It's Spring and she has planted fantasia
variegated tangs of peppermint
strawberry sage parsley essentials
blooming midst crisp jade, wafts of lilac
lavender chive with belvedere of mauve --
sweet rambling gardens
nourished by richness on primeval beds of ash
elucidated by dangling stars in night air
child's play of dreams buoyant in the sky
blissfully unconcerned that autumn even exists --
and yet a wintering breeze lurks
as she kneels in irreverent dirt
refusing to acknowledge its enervating voice
that small muddy gnome in her own vernal cafe
or an anonymous bespectacled star looking down
suspended between time zones
watching antiquity's produce
and the future's looming autumnal beauty
which may compensate for spring's murder
the flash and boom as love burst.
Copyright 2018. Christine Tsen. All rights reserved.
Taken unaware, in a moment you slip, and you can't
you want to seize but you can not
and it's not a bad thing, this glissando of your life
when you accept it, you gain profound humility
you must, because others do see you on smooth wood
(they are pretending not to)
they look as you smile back and you look utterly foolish
but it's just this concern of others that you must
over-come if you are to gain your humility
which you do gain in the end after a few cycles
as you absorb the brilliant image of people talking of you,
looking at you,
watching you fall
without reaching out their hands
and you have sought in silent wailing for a hand
but there is none
and so you gain compassion
because if you see another begin to slip even an inch
you hear a whisper in your heart and you scoop them up
in your arms
because there is nothing in the world pulling you now
as strongly as compassion
there is no hot and cold, there is only that promised
out-stretched hand of love
riding back up and up on eagle's wings, in the silence,
you understand Rumi
no, you must not sit with indifferent people
because all of life is a most precious gift,
from every vantage
the endless rise and fall, your breath, the tide,
and you must bring your travel chest
step in bare feet onto pearls
know with full moon eyes
how to recognize companions along the way.
My poems are in THRUSH Poetry Journal, Vine Leaves Literary Journal, Requiem Magazine, The Bark, Utmost Christian Online, The Weekenders Magazine, Cyclamens and Swords, The Camel Saloon, Big River Poetry Review, The Artistic Muse, Poetic Pinup Revue, The Legendary Poetry Magazine, The Rusty Nail, Pyrta Journal, The Eunoia Review, Autumn Equinox issue of Mused, Broad!, Blue Lake Review, Defenestration, The Montucky Review, and Emerge Literary Journal.
A quivering in the dead brush, ghosting of a velvet flute
holds me close
scales up and down flickering wings through vanishing time.
Upstairs, a rock-a-bye atmosphere tinged with birdsong
my father in his soft shirt smelling of leaves and smoke
his song of wilderness flowing unfinished.
Mother is downstairs near a ruffling of curtains
rounding her shoulders at the sink, reddening knuckles
in her perishable world.
She worries as she hums, vigilant
over quotidian life and lump-free gravy
as my memory blurs into abstractions, a cigarette's final spark.
Here I lay
doubled up in the pitched tent of now, memories unfurling
captive to a glassy panache of my own Carmina Buranic notes
smashed flutes surrounding dammed up 'O Fortunas'
everything to experience in this precious life
driven into words of carnality
notes of love singing with such intensity
that there's no stopping the glass shattering.
She’s obsessed with him
as we watch
her favorite man in literary history
it’s a very well made production by the way --
It excites her that his character is Aspergerish
has this fast way of talking, just as she does
and isn’t it so funny that no one can keep up
with him, or her, no one. Not one.
But I’m Watson, I can see that as I watch
her face, her amused bemusement, to her
I’m the commoner slow speaking
made-with-all-the-ordinary hinges and bolts
mortal, but she –
she’s able to memorize dates, hairs
on a pant leg or the Fibonacci series, prime number
calculations in her spare time
all the shadows, only taking what she truly wants
from the pantry or whichever cases challenge her
turn up the volume! I’m getting
old and I’m trying to lip read
Watson’s hot, I like Watson’s
sweet nature, but she
In spring’s quiescence she waits
Misplaced and dreaming
Until the whisper loves her
Chopin’s Etude in E
Gathers her as other girls might blossoms.
In the fresh green scent of summer
Her raucous passion mingles with a rustling of trees
As Liszt’s Consolations run through
The dark tang of turbulence and notes disconsolate
Gather her as flowers might other girls.
In autumn’s receding light
Stripped to a kind of essence
The girl wanders timeworn and bloodied
A Brahms Intermezzo in B flat
Gathers her like fallen leaves.
Even in the exile of winter’s Golgotha there are notes
Where your song-making stars are visible
And she’s yours
A wayfarer who’s always grabbing her hat
Tripping along behind
Trying to keep up
The desperate lover, a child wanting to follow you.
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