Submissions by Ahavati (Tams)
POEMS AND SHORT STORIES
Poet Introduction
Don't make me take my pearls off.
LOVE POEM
Published
17th Apr 2015 2:45am
17th Apr 2015 2:45am
On Love
Love is not a poem drinking coffee at dusk
calculating distance of space to close between us;
It's a ratio of silence at the gallery opening;
the dark-cornered guest with an understanding
we fail to emulate.
It mingles like an impaled olive, cemented
in glassine. Its grief outshines
beautiful lichen munching satiated on stone
when taken for granted, or aroused.
The reminder hurts, so we close its orange-red eye
with the sharp fingers of our mouth.
We reason its truth until shrunken to a memory
of a memory....
calculating distance of space to close between us;
It's a ratio of silence at the gallery opening;
the dark-cornered guest with an understanding
we fail to emulate.
It mingles like an impaled olive, cemented
in glassine. Its grief outshines
beautiful lichen munching satiated on stone
when taken for granted, or aroused.
The reminder hurts, so we close its orange-red eye
with the sharp fingers of our mouth.
We reason its truth until shrunken to a memory
of a memory....
1810 reads
26 Comments
STORY POEM
Published
16th Apr 2015 5:46pm
16th Apr 2015 5:46pm
Amnesic
The poem drained us, pressurized meaning from
marrow becoming a tsunami of DNA colliding against your
tourist distance, binoculars dangling over your shirt's
hibiscus saturating your lie into the mundane of us
before hijacking the last flight out. You'll show slides
back home. Guests will feign understanding while checking
out the new BBQ instead. Your melancholy undercurrent
of nature shifts the patio bricks beneath their feet;
you pretend to refill a drink while staggering toward
the memory of crest when we were face to face ...
marrow becoming a tsunami of DNA colliding against your
tourist distance, binoculars dangling over your shirt's
hibiscus saturating your lie into the mundane of us
before hijacking the last flight out. You'll show slides
back home. Guests will feign understanding while checking
out the new BBQ instead. Your melancholy undercurrent
of nature shifts the patio bricks beneath their feet;
you pretend to refill a drink while staggering toward
the memory of crest when we were face to face ...
1115 reads
7 Comments
LOVE POEM
Published
15th Apr 2015 3:05am
15th Apr 2015 3:05am
Shakespeare in Love
Thinking I would suffocate from heat, or dehydrate
into a shriveled leaf, I wanted to crawl under a rock
as those little animals in the desert, content
to watch the world turn when I felt you cross over.
When rain came I was wanton to drown—
allow mud to engulf my shoulders, blocking
sound to sleep so I could join you, rolling
through light as milkweed until we were home.
Yet, just as heat is abated by rain, thus is rain
by heat, always in time to push the clock forward
another minute. How easily my hands could...
into a shriveled leaf, I wanted to crawl under a rock
as those little animals in the desert, content
to watch the world turn when I felt you cross over.
When rain came I was wanton to drown—
allow mud to engulf my shoulders, blocking
sound to sleep so I could join you, rolling
through light as milkweed until we were home.
Yet, just as heat is abated by rain, thus is rain
by heat, always in time to push the clock forward
another minute. How easily my hands could...
1277 reads
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
14th Apr 2015 11:41am
14th Apr 2015 11:41am
Absolution
The wind is a trapped bird entangled in distance,
a refugee gull blown inland by a category two storm.
That angers her, because in younger years
it would take a five to separate her from the shore.
She hovers over McDonalds and Rite Aid for processed energy
to sustain her flight home, diving for concrete water life:
fries rolling like eels between cars and hamburger buns
opening like clams from warm-waves of the sun.
Sometimes resentment gives way to memory: hermit crabs,
platoons of foam capturing the beach and...
a refugee gull blown inland by a category two storm.
That angers her, because in younger years
it would take a five to separate her from the shore.
She hovers over McDonalds and Rite Aid for processed energy
to sustain her flight home, diving for concrete water life:
fries rolling like eels between cars and hamburger buns
opening like clams from warm-waves of the sun.
Sometimes resentment gives way to memory: hermit crabs,
platoons of foam capturing the beach and...
1423 reads
8 Comments
STORY POEM
Published
13th Apr 2015 6:26pm
13th Apr 2015 6:26pm
Famous Blue Raincoat
1.
Not everything feels safe and secure, least of all
the arms of the poem. It takes a great deal of trust
sitting in the passenger's seat of the verse. There is no time
to consult the Ouija Board or Tarot Deck; we'll miss the bus
and succumb to the mundane in a cold, New York minute.
The poet isn't licensed to drive anymore than the muse. If we
try we'll both get lost and constantly fight. Driving the poem
would be something like misreading a foreign road sign
that actually meant "STUPID TOURIST". We'll get it
half-right at best;...
Not everything feels safe and secure, least of all
the arms of the poem. It takes a great deal of trust
sitting in the passenger's seat of the verse. There is no time
to consult the Ouija Board or Tarot Deck; we'll miss the bus
and succumb to the mundane in a cold, New York minute.
The poet isn't licensed to drive anymore than the muse. If we
try we'll both get lost and constantly fight. Driving the poem
would be something like misreading a foreign road sign
that actually meant "STUPID TOURIST". We'll get it
half-right at best;...
1642 reads
17 Comments
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
11th Apr 2015 8:07pm
11th Apr 2015 8:07pm
Nothing is that Serious
All the great sadnesses, great temptations,
and great mistakes are almost always
the result of loneliness.”
-- José Saramago, Margaret Jull Costa
In the end we all become graves,
our differences united by the same
neglect of weeds and immense
necropolis whose swathed residents
observe from quiet encasements.
Beyond our mounds will spread
giant limbs of balboa, tapping
like trapped hangers behind closet
doors casting macabre shadows
across plastic flowers and dirt.
Visitors and memories are decimated ...
and great mistakes are almost always
the result of loneliness.”
-- José Saramago, Margaret Jull Costa
In the end we all become graves,
our differences united by the same
neglect of weeds and immense
necropolis whose swathed residents
observe from quiet encasements.
Beyond our mounds will spread
giant limbs of balboa, tapping
like trapped hangers behind closet
doors casting macabre shadows
across plastic flowers and dirt.
Visitors and memories are decimated ...
1539 reads
34 Comments
DU Poetry : Submissions by Ahavati (Tams)
