posts tagged "creative writing"

Worlds

Although I know
“future” doesn’t exist, “past” doesn’t
exist, and if
I learned anything
from American literature it was never
to let a dream collect enough starlight
it blinds you.
But when you told me
what you had done with her,
I had already created a world
from stardust and blown eyelashes
fallen from our lids. I had
created cities of steel and reinforced concrete,
windowed skyscrapers, mirroring,
shining, streetlamps,
streetlamps,
and so much light.

Still I remember, the drive home
sitting shotgun on the way back
from the Cinemark in Moosic,
it was snowing
but the windows were down. Shivering,
I watched the cool blue-green glow
from the dashboards
of the cars around us, bubbled in
Honda Civics and Ford Escapes,
and thinking we all
create our own Earths, worlds,
homes.

When we pull into my driveway,
you turn the key,
shut off the ignition, the headlights
disappear, and the dashboard dims
and there is nothing left
but starlight, blinking,
white,
black.

My house is empty and I go
from room to room, switching on light
after light.

Geminids

Two porch-side stargazers, wrapped in a red blanket,
mid-December, facing opposite directions.
I lean, my back, against yours. Your spine
is toothed and sharp, but when you turn,
I can feel you.
It is cold, and we take swigs of wine
from plastic cups. There is an ocean
in my stomach.
Twenty-minutes go by, and I have seen more stars
than you. The warm yellow window-glow
from the house looks inviting. Then,
behind me, there is something like a lightning
flash. The liquid in my cup lights red,
for a moment, we are suspended,
held together in falling-starlight.
I turn in the direction you are looking,
but there is nothing now.

Dialogues for Daffodils

I write dialogues for the daffodils you gave me in November.
You didn’t speak—you knew my mother was asleep.
You held them out, an offering.
I say nothing.
There is nothing to be said to flowers, ribbons, foam, and Floralife.
I watch your frame fade into darkness,
hunched and huddled against the cold.
I see nothing for a while. Maybe we both adjusted
our eyes to the stars. Then, the cabin of your Saturn lights up
and you step in, darken,
the headlights come on—
I am standing in a box of light cast from the open door,
you are a blue-green world lit by a dashboard
at the end of my driveway.
When your taillights are no longer visible
I pick the petals, one-by-one,
not questioning your love,
but my own.
I have written dialogues for the daffodils you gave me in November,
I imagine their faces turned, mouths widened in sunlight—
the dialogues are blank.
They say nothing. They are only flowers.

Out of Focus

Bokeh, from the Japanese word boke-aji:
the aesthetic quality of blur;
polygonal spheres of out-of-focus points of light.

I was smiling on the I-80 westbound
scenic overlook outside Allamuchy, NJ
as the golden almost orange purple sun-mixed starlight
had me looking more beautiful
than I was.

Selective focus: distance from the subject,
aperture manipulation—
and then I am clearer than sunshimmer
through blackberry bushes.

My body, vibrant, rained on by soft geometric bulbs—
head tilted back slightly, jawbone jutted forward.
Spectacular reflections.

Your camera lens had me looking 
freer than I was.

The interstate: dark blue,
dotted lined
red to redder gradients of light.

But there was a certain slowness in the air between the taillights
and headlights and the break to blacktop from highway everyone
mistakes for exit 19 and veers back into
mobility
upon realization.

In a flash, I become a thumbnail on a screen,
the snow had it looking colder than it was—
or maybe it was the holes in my sweater that let through

fiery threads, my left arm arched over,
hand balled in a fist, and a sunshined-chalk outline around
my still-living body.

Pyrotechnics

My grandmother announced she hated winter
as Stephanie, from The Weather Channel,
waved in bright blue splotches on the radar
and advised morning commuters

to break out the ice scrapers.
“Your grandfather was overnight snow flurry.
Unnoticed, he accumulated into
sight. Silently, he thawed into ground.”

If so, she was an explosion.
She was streaks of blue and red.
Her spine: curved, bent into a bowling ball on a bumpered lane
into sky.
She burned, ceaselessly in a beam of light
screaming and sparkling,
spilling ash and torch on anyone behind.

“I am dying, and they are eating,
potato salad and coleslaw.”

What could she do
but be bright and make noise?

Nobody ever called her eyes stars; they are
manmade. Her black satin slippers, her cigarettes and the accompanied
cough, her change-purse and checks, the daydreams of cruise ships
are all manmade.

She is an explosion, transient, a second in vision,
a shatter in eardrums,
an afterglow in blinking eyes.
Fast, bright, bang, and nothing.

And when she discovered fire at her fingertips
she must have used it to cauterize
cartilage, joints, arteries, synapses,
memories, longing,
her larynx.

She looked out the window and said, “Snow
sometimes looks like
ash.”

Butterflies

I could blame it on the butterflies—
the flightiness of things with wings.
(The fluttering
heart can only beat so fast; irregular
for so long before becoming a health hazard).

So they took off, one by one,
until none were left.

My stomach—hollow and empty;
I hope you cannot hear the echo
as you kiss my bellybutton.

I wouldn’t mention the mothballs
I swallowed to muffle my voice.
Perhaps I’m filled, actually,
with skeletons and broken wings.

Testing

Make dark marks.
Erase completely to change.

You ask me questions
you already know the answers to
(or think you do).

I fill in diamond designs—
crisscrossing patterns
up and down the Scantron.

I don’t think you notice.

I wonder when you became my professor,
marking red X’s on my answers.

I never wear mascara.
I braid intricate designs
pinned with flower buds
across the top of my head—

because it’s the only part of me you see.

You must hate the stars,
for having to look up at them.

You understand multiple choices or
definitive answers.

You’d have me write C programming
over poetry:
simple input/output.

I don’t know how you fit me into {braces}.

I’d write you essays instead,
but you’d need more than a magnifying glass
to read them from the height you’re at.

Already Broken

You locked away your heart
after it was already broken.

You keep pieces in a box,
like stowing confettied cash
or snippets of bills
in a bank.

You asked why
I’m not afraid of hurting.

I’ve been sliced to ribbons
and tied bows
with my remains.

I’ve frozen over
and built sculptures
out of my frost and ice.

I’ve shattered
and made suncatchers
from my shards.

Visible Spectrum

He told me to flip my lenses
on my heart
until everything was 20/20

so he could read every letter,
secret, flaw, complexity
to see if I was pleasing enough
to his eye.

But I am not clear.
I have fractures in my glass.
You can’t see through cracks
or erase the vision loss they create.

I have stained color between my breaks—
I have made myself
beautiful
amongst my wreckage.

He’d rub Windex on my skin
until I was translucent—
invisible.

I am not simple,
or easily opened and examined
and seen.

I am bright white stars in darkness;
the longer looked at, the more adjusted,
the more seen—

but I am an expanding universe

filled with outer space,
dark matter, energy

that I won’t light up
because it is mine.

Seeing is believing—
but you’re missing me
only believing what you can see:

I am so far out of your visible spectrum.

Alchemist

I wake,
sit up
and feel the dust fall.

I check the mirror
six times an hour
forgetting what I look like.

No one has ever tried to sculpt me
into something far less beautiful
without my silence.

I am always the effect,
never the cause.

I let myself believe
I was a victim to circumstance
without realizing
I create my own context.

We think who we wake as
is who we are
but consciousness is not meant
for stillness.
I have hours of mobility
to move myself.

I will be an alchemist;
I can change my skin to gold.

I am oxygen, carbon, hydrogen,
nitrogen, calcium, phosphorus,
tin, titanium, nickel,
arsenic, lithium, radium.

I am sequin-palmed;
freckled like sparkles on pearled powdered skin,
shimmer haired,
and glints,
flickers,
spangles
catching sunlight—

I am starlight.

I am no Ghandi
I will fight
my causeless passivity.
I will kick and punch at wishes
made on my fall.

I will not be the reflection I see.
I will paint my own portrait.