This Winter

I will  indulge the unconventional.

On a  mossy  hill behind a mock castle

we will  read Aristophanes  to harems

of nymphs as they strum their Lyre for you.

While  you transform words into wings

flitting the hearts of lovers I will

contemplate the perfect angle of your face,

breathe the amber resin of pine that

permeates our senses.

There  in the unruffled pools of your eyes

I will die just a little.

 

 

 

 

Stasis

*drug addiction is referenced in this short story.

We begin making things up by six or seven,

minds of hummingbirds we sip from wells of illusion.

We can take you with us

to the eddy of an ever prodding muse

dip our wings in her breathtaking colors.

I Leave as though I am going to work. Instead I walk downtown and meld with the chaotic masses, searching eyes that are infused with survival. As the morning wears on relentless chatter becomes an undercurrent of whispers fading with the crowd, a form of stasis, sweat and coffee stinging the nostrils, clinging to skin. Alien faces etched behind my eyes.

Making my way to the metro I must pass the warehouse district. The young addict is still propped against the graffiti covered wall that turns golden in the sunset. Unkempt, her arms are folded around her knees. Jarred by the boot of her pimp she glances upward from her induced euphoria, her skeletal hand fumbles in the pocket of torn jeans, fishes out a handful of dollars. Looking both ways, he slips it into a smugglers belt and hands her a small bag. I wonder how she will sleep in the night cold. It smells of urine here, even the stray dog lifts his feet. I glance her way again, leaving her to isolate to death.

Passing a vacant garden I pick a flower for you and playfully slip it behind your ear. From the same garden, we share an apple that reminds me of an autumn orchard and a love struck boy whose memory compels me to rub my body against yours in search of that trigger, the wild place in my mind that is precious only if it is gone. I can’t write until you leave and I can empty my mind of the devastation. You think I’m crazy but to me it makes sense.

A sole dove

Deeper than the Mariana Trench
more rare than a conch pearl,
The finest cognac glowing in baroque,
Belle lettrés from the crest of a tree.

 

In my periphery I see you.
My breathing stops to listen
for sounds of our existence.
 

A sole dove swoops into
the crown of a tree
quiescent in a forked bough.
The cardinals fly in,
a brilliant male  and his drab mate,
nature’s biased humor.
Captivated  by his beauty
she watches him fly away.
Without the will to fly alone, the lone dove lingers.

 

metaphors of birds

Communing with birds

I open my empty palms

expecting metaphors to light

like fireflies on my life line.

From the back of my eyes

I can see the river Delta,

sweet green tarpaulin stretched

across the hemisphere and those

deep murky waters that reflect

a silver sky.

Fleeting memories disperse like clouds.

Just before sleep I sink deep

into illusory havens,

escape the boredom of life.

metaphorbirds

Metaphor and Allegory by Ju-Yu Chen

Blue Bird

When I spread my wings

I can feel the pull of freedom.

I spread them wide and trail

my shadow the way birds do.

Your hands are elegant thieves

and your words a web of lies

that shine right through.

What is real or an illusion

in this desperate nest of chaos

where I found you?

When the veil falls apart and

the daylight slivers in  I can see

the slant of sky where you slipped in.

 

Solace for Lovers

In October the pines  ooze resin.

Lofty crows flit among  rusty leaves.

Wisteria once so pleasant choke the burdened trellis,

their summer petals decomposing on a rusty gate.

From the branches of evergreens huddled lyrebirds

sing  cantilenas,  create their finest opus.

Below the smokey clouds my hands reach

to the heavens awaiting downy verses to fall

like feathers to my  ears.

I remain unwritten,  a journal of blank pages,

abandoned by a woman feigning nonchalance.

Today my eyes are a  brooding storm,

shades of a  deep night without a dawning.

In the forest a nightingale sings her  song

somehow her soft refrain makes it easier to bear.

 

 

Turning

Feel the  changing seasons,

the tilt of the  Earth’s axis,

the days growing longer as

the night  desires to linger.

Summer seemed boundless,

the sundial casts long shadows.

I will miss  you with your

brand of ripeness,

August’s   lustrous brightness

inciting the senses with fields

afire beneath a summer sky.

Now its wheat is  stacked and

bound  in lonely batches.

Buried beneath autumn leaves

the earth  imbues the darker hues

starless skies of delft blue and

gray swathes  that cloak the dawn.

The ash of burning  locust wood

shrouds the wilting garden with

the musky scent of autumn ghosts

heralding the chill.