2018
Torn
We have turned against life itself and crushed this
minty green: a fresh world now leveled by greed,
like flaming forests brought to their knees.
Dreams gone bad like rotting leaves, we, too
are ruined–like crumpling, backward blooming
flowers spiraling inward until our drive runs dry.
Sinking downward like sea floors at high tide,
we are reckless storms set free to destroy, but
creation’s beauty smiles on: proud palms stand tall,
leaves floating in the breeze. Rain drops light
and free like birds flying through rainbowed skies,
high above carved mountains and cerulean seas.
Yet our thorny hands still tear at colored dreams,
so we stitch our world with charcoal seams.
Self-Portrait: Sitting Twistless
I sat straight. Straighter than the rundown lanes of stadium tracks,
its million maroon mondo crystals steamrolled flat. I ran straight
for the finish-line and even more: my words and deeds innocent,
demure, sticking to the straight path to which I swore, wondering
why me, why me, dear God, why the twisted fate I had to endure.
I sat straight. Straighter than the lines on my face; nerves I tried
to erase, just to seem unfazed. Straighter than the line below Dr.
de Windt’s name scrawled messy on the page, recommended by
the same stoic doctor who treated my dad when he was my age.
I found Dr. de Windt’s TEDx Talk today. Straighter than the box
he fastened around my waist: the flesh-colored brace unyielding.
Straighter than the metal rod in Daddy’s back, his perfect posture
always an example to replicate. Straighter than his twistless fate
which I know I cannot take so I twist and turn and fight my way
through sleepless nights in my personal hell-cage. I sat straight.
Straighter than the lines I read before I sleep: stories, dreams to
escape this unseen pathology. Straighter than the tears that fall
single-file down my cheeks everytime I read that only 2 percent
have this disease. Scoliosis. What a dumb condition anyway, I
scribbled fuming, knowing it was here to stay. So I sat straight.
Free
Drum
so that your soul can hear
sounds of the past like bullets
to your ears, puncturing now,
landing loud and clear.
Strike
upon the humming head,
rap the rawhide skin spread thin.
Let textured tones and haunted
booms echo loud and thick
as they travel through.
Crack
the shine of polished curves,
set free the stories that it holds
in its carved hollow below.
Numb the ombre chestnut glow
smeared long and light
like painted strokes.
Slap
the dust and crime away
until the dirty scent of
sweat and pain is burned,
scattered in the wind.
Bend
closer to the beat, whirling wrists,
chipping feet, sharp taps tapping
on repeat.
Ache
towards the rhythm you feel,
back hunched over this
creative feat unending like
ancestors in fields, sowing the earth
without a fee.
Pierce
the air with staccato fury,
so every still, silent story
is shaken free–they rise,
pounded from the dirt,
busted graves like
brown palms pawing the earth.
Suddenly there exists a
Pulse
rippling from within
every note offering its
own praising pitch.
Resounding waves
like dancing ghosts
groove and shimmer through
injured souls. Throbbing hearts,
now aglow, snapping, popping
in euphoric tandem;
surging urgently through
suffering and memory,
thundering melody unending,
this drumming jubilee
finally accompanies
bittersweet songs of freedom.
Bamboo Jam
Based on Bamboo Jam - Acrylic 17x13” by Glenn Roopchand
Jam, pan man, jam
rhythm’s hues aglow:
golden figures,
bronzed bamboo.
Lines that beat
a rhythm on canvas,
curves that cup
culture to its chest.
Colors grind and groove
burnt reds reach
through flushed oranges.
Sanded browns lay flat,
rubbed tired like
a genie in a lamp.
Peeping blue pockets
seek silver days
and humming spheres.
Come alive, tamboo bamboo
skinny mallets peck
trunk-thick bars,
like birds seeking nectar.
Bright sap smeared
all over players’ hands,
grips sticky and stickier.
Narrow lines beckon
gentle taps -
raka taka.
Howling booms echo
through bolded hollows -
tok tok.
2016
The Knife
A gentle sword
(If there ever was one)
Held with the surest of hands.
Ever the gentleman
Accompanying the fork
Onto the hopeless chap it lands.
Precise movements ensue
It pierces through and through
Of what was once a newborn lamb.
Oh, the horror! you may think
But don’t you dare be fooled
The power lies not in the knife, but in man.
The Weaver
Most days I sit in silence.
Words? I exhausted my share
years ago. When I was young,
blissfully unaware,
took for granted the sheer
power I held in my palms.
Blissfully unaware.
Words, I wove them like
a spider would its web. Spinning
lies without fear,
a world without care,
gone with the first hint of wind.
A world without care. Yet
should time slip forth
from a lamp tirelessly rubbed,
for all its worth,
warn him I would,
of the fragile, silk world I’d created.
Lost and Found
Excitement courses through my veins
Like liquid energy that I cannot contain
Anticipation I cannot satiate
A reminder of what awaits.
Soon I’ll fly through the air and cross oceans
like a bird returning home after migration;
And after what seems like forever
The countdown is finally over.
On my way to sunny smiles and sunnier skies
The mountains peek through the clouds up high;
Like pouring a glass, warmth fills my heart,
A happy reunion after months apart
But just as soon as it comes
this glowing euphoric moment is gone
A feeling I thought would surely last,
Like a leaf in the wind, has already passed
A seed of doubt emerging from inside
Bringing a disappointment I cannot hide
I no longer fit into this intricate puzzle;
Familiarity descends into a blurry muddle.
But soon I’ll realize
with newly opened eyes:
The dull pain and the loss
Of two places crossed;
Leaving me somewhere in the middle
Of this unexpected reversal:
That you lose pieces of one home,
When you find another one
Because one is lost as another is made
And this feeling of loss may never really fade.
The Poem I Wrote Backwards
It’s now all on the page
Starting from the top
I’m filling the lines
One by one
As if by magic
My fingers are speeding
Running across the page
The words have come
The laptop is open
But the deadline approaches
I lay my head down
Seeking inspiration
What memories come to mind?
Nothing that I can write backwards
I can think of nothing, yet
Here it is
The poem I wrote backwards
The Poet at Fourteen
Is not even a poet
But she writes
Because somehow it helps
The bumps and spikes of
Adolescence
Uncertainty abounds:
What’s life about
Who has answers
These questions and doubts
Wondering
What to say
How to act
Do I do this
Or do I do that
Questions
So many of them
Just one of her
Although she writes
There’s but one answer:
Persevere.
You’ll get there.
Up
xEight years old
Near the swings
Standing and waiting
She’s my age
I can tell
But she keeps on swinging
Does she see me?
I don’t know
Or is she just pretending?
I look around -
no other swings -
So I keep on hoping
Dear God, I think
I just want a turn
I hope you’re listening
In that moment -
Not a beat later -
I see her jumping
Off the swing
She goes her way
Now I’m ascending.
2009
Day by day,
the memories fade
of the place I oh so loved.
The winding river,
which caused so much terror,
is still a blessing from up above.
I love the Mississippi River Bridge
that stands so tall;
Through wind and rain and through it all.
I love the buildings
that reach for the sky,
like fast growing trees that go so high.
There are so many appealing places
to go and see
that interest you in their history.
The mood in the city
is as cheerful as can be –
Trust me, you never want to leave.
The olden buildings that line the streets
make the city so charming –
You are enraptured by its glee.
Everything about New Orleans
just captures you.
This city is magnificent and historic, it’s true.
The winters there aren’t so cold,
while the sun in the summer
gives you much sunburn.
The people there are really friendly,
with personalities to match
their charming city.
But from a distance, if you look and see,
its pollution is visible;
As sad as it may be.
A layer of thick smog covers New Orleans –
Like a pale, gray blanket
draped over “The Big Easy.”
Way below sea-level,
this great city stands,
with the threat of major flooding, washing over the land.
The concrete walls called levees
are the only protection in place
if the waters of Lake Pontchartrain come rushing in at a deadly pace.
But no amount of flooding
could make me change my mind
About wonderful New Orleans.
No matter how bad the conditions
in this bowl-shaped city,
it will always remain special to me.