Sea-Line

He stands in front of the vast horizon blue,

His salty tears caressed by the sky.

He was just someone I once knew.

*

There was a time we said ado;

My heart is frozen like his countenance I drew —

He stands in front of the vast horizon blue.

*

He became one with its consciousness,

Larger than I could assume — even if

He was just someone I once knew.

*

Unlike the others, him I just eschew

To take in the sea-line better. For now,

He stands in front of the vast horizon blue.

*

The sea beckons drowned memories in its blue —

I, through salty tears, told the sea —

He was just someone I once knew.

*

I find my own place by the sea line,

Stand where he once stood anew.

He stands in front of the vast horizon blue.

He was just someone I once knew.

Camera Pen Person

Originally composed on Dec 6 2022

Camera pen person

Duh duh dub.

Camera pen person.

They are my friends; without them I am nothing.

Camera pen pretty face.

When I kiss you I love myself a little better.

Camera pen peplum jacket.

Camera pen music.

Without any sound there are no lyrics

In my book of life.

The Reckoning

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Your distance palpitated by the minute

Even as you traipsed along in stride;

My hand embraced yours insistently,

Knowing it would vanish from my side.

*

I’ll reframe your utterance on my mantel,

Your blunt, bemusing little “no”:

You shoved me forward, out, stumbling,

Instead, breathing a tranquil, “go.”

Happenstance

The art of spontaneous living.

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The visions in my head

Are so blithely untread,

And if you ask me what they were,

I must admit, I’m still unsure

Of their formation — of demure,

childlike wonderings in me.

They blossomed back then, you see

When I was cute, knew nary a thing.

And new worlds whispered secrets

In the dark, dare me to read their leaflets.

And now’s the time I grew

And the world isn’t so brand new,

And the world doesn’t revolve around spontaneity

But rather, a planned obscurity.

Who knows where they will have lead,

Those existential visions in my head

This Could Go Three Ways

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1)

I hugged her deeply

Palms splayed wide, pressed against her back

As though posed to draw her inside my heart.

I loved her harder in that moment than if

She truly belonged to me.

2)

I followed her

Thinking she wouldn’t notice.

Or that I wanted her to notice me instead.

“Is your love…special?” She turned on her heels.

I said stoutly, “I want the truth.”

3)

You said Vietnamese was cheap,

But for all I know, we are kings of the world.

Dinner was so sublime

I couldn’t even bring myself to ask:

“How do you make love in your castle?”

An Observer Listens Quietly

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A wild struggle between hope and despair through the universal experience of listening to one’s favorite songs. Songs that have subliminal message but you wonder how far they’ll go for you…

Each my song

Has a distinct flavor

That shatters the bones

And pounds glistening tones.

*

I’m sorry, song.

I judged harshly

Before listening first

And quenching my thirst.

*

A hope, on a dare.

Respite from self.

I look up to the sky

And ask myself why oh why.

*

What do they warble

In wayward songs?

Do the squeeze out tears

That read my worldly fears?

*

Broken promises

And a sleepless night.

Lover, and lover to scorn

If only there’d BE lover to mourn.

*

Oh, if only

“It will get better.”

I look up in car to the sky

And weep why oh why oh why…

Pictograde

(Pictograde: a cross between “retrograde” (transgressing back in time) and “pictogram” (a picture symbol))

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Pictograde is a cross between the word “picture” and “retrograde.”

***

I traipsed along the path

that was green.

*

I sang like a little girl,

I saw them again.

*

The couple was no more than a couple, ratting

SunTory whiskey or…

An unraveling to a

Grand story of life.

A living pictograde,

which I could witness but never partake in.

*

I traipsed along the path

that was green.

A windy summer

Oh never mind, just more memories from college that I rephrase in a thousand different ways.

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She was swept in by the gust of wind —

She, so angelic that I stupidly grinned.

I’d know, her smile was a knowing one —

That, whose enchantments were always never done.

*

I think summer fever gave me those hallucinations

For now I’m no freer from Fate’s elucidations.

Out of center light I was just a wistful pawn;

Then I blink and poof! and she was gone.

*

Sneaking a hello is some bizarre performance art;

I know not where t’will lead my quaking heart.

Only the breeze told me it’d bring her in tow —

‘Tis no small wonder that I really loved her so.

Love Poem to a Masculina

You know, I found this poem called “Love Poem to a Butch Woman. I really liked the concept but I didn’t like it enough, so I changed it considerably. I completed the sentences without hopefully sounding too pedantic. In addition I added in some descriptors that I thought sounded more colorful over the previous poem. I’m not a scholar like Deborah A. Miranda, so naturally I wouldn’t presume any superiority over her work. This is just a personal reinterpretation.

And of course, trigger warning for (I think ) any erotic content ahead.

So this is how it is;

A desire so strong I want to syphon the egg

From your womb and nourish it in mine.

I want a baby — yours, made out of this

sopping mess of us: no extra help from any other

But love in itself. I want to override

The matrix of man’s seed, create a living product

From the love that flows between

our intertwined bodies in electrifying passion.

This is how it is:

When you stride out of the bedroom,

Chain dangling above your half-hidden

Breasts in an unbutton blouse — I want to slip you into my heart

As I receive your secret.

I watch your hands, wait for the moment that

you’ll, open me, stroke me, love me, fill me;

The moment your desire leaps inside of me.

The Cliffside Blue

This isn’t a poem based off any real-life event. It’s an ode to inspiration that I drew from during one of the happier moments in my life. It wasn’t noteworthy or anything special. I was just out walking in the morning, listening to music, and daydreaming. Those three activities coincided so sweetly that they spelled out a magical “what-if” scenario, a sweet but universal fantasy representative of all young adults. I hope you enjoy it.

TRIGGER WARNING noted for erotic content below.

***

The wind wrapped me ’round the waist and

Jostled me out the door into a morning stroll to

There, where the cliffside overlooks the Blue of dawn.

The handsome stranger I met there earlier awaited in a

Breakfast of orange juice and biscuits and coffee and what-not.

Of course, I replied. Trying not to want it so much.

We watched the Blue tinge the house warm,

orange and yellow and — GREEN, I think,

A shade of sea salt wind from some wild Spaghetti dream;

The one over the cliffside

That overlooked the valley still drowsing and

Crowned itself lord o’ the land.

This cliffside of yours, where you pointed —

You, pianist fingers interlaced with rings and baubles

And a robe that signified a sleepy sort of warmth…

My god, Stelvio Cipriani himself must have composed a

Song, dedicated to this so very moment.

You asked my again, my ados, my existence follies;

But how can I possibly tell you that

Your breast in my mouth

And your nipple

On the tip of my tongue

And your bare abdomen,

Caressed by the breeze wind

Before I do

Is

The reason for my being?

To hope, that mine eyes have told thee all.

And now I’m running out of time. Time again.

So come, come-!

Kiss your last goodbyes to me

Before the wind whisks me back to my briefcase

As though it was me leaving that house for a day

Out of the kitchen scented of old coffee stains

And canvassed paintings behind glass

Warmed by the intrepid sunrise —

Out of the bedroom

Out of your sleepy arms

And off your hips

Stubbled with the scent of pheromones and

Sweaty smiles

And spasmic hugs

and-!

maybe,

just,

out of another hapless little dream.