Just for references...

I sent a submission to "ugly cousin" today. Four poems.

Unrequited Bitterness.

The only movies you have are the ones in your head.
The bodies of mothballs litter the floor. My mother trips
over one of them on her way outside-there is no foolishness, only things
that are wrought, discovering the shadows that pinpoint each
star. In the sky, the pigeons flock, clouds move gently
toward broken meadows.

I have called myself out on a lot of things. Like licorice and
broken game systems. I didn’t mean the things I said,
the words were something I said out of anger. Bitter loneliness
flocks the island. I trip on my own two feet on the way
up the stairs. Love is in the air but I don’t feel it.

On Walden.

I think Henry David Thoreau only went to live in the woods (1845 I believe), because he lacked communication skills and was considered an outcast among his friends and family; he probably suffered from bouts of depression and malnutrition.    Usually people who write that much are considered outcasts and people are not very friendly towards them because they are educated and talk like a book.  It happens to the best of us.  I'm sure he fought a lot with his parents when he was a child-or he was rather obedient and got sick of it.  I sure would have.  Being obedient to parents who only care when they feel like it is not really the way to go.

Sent out another submission.

I sent out four more poems to "Rattle" magazine.  Instead of listing publishing credits, I sent them without it.  Maybe that is more professional.  We'll see.

On Pride and Prejudice.

I'm reading Pride and Prejudice.

I've never read such drivel in my life.

Emotional Rollercoaster.

you leave me tethered, entwined in a spiral.
I shake your hand-
you say that the night is cold.

I wake in my bedroom, now.

I am alone, sleeping next to a cold pillow.
The days and nights are burning
with the putrid smell of rain,
my hand moves in front of my face,
the dog awakens next door.
She said, The cornflowers are growing!

To make conversation.
I agree halfheartedly, but I am not
convinced.

That flesh is flesh, and words are words.

As Much As I Love You.

As much as I love you, I have let you go.
The birds sing in roses and gardens.
The sliver of moon brushes across a midnight
sky.
I see you once every seventy years.
Your tears fall softly down your face.

As much as I love you, I have let you go.
You are quiet in your grace.
When you let the roses in,
you let in the whole wide universe.

Rhythm.

The rhythm fades in and out to the beating of your heart.

The mustard is left on the windowsill; a robin chirps to me

as I pull in the driveway after a day of work. Nature is

constantly in a spiral. It moves in rhythm to the beating
of my heart, and the

doorway opens to let in the sun.

The sun shines like a round face.

The trees droop

precariously
in the blowing wind.

I have been sitting here for years,

leafing through a magazine,

while the night refuses to sing.

Query.

I sent another query out for "Into the Dark."  I sent it to Zumaya Publications.  

My Love and I Went Garlanding.

My love and I went garlanding with grass,
upon a day studded with noontime stars.
The sun hunches over; shadows cannot pass,
nor penetrate the solar plexis of Mars.

The tulips and roses bow to the sun,
the daylight and night are heathen as one;
fading, dreaming, in the depths of the dawn,
the sunlight penetrates as God begins to yawn.

My love and I went garlanding,
picking roses and acorn seeds;
a sun studded with penetrating starlight,
is all that Nature ever needs.

The star-studded day comes to an end.
The sun hunches over; shadows cannot pass,
in Timeless dawn, the colors bend,
as my love and I went garlanding with grass.

(Written age 23, I think?)

Fair Music.

Break the fair music that all creatures make,
and hollow out the world of its core,
humans roam the world and they take and they take,
not knowing what it is they’re looking for.

The fair music plays on with melodious grass,
and the air smells so sweet and fine.
I could not help but find a sweet lady lass,
and call her my heart, my valentine.

This, I give to you, a gift, a gift,
the harp you play, upon the melodious grass,
it plucks at my heart, these string that you lift,
and no other notes will let it pass.

Oh, lady love, that harp you play,
sings me to sleep upon a dewy morn.
Play this harp every bloody day,
and I’ll give you words music cannot form.

Why the small bird's grief is form'd of Dreams.

To his cold beauties on a summer morn,
love will smile its translucent smile,
with a rosy bosom, and eyes forlorn,
and all will be well in a little while.
To myself the Sun will keep my heart.
Oh cold Sun! I sing happy cheer!
When beloved’s song piped: he then came quite near,
then vanished, as soldiers were honored with
their wings of light.
Rose's thickest time of runes have opened
and there beheld a silver door;
then we saw, it 'twas the night,
and many white thorns thrust upon a dark shore.
My love, he laughing said,
"I've a sigh, 'tis reaches farther
than the light of woe!"
"Renew thy strength," I then replied,
"take your delight in the snow!"
But I could not be dark as the night,
for morn blushed rosy as clay,
and the dread hand of darkness faded from sight,
and the Sun, a lonely fen, was mine today.

(An older poem, written when I was 19, 20ish.)

Haiku.

one hacienda
on a hot July morn-
a cicada chirps.

Haiku.

Heaven moves across
the sky. I guess it is not
dawn yet. Let me sleep.

Rejection Slips, Part II.

Now, why do my poems keep getting rejected? I have been sending in poetry since I was a child and I thought my newer ones are especially good. Some well-established magazines say they like "my poems but they are not appropriate for the next issue" which is a fairly loose response, I think. I think many poetry magazines often lack in sales so they stick to people who are familiar, like Billy Collins, Martha Rhodes, and Maya Angelou-however I do not see Maya Angelou's works in very many magazines. Okay, Louis Gluck, then, I saw some of hers in the current issue of "Threepenny Review."

If poetry sales are lacking, then the publishing business really is in deep trouble-most of the people I know rarely read books; I say, "Do you read Tom Clancy?" They say, "Not lately." I say, "Do you read Anne Perry?" They say, "Who is she?" Never mind ancient poets like Rumi or Wu ti or 70s poets like Elizabeth Bishop. People like "Twilight" and "Harry Potter" now, which is okay, but there are more books than that.

Just sayin.'

To the Girl Who Thinks She Loves Me.

Well, I kind of got this idea from a guy friend who is having trouble with 22 y/os who have crushes on him...and, he doesn't like them back. I've had troubles with younger and older men myself, and it is also relevant to me. I rewrote the ending like three times.

----------------------


I look at the pictures in the photo album.
They are not mine to have.
I look at the pictures in the photo album,
and grimace as I turn each page.
I do not like the lines in your face, the
wrinkles that look like molded peaches,
the blonde hair like dirty mushrooms.

From the heart of my poems, I have seen you
here before-discussing memoirs and smoky
mirrors. Your back is turned to me,
and at first I thought I might love you,
but you turned and gave me that sly, coy smile-
the smile of a black cougar with bitter teeth.

Teeth that gnash and teeth that bite,
swift words and war wounds.
My grandfather was in WWII-he made it out,
no thanks to you, I can tell you wouldn’t
care anyhow, your mind is on shadows,
shadows that wave and bend, nothing that is
relevant or real.

I try to discuss politics with you; your grin turns
into a hiss, a whisper of words you do not think
I would understand. I am no dummy.

You try to bat your eyelashes at me, I think to myself they
are fake as your fake ID, which you bought for
three hundred dollars when you could have waited
a few years when you came of age.
I told you there is nothing between us.
Your tears are bitter.

My Mother Was Making Chamomile Tea.

My mother was making chamomile tea the day
the Vietnam War broke out. She was standing at the

stove in the kitchen, stirring a pot of water; her back
turned to the television, which was
in black and white.

Suddenly, she heard the news reporter say the word
"War," and she screamed and dropped the large spoon
she had been holding, and called her mother on the
black and white phone that hung from the wall-

war, she wheezed into the phone, and her mother, who
had seen three wars before this one, murmured, "I know,
I know," over and over again,
her words like molasses.

The soldiers, my mother said, what of the soldiers?
So brave and handsome,
are on the front line.

My grandmother:
Nothing can be done about the soldiers, they are where
they should be, God will take care of them.

I do not know if my mother believed in those words;
only the dimming of gun shots lessened after time,
and they have traded sounds-instead of gun shots,
they are now the ching! Ching of the cash register
in her sewing shop.

That is all we
hear, now, of war; and the thrum of the cars as they speed up
and down the highways, spinning tales with their
exhaust pipes.

Lost.

I find myself walking down the street
where we used to hang out, at the bar on
Seventh Avenue, or the library downtown.
We used to read books. You said books
were like flowers, trapped in a fog. You said
you read them every day; you were hooked
on them like drugs. I’ve never taken drugs.
The clouds seem to hover over us like
giant airplanes that move with the wind,
being pushed by the hands of God. I had never
seen the hands of God, but I assume they
are invisible. The Earth spins around the sun;
or maybe there’s a different way I haven't
discovered yet.

I forgot what you told me late last October, during
the full moon that was bright and beautiful
and reflected your eyes. What are the color of
your eyes again? I’ve forgotten. I’ve forgotten you.
Maybe it makes you sad. I wouldn't know.

Rejection Slips.

Considering the fact that the magazine SPELLED the title of my story wrong, I should be overjoyed they rejected me.

Blog.

I would post more poetry but the ones I am writing now are not finished yet. I have been focusing more on my novels.