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. 

copyright Kira Tsen 2019


​Woe-betide your viperous whispers

your caffeine-enriched expletives

as our parlous rumba rant begins

ah, but you are a grand dancer

sovereign half-pint of illogical moods.

Next up, a counterweight

sugar-sweetened shing-a-ling

an upsurge of well-honed

wooing sans warning

erupting in haloes

of cherubic footwork

as your cheranga changes step.

Now here we go

lacking symmetry

both honeyed and tart

​we swing our mambo combo

in infinite variation

as I am undone

in festoons of tears

sobs of laughter.

And every unwieldy saltation

is a whirling gift

​for our fleeting mom and boy mambo.

More Poetry at Author's Den


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.

Copyright 2018. Christine Tsen. All rights reserved.​

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.

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.


Planets, stars, pulsars, fated in love

trembling within music's celestial bond

magnetized lovers in timeless unison

Echoes of ecstasy in creation's wake

mingling with lamentation for the dissolution of worlds

and of the souls that once danced upon them

A multi-dimensional Aria

intricately woven in waves of tonality

a breath-taking spectrum of quantum harmonics

deftly stitched upon the sky's sing-it-strong cloth

And as comets approach and neutrinos pass

the collective consciousness sings for joy

yet only angels and ancient seers hear such beauty

Our senses must immerse in ecstasy of the spirit

so that we too might hear such love

for this celestial music of the stars is also inward

in the radiant wellspring of the soul.​​