As I See It

Month: January, 2017

the ticking clock

across oceans she flew,
a special clock hung around her neck 
like a noose rooted to her rich land
by blood. 
with no consent it bleeps daily 
reminders to reach milestones she fears 
in nightmares - one is numbered 25.
ancestors chant commands (from unwritten books): 
it's time -- the clock has struck
26 she is running now.
no one but everyone chases her.
in this race, girls run faster than boys 
for there is no shame greater than a woman 
afraid, she is running 
out of years. 
her clan weeps begs prays
soothsayers cry prophecies 
of failure. words and tears are wasted minutes
seconds away from public dishonor
disaster. 26 howls the clock
she runs 27 in circles
caged by sacred time and fear,
alarmed forever by the cultural parasite.
where people are raised with ticking clocks,
there is a time and age for everything
even love, sex and happiness.



new year fears II

after too many fearful evenings spent
under lone orange lamps, i learned: 
tomorrow comes anyway. 
there is pain of the skin and not 
of the skin. but our skin is more 
tender than we are vulnerable. that night 
on the terrace she showed me invisble pain 
in red bruises to prove to me her ache 
i saw pain of a lover for the first time. 
somedays we plead to walls 'cause they are 
hearing, 'cause we give more words than we collect 
these days. i learned early: pillows absorb more 
than people. at least we have books 
to calm our frights, tell us others too closet fears
beneath insta-smiles and cheery banter.
if only on the sidewalk i could see your ache 
in a nod, would I be less lonely 
or more afraid? maybe we smile 
when our eyes meet 'cause atheists too need 
hope at bedtime. this year i must
remember: to give is truly to listen
in silence. we are not coping victims, 
we are here to build, laugh, cry, fight new
experiences. maybe today is just about having

new year fears

poetry, layered under her skin,
pleads to see light but refuses
to take form with stubborn arrogance. 
words dance on her tongue
threaten to jump but cling
to the tip like nervous divers. 
home is a state at the tip of her tongue. 
she feels the orange warmth of the familiar 
but unsaid words and unworded feelings ache
like frozen fingers begging
for the wait to end. 
forever a to-be poet, she lives the
pleasure and pain of slow time. 
she isn't a poet
like they say: 
you're a poet only if you're a poet.
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