Love Untitled

Written around 2000, when I was reading a lot of 17th, 18th century English literature and obviously influenced by Milton and John Donne. (Posting on blog because I’m cleaning up webhard)

What is it that makes love so great
That centuries did sing its grace.
What tempting story has love told
That poets, artists, sold their souls?

Tapestries with veins of blood, love spun
And threaded two wholes into one.
Love was the spark that lit the fire
And curdled dark cauldrons of desire.

Love gleamed in jealous eyes of jade
The creeping shadow in the shade.
Love raised the arm that held the knife
Trembling Othello, who killed his wife.

In the hands of the shepherd who tended his sheep
The whispered prayers of a child before going to sleep
In the eyes of a Ghandi fighting for peace
The naked dance of the nymphs in a vivid Matisse.

Now look at her eyes that reflect all your soul
Feel the warmth of her skin that makes you a whole
Hear the laugh of the child that carries your name
And ask me not what makes love so great.

Love and a tea bag

perhaps love is like a tea bag
the first few dips in hot water will send
a rich color spreading quickly in soft swirls
but after some time, there is no more
juice to be squeezed from the dry crinkled tea leaves
and even the tea
tastes raw and bitter.

2001.6.26

How the winds…

I wrote this in 7th grade- reflecting what a sensitive teenager I was, and my tendency to over-dramatize. I don’t think I ever forgave the girl (allegedly best friend until the end of high school) who broke my heart over and over again. At least I know now that some people are just not worth being friends with.

How the winds lament with us
Winds that try to mend my soul
But my mind is beyong mending
wearing from life’s tearsome toil

Words that hurt me, prick me hard
Moths that fly between my heart
Stings that make me numb with cold
Blind to love for evermore

I will never feel again
I’ve been hurt- too hard, too often
I cannot feel the cold wind hit me
I’m blocked off from the world around me

Trying too hard to forgive and forget
Why so hard, why so sad
But I can never love again
Too hurt to feel the warmth surrounding

The Pluck

A closed black flower sits primly
in the depths of the cool jungle.

Prancing through the lush greenery,
a mischievous monkey stops in wonder.

Faint sound of cicadas whir
as it carefully puts out a long hairy finger
and strokes the smooth petals with its fingertips.

Hidden baboons chuckle as the monkey
peels back one petal like a banana.
Inside, a pale red translucent bulb
quivers like the needle of a meter,
a glowing sliver of hot charcoal.

The monkey tentatively reaches out
to touch the frail pistle.
When the black arms yawn out widely
on-looking animals hoot and slap each other on the back,
as the jungle heats up in a noisy racket.

The monkey gently cups the bulb with both hands
before plucking it from its mossy bed
then scampers off with its treasure.

High in the trees, a plumed bird gives out a shrill cry.

(written sometime in college)