Photograph (c) Reena Walking, available at http://www.missingthemomgene.com/ (click to go to website)

In response to dVerse Poeticsprompt.

I’d nurture those expanses why not?
far across where the horizon smiles, too long
for it to be coincidence. Its cowardly
cold distance, its barrier; laugh at me will you?
Come closer! let’s settle this, man to man,
No?
Craven! I shout, outshout planes overhead
those that feel like pinpricks with their decibels,
like insatiable crows feasting on memories’, desires’ soft tissue.
To scare them away, I need wings. Stop boasting, share, you dumb bird!
Of course you won’t.
I’ll eat more fish, to garner strength.
If I pray to planes, one
will in its pity
enable my ascension. So I’m taught.
Then this meddling ocean
will be no more
than a sweet lake is
to a pelican’s flight on its strong fearless wings.

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Lashes of weather on my cheek, unquestionably!
Ah, the frolicking landscape, indeterminate, unclear, all for me!
I applaud you, Velocity, you give me strength
To own the seconds, each sticking to a different petal,
A different raindrop on my brow, ah, the microcosm!
I shake the winds’ hand, my hand shakes. We form company
Or merely open up old relationships, I ask with every breath
After their long unseen cousins mingling with
The East Coast crowd, adventurous.
Wings aflutter, like sparrows they cut through the sky,
Thoughts unclouded and empty, is this the visceral attraction of freedom?
Is this the empathy of forests in my nostrils; pines, yews?
Will I share wordless stories, will I last so long to catch every murmur?
Oh, how it pulls me!

I close the window
And let the world re-enthrall me
through your smile, when you look up from the book you’re reading.

I no longer had the power of truth in my eyesight

Flicking through canopies of fallen trees

Abiding by the color of the magazine, making amends

With the wind, howling soundlessly just outside

The memory of your warmth that attached to me

Strong as Jim Beam on the rocks

And floating

I no longer had the power of movement in my feet

Sucking on promises of shrinking spacetime

That you will inevitably want of me

Soon, so very soon

I can’t tell myself it can’t be done

I still hold the picture of you imprinted on my temporal lobe

And so I am enthralled

And so I leave you

As paralyzed leafs hush your gentle tap-tapping away

Away.

The floor is incomplete,

The air is incomplete,

The smile of a Cuban woman selling vegetables at the corner of the street is incomplete,

The thought is incomplete,

The riding to work is incomplete,

The coming back home is cruelly incomplete,

The feeling of mild satisfaction is incomplete,

The reassuring presence of common sense is incomplete,

The shopping list is incomplete,

The night is incomplete,

The sleep is incomplete,

The waking is incomplete,

The evening out, drinking is incomplete,

The handing in of assignments is incomplete,

The talking to friends is incomplete,

The lack of somebody watching Glee, Good Wife actually hurts,

The reading is incomplete,

The song is incomplete,

The frustration at general stupidity of people is incomplete,

The frustration at particular stupidity of oneself is incomplete,

The writing of poems in secret is incomplete,

The incipient measuring of ideas is incomplete,

Those tears are incomplete,

Perception is incomplete,

Reflection is incomplete,

The family is incomplete,

Life is incomplete,

Because you’re not here.

Come to me.

By Gatis Pāvils

Most of all, new morning

smell of a thousand blades

of grass, perfumed with water

arising from the river

the mist. The catalyst

of dreams of heat, strength, paddles

awkward familial camaraderie

and scrambled eggs prepared

over bonfire. (though some said tea

tasted as adventurous,

we never tried it that way, for lack of pan

or heed).

Post-enslaved colony blessed

with white nights

light swallowed by itself

procures no novel meaning

bungles old.

Yet, the morning is as discrete a ritual

as any.

Especially in front of a tent.

Hurray, over 1,000 views!!! Thanks for reading, everyone 🙂

I see you still, dripping cold rainwater,

As you walk in weary, thin with shivers

Trailing  trumpets of  laughters

Rebukes and miseries,

Enthralled to summer

A rod and a bucket, a scrawny memory

Of a fish you felt was meagre

Enough to warrant a pardon

From consumptive sniggers as

Its bones cut our fingers.

Your little, immature souls were great,

You later learned the word magnanimous’

Bewildering Latinate simplicity

As was your pity

Self-pity

So intertwined because you were world.

And then we all grew up.

Casually swept past the orange flame, father’s call in tow,

Lung, tooth and nail, a swirl of air sweet to the taste.

A god who gave you this smile, the man who gave you this

Scrap of godliness that sent your soul grinning.

In this world, it all ended well. All sweat and exhaustion

Breeding the silent current of survival, disappointment,

Borne patiently by brown earth and water.

Where, only where, the eye can fall,

So the heart does not rend.

 

This poem has been submitted to this week’s short story slam.