A Few Poems

Here are a few poems that I am working on polishing for my final poetry portfolio.

Love

What does love look like?

Is it big? Is it bright, and shiny?

How does love sound?

Is love loud? Does it shout?

Does the world know?

Are the birds aware of our love?

Do the trees feel it as we walk by?

Can the ground sense this feeling?

Does the sky look down, amazed?

I wonder, but not too deeply.

My energy is focused only on this love.

It is now, and it is ours. I take a breath.

And love.

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**This next one is an homage to Ocean Vuong, a poet that I am in love with, and is a poem that I wrote to process my feelings while my hometown in Northern California was burning down last month. My inspiration was the story of a couple that survived the firestorm in their neighbor's pool.

 The Night Full of Black Teeth

Old enough to know anything

can change, without notice.

Into the firestorm. A wrecking

ball in the wind. Glittering ripples

of cool blue, chlorinated. Paintings,

Chihuly vases, in beach towels,

tickled by flame. Auburn, umber,

coiled, then unfurled, against a

gilded edge. Stem of glass, forged

and pulled, returns to nature’s kiln.

He leaves his shoes, pants, sweater.

A midnight swim? Showers of gold,

scarlet, alighting, dancing, dying,

while he holds her hand, beneath

the waves; a net for lost branches,

knick knacks, living room walls.

Lungs burn, a conflagration below

a heaven of flame. Showers that

glow over the thirsty landscape.

Rise for a breath, then retreat.

His eyes are unsure, reflecting

her own despair. Yet a spark, a

last flicker of hope, in the blackened

mountainside, a graveyard of

flora and fauna and redwood.

Concrete cherub, still shooting

his arrow, a guardian over the

water, a sanctuary. Rising again,

alive, together. A gasp and a

kiss; sullied water, murky sky.

He climbs to the edge, then pulls

her to him. Hiking, naked, out

of perdition, their former home.

*******************

The Breeze

Walk into the woods, a breeze comes up,

mix of pine, grasses, wildflowers,

leaves rot on the forest floor,

your mouth

and nose You don’t just smell, you don’t just taste,

you live the amalgamation, the potion only

a piney glen can produce.

You become.

It has the ability to lift your feet, open your lungs,

charge your system, change you.

It asks for nothing and gives everything.

 It knows you,

who you really are, and meant to be.

It leads you up a rocky slope and opens your eyes

to the vastness of possibility that only its

mountain peaks

can offer. It nourishes the parts of you

that you never knew were hungry, casts a symphony of

spells, transforming you from weary traveler to forger

of paths

and discoverer of places unknown. You claim

a space, a peak, a hilltop, or stream; it gives but says,

Wait, there’s more!

In truth, you own none of it; you are a visitor,

then a subject. The breeze owns your soul, and will possess you,

and you won’t mind.

*************************

Sex & Marriage

The first night, the first time

should have been seen for

the harbinger that it was.

Two virgins, unschooled,

unsure how to proceed.

Consummation a clumsy miracle.

The warning went unnoticed,

foreshadow unseen, too

late when at last recognized.

Not quite a year, not quite

a marriage. A starter, or

test run. An education.

Number two, however,

I knew from the start.

Promise of things to come.

The sign, fate’s blessing,

With the thrust of his hips.