My words don't always come out right
So I play what I can't say

Unspokens were the messages
My love conveyed to you
Brain-hand synchronicity 
Telling you, I do

And I still will regardless 
You're lodged inside my heart
'Til the end from the beginning
From the first click of the start

I hope you won't forget me
Though perhaps no more, you know
Dos has flown away on Bluebird's wings 
Uno's sad she had to go

Plastic Wine

Red on my jeans,
Seeping through the seams,
A stain makes a story
no one wants to read.

Blood lodged between my teeth,
fencing away the chatter of an angel, 
each word swallowed,
a prayer unprayed.

Hands mute with quiet sin,
A muse on every thread,
what the mouth won’t spin—
a tale of blood, a story of regret.

In threads blackened of memory,?
each ounce pens a line,?
a story that pulsates beneath,?
feeding on a lie.

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