O Fortuna
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.
Perfect Pitch
is something I don't have. Seriously,
throw a handful of tones into the air
and I'll invite them into my mouth
where it's wet and warm
swallow them into the riffs of my body
sort of the way a dog discerns whiffs
grasses, not knowing one from the other
inviting all in as discordantly as they come
suddenly and suddenly each off-pitch
in the endless now
like how the bathroom mirror sucks in my face
in overtones resounding, always irrevocably
until all I'm left with is this beneficiary
of my father's ever present eyes
mother's mouth minus the loud orange lipstick
and a ladygirl reflection, a pilgrim returning everywhere.
More Poetry at Author's Den
Fortissimo Fourth
I was rolled along in a red barrow that year
bare summer feet and a big bass drum
my father smiling alongside
firing up whopping booms with his winks
my mother buzzing about
with her beehive of bufonted beauties Ba Boom!
Beloved vespals vaunting vast wisdom and virtuous wiles
Ba Bam!
As I rolled along, of great import Boom Boom Boom!
And to my dream of a shining future Bam!
As a full size bass drummer Bum Bum!
Until we reached the popsicles at the end
and oh I did love popsicles, save only orange
with that disgusting juice swarming around my tongue
I'd be deeply hurt in a very loud way if
they gave me orange
and then we'd wander back home
arm in arm, popsicles sticking us together ---
Somehow time grew scarce
and that big bass boom
Copyright 2019. Christine Tsen. All rights reserved.
xo
Sherlocked
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
she’s Sherlocked.
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.