POETRY CORNER

You are an accent
on a fierce word,


I want to mount
your cryptic humor,
have you pull my heart
ribbon out, and wrap
it in my hair.




City loves, never mind
her picture bright and alluring
flashes through my gut, Paris,
beautiful, and perfect.


I could spend 100 hours
with you, unpacking your
secrets, wondering if
you are sincere, if
you could be just
as gracious in an
Indian desert,
or holding me
against your NYC
bed linen.

After forming my guilt
into words on the wall,
I watched you pound clay.

Methodically, you shaped it in your hands,
throwing it with brute force against
the table, molding
at the hurt manifested by
my clumsy hands.

I saw humanity in your movements,
divinity in the way the clay turned into
a perfect dish to be eaten from.

I looked up at you the way
a saint would look at the face
of God.

The world stopped spinning
and I could not cry.

I moved to Chicago to help the poor,
and forgot my poor mother back home.

She called one afternoon as I was
walking past a fence of sunflowers.

“Grandma’s had a stroke,” is all she
said, and the sunflowers all died.

I cried, as anyone should have, upon
hearing such news, my mother sang

“Now, now.” Or maybe she didn’t.
Maybe she just hung up the phone and

made dinner. I climbed onto the city bus,
I remembered I didn’t know anyone

anymore. Not even my grandmother,
sick in a hospital bed. Not even my

brother getting married in August,
or my father planning his retirement.

Not even my students who could barely
speak English or draw. Not even me.

I laid down two hours later, and this
sick old lady called and asked if I was

ever coming home. I said "no,
I don't know where that is."

DISTANCES

Swifts turn in the heights of the air;
higher still turn the invisible stars.
When day withdraws to the ends of the earth
their fires shine on a dark expanse of sand.

We live in a world of motion and distance.
The heart flies from tree to bird,
from bird to distant star,

from star to love; and love grows
in the quiet house, turning and working,
servant of thought, a lamp held in one hand.

that's awfully lot of poetry... :-P
nice work, though.

Thanks Roku ;-)

These really nice Umair thanks :-)

No Thanks Dear :-)

You & me will always be tight
BY
Lisa Marie Marrero



You & me will always be tight
Because we are always together from day to night
You're my best friend but I feel like more
But should I tell you or should I keep it like before
I don't want our friendship to end
So I'll keep it o myself but I will always love you in the end

Woww That's great!! I like it :-)