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Belles Lettres, Poetry, Essays
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writings by yss
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Lilies
You said "...consider the lilies..."
and i am undone by it.
do lilies fall in love?
do lilies fear the day, or nights alone?
do lilies long for an embrace
to still the tremble in their petals?
where are the lilies to caress my lips
or warm my bed?
You said, "...wait patiently..."
is waiting ever truly patient?
what is patient waiting?
is it forgetfulness?
is it carefully counting the minutes
and days...years, of waiting?
is it patiently noting the hairs You gave
turning colorless, waiting?
You said, "I am He who knit you together..."
and still i am undone,
squeezed in a fist of pain
closed in a smother of loneliness.
do i know You, O Mighty One?
i am ripped and torn asunder by evil and by love
and still You say "I have carried you;...to your old age,
I will carry you."
is it You who carries me to the funeral pyre of
an undying death?
silent screams and dry tears
fill my empty arms and cold bed.
---and still i wait...
patiently.
should i marry, i will carry lilies.
© 2000
P-Cells
I am not a poet. No, really. I'm not.
I don't know how to do all that stuff
and the rules bore me.
All rules bore me.
Bore the holes that fit the chains that tie me
to the dust of boredom.
Then my mind wanders...
away from "supposed to, away from details
the close quotes in an expression...
My brain cells queue up to play
magic marbles, prince charming, eagle currents...
I write a thing and people go "ahhh, poetry...""""
My brain cells issue forth a collective: hunh?!?"
Maybe it's just my brain cells that are not poets
they prefer that wondrous mystery of concrete logic,
deep reality, special relativity,
psycholinguistical consciousness.
Perhaps there's poetry floating free inside me.
Special P-cells liven my blood
puff "aha!" into a conflagration of brain cells
assembled to deliberate the wraithe of discernment.
P-cells wafting dreams across my lips
widening my eyes
deepening the blue to simmering passion
accentuating the auburn to angelic radiance
defining the curls to a deafening corona.
P-cells hazing my visage to soft sensual renewal:
"Come hither, my beloved, my P-cells are up."
© 1997
Waiting
...cherish me...
words tickling in my ears...
working, watching, waiting.
days roll away...
endless shifting sands...
walking, wondering, whispering:
touch me, hold me, heal me.
breathing in eternity, breathless
anticipation shocking my soul.
folded like a fan; closing
out feelings; pain:broken.
queenly chrysalis struggle
unfolding, tenuous, fragile
hybrid blossom to tender, gentle hands.
working. watching. waiting. whispering:
...cherish me...
© 1995
Spoken of... worth
text measured so carefully, setting
each word next to the other,
syllable by syllable,
letter by letter,
parts edited with critical eyes --
little left unaltered,
less given a stet mark.
Perfect Author sees the whole;
but the work embraces artificial devices:
run-ons, splices, mis-used modifers,
mixed metaphors of pernicious proportions.
will the edit ever finish?
cut and paste: the knife
is sharp, not swift.
© 1994
Fishwife
i am weary of cleaning your fish
bittered from the odor
aged by the scent.
i have blood grimed under my fingernails
scales on my tongue
bone chips in my hair.
there are fish caught in our sheets
moist eggs stuffed in our pillows
rotting heads under our bed.
i've named all your fish
i can't remember my children's names
i comb my hair with a fish spine.
my head is filled with scales
fins and gills and
gaping toothless mouths.
© 1993
Sewing Secrets
I have not showered
his odor covers my skin.
dead kernels hiding in
secret places
slide my arm under
my nose, close my eyes
his fetid weight pressing
my body
I let him take too much
Again... Again...
perhaps I'll sew my secret
closed with a bone needle
and a blood thread
-- my sinew-song
wrap the dead things
in a backstitch grave
rip out the basted flesh;
conquer the little deaths.
© 1992

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