Voices in Space

Where the wood behind my eyes is jumbled strikes a recurrent ax:

thud crack swingback thud

A bundle becomes a pile. The woodsman dawbs at his brow with a sleeve checkered colours of autumn slaughter.

A quivering thicket betrays a nuthatch as sap pools in the crevice of a scarred stump slab.

All forest beings quieten as blade smirks firmament, winking sun.

My shadow knows all my secrets

he follows me everywhere and hides in the dark.

As is the nature of shadows.

He hides and he watches

but most of all

he judges.

She speaks like Daisy Buchanan 

her every word is spoken 

with too much breath

gestures purposefully graceful

eyes lidded

she knows that they look at her

I hate her

because she knows

I hate her

because they do not look at me

The train is due at twelve

     Past nine          

We wait

     As if for the end

          Of the world

We wait

     Drink milk

               You lick your lips  

     Your tongue

Makes me think of dandelions

               For no good reason at all

When we were young

     We used to pluck them in hoards

          Just to snuff them out and watch as

               What was     would cartwheel

                    Across the yard

                         And sky

I think of white dresses

                    And

               Miss     my sister 

A man nearby laughs

     Much too loud

The pocket of silence that

          Follows

     Fidgets the crowd

And you smirk

     I rarely see you

          Smile

I cross my arms    

     Attempt to cross my eyes

               You stifle a pull

          At the corners of your mouth

My watch announces:

     The train is late

Nothing to do     but wait

          It happens     I’m tired

               of being a woman.          As it happens,

     I happen   upon boutiques;          and at parties

   I keep    to the corners,

like a crepe paper lamp:     translucent

          and gasping in search of air.

                  On crowded subway platforms,   I press

            myself away   from certain penetrating stares;

     while on concrete curbsides,          I shudder

at the call and clack of my heels.

     I’d prefer to walk in

          bare feet, on

            wet grass, or

               through the muddy squish of

         some riverbed      somewhere.

I’d love to get   just one day

          free    

     of technology,

               and irony.

One day free of banalities.

     I happen to have tired   of my lashes;

and my freckles;

     of my braids;

          and the soap infused scent    

               of my skin.     As it happens,

                  I’m tired               top to bottom

                                             of being a woman.

     At moments,   I wish

I could sprint          through this city

      bare;  

   my hair    

in flames;

          swinging

     between fire escapes

               and pouncing

                    without warning

            upon pedestrians below.

Daggers don’t really draw me,

   but I’m sure

     it would be sublime      and beyond

          to dance across gravestones,

                    bleary drunk

               off whiskey

          and a thunderous sky,

     until my feet begin to bleed

and reality melts away.          And

            if I were haunted      every day

     by the ghosts          of those dead

whose sleep   my paces

            had disturbed,   

         I wouldn’t mind,          I’m sure.

I’d dance upon them still. 

          And isn’t it better

to be a root   in the dark     than

      a raisin in the sun;

            a dream deferred?

     Isn’t it better      to lie in wait,

                  like a lion   in the weeds,

       eyeing its prey          and readying itself

            day by day      for the ideal moment

               to spring upon      and seize?

     My roots are twisted

with the weight      of generations.   But

               I can’t decide which evil is worse –

          to grow lopsided

     off course;       or to become

just another log in the woodpile.

   I don’t want to go the way

      of those who went before me;  

          nor steal the sun   from those to come. 

And for the most part,   the days pass by,

   each one      much like the last,

          just like the next.     But then,

     now and again,      

I’m visited by the most sordid of Mondays

         or Wednesdays

     and left spanked     and stomped

     in a crumpled pile

                         like a week old

               half read     subpar

                         periodical.

And then, I drag myself 

     elbows and knees     mottled purple   and blue   and black

          back   to the Land of the Living.     

   Past   blighted erstwhile auto shops

      and   into Korean groceries where

         seething cats reign and   

                  eye me with disdain. 

   Along   sidewalks

crowded   with orphaned books

     and side streets     coated thick

               with copper colored leaves that

          seem to have fallen

                       all at once          as if

               in accord with a suicide pact.

And I wait      at bus stops that stick in my chest

       like unvoiced protests     swallowed instead;

          and in post office queues that never ever end,

   I grow older            with each stamp licked  

            each moment passed.         And I live

         in unspeakable fear          of the day

     when I’ll lose my hair and my teeth.  

I won’t even tell of the hours     I’ve wasted

      in search of wrinkles     at the mercy of my mirror.   Which is why

   I’ve taken to collecting stones     and buttons

         and magazine clippings

                     and rippings.

So I wrap myself   in a web of wires

         and assorted melodies

     and          I pass like a hot knife

   through honey buttered mornings   that

      dissolve      all too soon

   into under seasoned    afternoons.

And once in a while,     some lost souls

     might happen     to catch my gaze.

        But other times   I am lost myself

   in thought            and so, I leave them adrift

            like expired sighs     that hover and then rise

                   with certain dreams in tow.

Oh great infallible sounding strings,
sing to me your sonorous notes,
Speak the language of harmony,
and so it sung...

I enumerate each interval,
sharp and flat.

Entering the state of genial torpor,
Steadily drifting into entrancement,
Captivated by the melodic zen,
I drift,

Drifting into a high;
I drift,

and then stroked a low pitch G...
a grave yet languid end,

Extracted from paradise I wake,
with a cough to a piquant smell of rosin,
Then a courteous, admiring smile;
to the exhilarating beauty in my hands.

Shamsa Al- Shaksy (The Essence of Poetry)10/2/13

All rights reserved © 

This is a little something for an old friend and a new favourite:

A curse for you, my one-time love.
Who once it seemed, to me alone
had walked the heavens far above
their beauty couldn't match your own.

And yet all things, so pure and clean
are false beneath the liars grin.
The evil stare, a devil-fiend
as poison, in my veins, it swims.

The air grows thick, my brain it grows-
heavy with thought and incense fumes
I lean in quick, and curse the rose,
that led me to an early tomb.

Step inside and see
how He does not
talk to his family
He does not talk to his friends

Weirdo

He has his rules
and his extra long guitars

It’s cold inside his
Weird Little World

The outside chatters
like a vicious Peyton Place
they pass around their dirty laundry

And they point their crooked fingers
He’s had enough of playing their silly games

His sister told him to
take his reasons for blacking out
down into
his miserable grave

I’m glad he shared her letter
It makes it easier to see
the kind of treatment
given to his family

He has his rules
and his extra long guitars

But it’s cold inside
his Weird Little World

She’s drawn to
Dead Trees

The way their branches
reach skyward
like skeleton hands
touching space

She likes the way
they never move
with their
stumps
left to sit
hollow and full
of bugs

She’s drawn to
Dead Trees
The way they
whisper secrets
about their branches’ fractals

the way they reach
skyward
the way they never
move

like fingers
reaching out
to empty skies

Her hands are like
skeleton hands
is it any wonder

She’s drawn to
Dead Trees?

I am a bowl of blue blown glass,

Chipped slightly at the rim,

Stained by terpsichorean flames

From the candle cradled within

I am railroads, etched

Into palms devoid of pigment

   Fortune, future, past, and present

      I am folded, clasped in prayer

I am a run in black silk stockings,

Impotent, stripped of allure,

Torn in undressing, and crumpled

On a stranger's bedroom floor

I am musty heat, hissing

   A churlish radiator

      I am fretting in the corner,

      Taking issue with religion

I am a snatch of melody,

The remainder elusive, beyond recall

   An unanswerable question,

   Artlessly scrawled on a public bathroom stall

Fingers clutching

At sweat dampened sheets

   I am barbed wire, rusted

   From twelve years of rain

      Tendons stretched taut,

      I am tugging on the leash

      Of the life I have yet to claim

I am a smudge on bifocal lenses

   Waterspots on the off color convex of a spoon

      I am unable, some days, to see the forest for the trees  

         I am disinclined to blame it on the moon 

Vinegar Girl

She tastes like Easter Eggs
paranoia is her passion
speech can’t do justice
to her legs

Vinegar Girl belongs to no one
she’s up late around the pathetic
like you

Take a peep at her cheap past
confessions of aggression
her clogged dialogue
and the meddlesome figments

Vinegar Girl now belongs to everyone
her make-up is on the inside
vision can’t do justice
to her thin ice

take a peep at her clogged machinery
confessions to digressions 
From the truth

She belongs to you inside

With her it’s always Easter

Leave it to the amateurs
pleased to meet them

Blame the professionals
and their lies
they can’t stand everything
well equipped to fail the game

leave it to her beaver
and its outstanding
hairdresser

Witness the terrible death of novelty
the end of sympathy
the end of a tragic story
forever removed from you

I’m sorry my feet
did this to your doormat
I’m sorry once again
for all the trouble

Lately I am prone to noticing things:

The way you nervously hand me

test tubes and beakers

lined up by height like first graders

in front of a school photographer,

the way your breathing slows after

dissecting a frog, the smell of burnt

sugar from the experiment next door

hovering beside us.

We laugh sometimes about the kids

with famous parents who throw

candlelit Hamptons garden parties with

bushes in the shape of their dogs;

kids who fly first class to Fiji to

log their community service hours.

But sometimes I wonder if we would both

rather be just that,

sitting next to each other while being

served chicory and grape salad followed

by prawns and ice cream sundaes,

each wondering which one of us

feels further away.  

The lonely own the earth:

the 9-to-5s, the politicians,

the ones who say

“let us go to war,”

the women that smile in

big houses, sleep in sexless

beds, teach the children

to love the loveless, aseptic

madmen who own the earth,

to hope, even, that’s what

they will become. 

They will.

Red eyes, and huge appetite

Darkened lips, and hazy nights

Tell me if you taste the stuff,

Don't you dare lie

If you don't remember my name

So I can tell you goodbye

It's not the smoke that waters my eyes

Or the flame

It's the way it's breaking down your life

And my heart

But, no, it's just a game

I could step outside

If I wanted fresh air

But what I've been through

It'd still be there

With the pain, the care I gave to the ones I knew,  

Who are smoking just the same stuff as you.

And with the flame that lights the end of your world

Lights the raging fire in my heart

That makes me want to take the pipe

Take the joint

Blow it up, annihilate it, break it all apart.

You don't turn to me,

Or care what it does,

You aren't awake

Just a walking zombie

Looking for another dose

And you won't understand how it feels,

Like deja vu, meeting someone again,

Like twice isn't enough,

Caring for someone

Who lives off the stuff

So tell me if you taste the stuff,

Don't you dare lie

If you don't even recall who I am,

Or what my name is,

So I can tell you goodbye.

She pulled me away

And down we sat, to keep me

From cussing them back;

And I think,

I used to have a sister who'd look out for me like that.

She tickled me silly

And I laughed so loud;

She tried to give me a kiss

And I wriggled away and thought,

I used to have a sister who'd cheer me up like this.

She listened patiently,

To my very own rap

And I stopped and thought, 

I used to have a sister who supported me like that.

I punched her on the shoulder,

She scribbled on my work

Then we began to laugh,

And, faintly,

I remembered I used to have a sister who'd play with me like that.

She held my books while i cried,

And all I remembered was,

I had a sister who left without goodbye.

And I'm watching her

Watching out for me,

Wondering where I'd be without her,

'Cause,

Sometimes, 

I think she's more of a sister than the sister I had ever was.

I can faintly remember

How I'd burst in your room

Young, whining, pleading

For my best sister to

Tuck

Me 

In.

Groaning, you'd trudge in;

I'd toussle my sheets as much as I could

So you'd have to

Give

Me 

More

Attention.

To mess with me,

You'd throw the blanket entirely over me,

Squalling, I'd throw it off,

And you'd swoop

To

Give

Me

A

Kiss

Goodnight. 

Where are you now,

I don't think I'll ever know.

Or

Even

Care.

Because it all aches,

Like my heart

Is being squeezed, pressed;

Dry

Like

A

Sponge.

Do your barefeet touch the street,

Do you like the new ink on your skin?

Through the dope smoke that clouds your encephalon

Do you remember me,

Deep

Down

Within?

It's like a flashing montage,

The day you left,

You were gone so fast,

Then, it's the day I spent

Sobbing

In

Spanish

Class.

Glass world

Shattered in a breath,

Obliterated by a step,

The close of a door

When you acted like you loved me,

No

More,

No

More.

Clutching my own hand

Born, alone, I learn to stand

Patting my own back

I celebrate myself

Packing my own sack

And I long forget my health

Because he doesn't exist

And trust isn't real

Add it to my list

And get rid of what I feel

Blank like paper

Falling like rain

I'll run first

And cry later

Can't look at myself

Or those broken eyes

Make myself stop dreaming

Before I get hurt by lies

Because soul mates are illusional

And we're just delusional

On my faith forsaken soul

Life has taken its toll

But enough is never enough

So let me run

Break me from these cuffs

I watched the bamboo dying

                Sadly, silently, sighing  

It belonged to a girl; fiery phoenix bird  

                Greenless, lifeless, leafless

It cannot utter a word

I watched her parents give it to her

                Sapling, tender and gentle

It was nourished everyday

                Promising, vulnerable, sentimental

It stood tall under the artificial sun

                Its world a sugar-sweet grapefruit-

Flying trees, talking knolls seemingly begun

                But a phoenix is a phoenix

Resting precariously in the marbles 

                It depended on her everyday

For a drink of life, a glimpse of light

                But hope began to fade.

It called out to me; me a simple wren

                Its only company gray bunnies    

A life of sweet sugar

                Turned bitter honey

We watched the scintillating phoenix

                A storm cloud always in haste

Under our roof it rained everyday

                But the plant never got a taste

The lightning struck

                And our world shook

Then suddenly the sky changed hue

                Shambles, emotions, detriment, came slowly into view

Her parents took up the bamboo

                Thunder echoing perpetually in their chests

Green to yellow, forever anew

                There was almost nothing left.

a brown leaf: draped over the lip of the infinity pool; wavering 

in the gentle persistence of its overflow; wetly plastered 

against its granite brink; undulating unremittingly --

as if on the verge of a momentous decision. 

She demands nothing of you in a place that demands

Everything of you, a place of maddening humility

Where tall evergreens somehow look naked in waning

Light.  Everyone is disappearing and it doesn’t

Matter anymore.  It’s either too early

Or a decade too late.  Sometimes the worst for you

Is the best.  I climb a slope carpeted in thigh-high

Talking grass, taste mysterious forbidden

Scents on a rusty wind that drags useless

Words in violent crescendos from deep inside me. 

This is not like those days when I saw

Evergreen boughs as our sky.  Now, angry

Clouds menace my thoughtscapes, draw

Unwilling memory from a place long-locked. 

I once lived inside files, folders

Piled in the corner by the lopsided bookcase, lost

Pieces of me crumpled like old newspaper

That didn’t take long to package up and throw out. 

Perhaps the Aurora is out there, at the end of a long

Walk, radiant emissions of light streaming

Across a northern sky, and in that time

Between dark and light, when everything is silent

And filled with shadow, I could call her darlin’. 

I so want this to be a time of celebration,

A time of quiet joy for the senses,

But nighttime skies often grow cloudy.

I’ll show you tricks with a coin I can do

or make paper wings

for pipe-cleaner butterflies

we’ll tie each to a string and run so they fly, catching light

I’ll show you tricks with a blade of grass

stretched taut between thumbs, a bassoon reed

we’ll engage drakes by the millpond in the midst of some golden Sunday

I’ll show you tricks with string I do by firelight

webs between spider digits

trajectories between the fingertip points of stars

and my hands the ageless constellations

I’ll tell you the tale of an elderly man

who sat beside a baby on the streetcar and smiled sadly to himself;

the baby looked up, sensing him

and for a moment as perfect as eternity

both faces held the same wonderment

the sky is a glass that holds the sea

in blownglass reality
or reality smelted of fragments
from other broken skies
infant breaths of imperfection
frozen untook are static
within vessel walls

this is how it remains
to carry traces in my fibres
of never having held or seen her

death and birth
release withdrawal from life and womb
she contains me
in her unborn moment

there is an ocean of her inside me always

A man of fifty is to be admired

while a woman of fifty is usually fired.

He's considered suave and debinair

while she's in a panic about her gray hair.

And how is it fair

that his love handles are cute

but her bulges and sagging

negate her pursuit.

The fifty year old man is experienced and wise

while the half-century woman

is nothing short of despised.

So, if you are a man

who is fifty years old,

relish the year

because, after I'm told-

It's downhill from there -

you'll ache everywhere

and you'll yearn for the days

when you had a full head of hair.

 If I could see through your eyes, even for a moment, what would I see?

If I could be inside your mind, if I could hear your thoughts, how would my world be changed?

If your ears could be mine, and I could hear my “accent” through yours, how would I sound?

If I could taste food the way you do, know your preferences, what you crave, what you abhor, would I understand you better?

What if I really understood your sense of humor?  Knew what you find truly beautiful, and what you fear in the back of your secret mind?

Is what I call red the same color you see when you name it red?  Can you identify all the greens in a forest by name?

I have had this wish, this burning need to see, to experience, to know, for such a long time, but the best I can do is “put myself in your place”, and only in my mind. 

I can only guess.

Still, I know of no better way to understand you, or that person from another land I met today, or even my brother.  Imagination must be the stand-in for true knowledge, because even if I sit with you and ask, you will respond to your version of my questions, with your version of the answers, and, not being able to share my eyes, my ears, my mind, you will answer as best you can, but your answer will be in a tongue I will never truly understand.

[Reprinted from Uphill Writing: November 29, 2010]

The keys are everywhere

Strewn about like leaves after a storm

Lying, waiting to be found

But hoping to not, as a lover forlorn

Half buried beneath the surface

Digging themselves still deeper down

Away from the hand trying to grab them back

Slipping as frustrations abound

While in a back pocket oft forgotten

Recalling in a moment its power

To open a box once dormant

Brings always a tempestuous shower

Though this cloud hovers over just one

It can be escaped with some guile

As anguish lines the exit route

Patience is required for the last mile

Finally a brutal sun beats down

Eroding the shield that insulates the pain

Jagged metal edges melting with time

Wishing for calm on this abyssal plain