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Saturday, July 21, 2007

The Dying

vines
garlanded about me
wrench my arms

and keep me perpetually ill

guillotined leaves
are raining
in their death
my limbs
i can no longer
raise
to the sky
to cry for help
nor praise

there is no sky.
only the howling wind
to waft in.

Woodcutter,
come be a hero
wield your ax
and cry out

timber

CHAI

Posted by inktrip at 11:13 PM

Tuesday, July 17, 2007

the next time you ask me where I've placed you in my poetry,

imagine this:

a random bookshop
silent and discreet

and a poetry book displaced
among medical studies that says,

Surviving the Loss of a Love.

I imagine I could rip it
Laugh a secret, mischievous laugh

and watch all that paper
torn to sudden forgetfulness.

VERA

Posted by inktrip at 7:11 AM

Thursday, July 12, 2007

Short Visit

Feverish,
but without a shiver
or a gnash, I stop by
your little houses –online

Uninvited,
I let myself in
eyes enlarged, I slinkquietly, like a cat
searching for leftovers-

there are none
and without anguish
or fear,
I let myself out.
Hungry still.

RUSS

Posted by inktrip at 12:04 PM

In Memoriam

alone
on your treasure island
a summer princess
splattering
SOS's
in deceivingly neat strings of verse
that many simply look admiringly--
or enviously--
upon.

all along
a dark quilt in the weaving
that you now
sleep onto continue
an eternal weaving of dreams

regret
cirlicues in strings
spreading as squid ink
dyeing the oceans black
blotting out waves
smooth as gray silk
in dismal 5pm low tide

and we
the rest
are left adrift lost in all this black.

(For Ana. 1978-2007)


CHAI

Posted by inktrip at 12:43 AM

Monday, July 09, 2007

Ana,

Because I cannot call you, or meet you tonight for beer and crazy dancing,

I will try to remember that early morning in Tacloban
and you facing the sea,
some strands of your hair escaping
to lightly fan your closed eyes.

VERA

Posted by inktrip at 9:58 AM