Singing Words

Phases exist in bubbles of shininess
seemingly irredescent and invincible
as each one gets it mark through people
and their reflection in our memories and thought.

What's funny though, is that these phases,
are just figments, penetrable in a single moment.
fantasies of transparency, a way to wist
after, luscious truthful clarity.

Just visible enough for those who wish to see them.

Gray: Friend or Foe?

If I was to dip my toe in
a pool of sucking sand would it take my foot?
or could I pull away? Is it the same pull
from and away the men of our pasts?

These questions grab my head- though not always
But when they do grab, it's easy to sink more
What if what now what how? Grappling apple-ing
leaving sour aftertastes of unripened fruits

It cooks, mulls over, and ripens within
The blurs of anger and sadness sparkle away.
It's ambiguous! What a joke! Another contradiction?
Black and white wrestle each other while
gray rests, simply, tritely, arms folded like the Mona Lisa.

Gray knows the truth- the marriage of black and white
that govern us like muppets. Isn't it easier?
To come to an answer of both? It's a tie! No--
People hate ties, there should always be a winner.

The only way- all questions are soothed is
with a confined answer, in a box, unchangeable.
But love, tears, sweat, and strife can not be
closed and squeezed to one school of thought.

we are the creators. Sound cliche, eh?
But cliche is just a synonym for truth.
Laugh,  you sarcastics, all you want but
those who follow me, can see the wisps of truth
that float in the air, just visible enough,
to reveal your mischievous knowing smile.

Poppers pop! Streamers stream! A moment of celebration!
This gray, our old enemy is a new blessing.
A granter of complex emotions.
Changing over time.

We fall down with gravity, hitting the peddles
like-- in a pinball machine, and each toss and turn
shapes and forms us, with scars and cuts,
a shame, but without them, we wouldn't be.

As we grapple that people talk and think about us
How do they see us? How do we see us?
Now we know though, it's not one the other. Both!
A lovely blissful, true blue, ambiguity. Gray.

Stream of Thought: Mumble Jumble

Tingle. Curated this mess.
Hot temples. The lump at the back
of my mouth, beats monotone.
Being a feeler of feelings comes but
with a cost. Rock bottom is deeper.

For the barter: a moment of respite
to ease those heavy breaths. I'd
give up this knowledge. The sunny
ambiguities have turned into cold uncertainties.
Could I, just for a moment, turn it off?

If I could float between puffs,
the clouds, just existing within
the sweet air, hidden by the folds
that cover eyes, numbing, complete silence.

Maybe my fingertips would loosen
I'd be distant, removed but observing
Sitting with those monks, who simplified essense
to the core. But, simply, mortally, painfully,

In this moment, there was no seat for peace.

Thoughts used to sit side by side,
obediantely and organized, just waiting
for their turn on the soap box. To be
the center of enlightenment for her.

Spinning in gray matter, holding out
a hand to try to capture, but then
opening it for nothing. Just muted
mist, resting on her pulse.

Unrestrained, jumping on a bed all at once
her thoughts fight for a turn, but
none of them get a chance. They're all subject
to the imprisoment of curiosity.

The curiosity and buzzing fills a hmm
like a backdrop, for the confusing dizziness.
On the brink of losing it. Grabbing shoulders,
shaking so hard, but nothing seems to work.

In this case, manipulation is most effective.
Pretending until the unreal is real. Nothing is real.
That's how I used to feel. But now everything just
got too real. Too real?! Does this even make sense??

Not really. But still, there are things.
It makes no sense, but still, those things.
Cause flutter, chipper, hope, and stability.
It's in the spirit, mystification of how.

It can't be explained. It's seeking to find it.
Learning, seeking, searching always.
Thoughts are thoughts. Despite the clarity they lack.
Despite the clarity they lack.

How to be the best advice giver to your friend!

We’ve all had that moment when you are listening to your friend ranting about their ex, or their mom, or their pet even. There’s that look you give them, filled with pity and remorse. You either make a joke to help, offer a story of your own, or rag with them on the victim. But what about finally giving some solid advice for the situation for your friend to actually use? Here are some tips for becoming the best “Dr. Phil” you can be.

For the friend that talks and talks for (what seems to be) forever:

      1. Practice “effective listening.”

This is a huge one. Sometimes your friend just wants to be truly heard and validated. This is for the friend that just doesn’t keep their mouth shut. Make sure to let them say everything out loud, only interrupting with phrases like “that’s interesting.” or “that sounds super rough.” Make sure to nod and focus your thoughts only on their words. No phone peeks! Ask them questions about the situation, to show that you in fact are wishing to understand it better. Listening alone can be very therapeutic for this person and can help them come to a solution on their own. They’ll love you for NOT talking over them.

For the friend that hates quotes or anything sentimental:

       2. Play up your comical relief side.

This person won’t appreciate a lesson on “enjoying the little things in life” or “thinking positive”. Your friend is looking for either one of two things: a great joke on the situation to make them laugh about it, or some hella’ good advice that they can actually use. Whichever one is your forte’, or the better option for you, go with. Do NOT tell this person that things have a way of working themselves out, or that everything will be okay. They won’t buy it. It’s just not the way they think and those words mean nothing to them. So try to tell them what to do, and save the emotions for another time.

For the friend that feels alone:

       3. Reassure reassure reassure.

This person is expressing their vulnerable side to you. Their voice is cracking, they may be tearing, really seeming to be on the brink of losing it. It’s important to be sensitive. Being sensitive includes reassurance and offering easy to follow advice. Again, stay far away from the sentiment and save it for others. Say things like “ I totally understand how you feel” (emphasizing totally) and “I would feel exactly the same way.” (emphasizing exactly). Give them a solid action in going forward. This could be offering a distraction like a movie, or food option. Either way, give them something to hold on to and assure them that how they feel is completely normal.

For your super negative and cynical friend:

       4. Show them the bright side!

No, this does not mean throw out your favorite positive quote. Share a story of your own that makes your friend’s situation sound like a piece of cake. But don’t make it a sob story. In this situation, it’s a hilarious unfortunate happening. Here’s an example: Your friend is complaining about a friendship fall out. The other party ignores your friend like she’s the plague and honestly seems to not care one bit. Your story to share: That time you forgot your ID and couldn’t take the SAT in junior year and had to wait 6 months. Or better, that time you missed a college class final by confusing the time slot and waiting 3 summer months to take the makeup to finally end up with a C in the class. Or even better! That time you got adult chicken pox on the eve of your birthday and cancelled all party plans to lay in bed and itch all day. Go crazy with it!

There you go for now! That can definitely cover some of your friends, even the most crazy ones. For all the quote lovers remember this one:

“Do not treat your friend how you want to be treated. Their tastes may be different.”

Now that’s something they don’t tell you in grade school. We always give advice and say what we would want to hear if we were in our friend’s position. But many a times, this advice doesn’t help the friends who are opposite of us. They don’t want what we want! We need to cater to our friends needs and really put ourselves in their position before saying what we want to say. Remember, the conversation is not about you. It’s about your friend and his or her needs.

Best of luck!

The good sigh

The sweet sound of the trumpet
playfully tunes out it's catchy beat
The pores of sunlight shine and
a sweat drop rolls down her temple.

Clean lines and white perfection
within a perfectly placed photograph

The smooth transition from yellow
to green in a ripe avocado.

When milk hits the coffee surface
The liquid dances with it's partner.

The steam water presses and soothes
skin thankful for the hot shower.

A thick tarte greek yogurt wraps
its texture round her tongue.

These are good sighs. But we are.

A large community of knit-pickers
scratches on apples.
extra skin on the body.
greener grass on his lawn.
Blips in good days.
One can always find them.
Second guessing the good in our lives.
Consider that in doing so,
a lethargy spreads. Instead of
days going by, its going. That's obvious.
Why not answer something different?

Get this. Even if
the course of events uncoursed
and the mind stretched further
must that be spread to all? Why not
try to answer "How's your day going?"
With the answer you wished for.
Be careful what you wish for. Except don't be.
It's not like happiness ever
decreases from being shared.
So next time, smile for others, not yourself.
And light a thousand candles.
Sometimes there is sweetness in the cracks.
You never know.

Stream of Mind: Seeking Truth

Often, there are visuals and sound that accompany
the stream of mind of thought. Textures hold truth.
Squeezed lemons. Cinnamon rolls hot to the touch.
A beautiful white potted echeveria sits at the corner.

The he said, she said, of it all, takes over.
The way in which opinions rule. The gossip.
There's a malice though. A jealousy. A premonition.
It would be like following an enemy's advice.

There is not only one right.
Each pearl has scratches and bumps. None are alike.
The curse of being stagnant in the way. But,
does the way make any sense? What way, is it?

It's all distorted. The criticisms are stronger than
The truth. But still, we worship the truth. The untruth actually.
Well, that's ironic.

There is no way to reach reality,
because even when thinking about that moment
the moment has passed itself. A thoughtful gaze out
the window sill. Glazed donuts. We can attempt
to create our own reality. The only way to maintain
sanity, with a succumbing smirk. It's quite simple
to bury in the quicksand. Stevens might agree.

Walking slowly up a pair of stairs but as she moves
the stairs slip beneath her, she tries to reach her arm up.
To the air. To reach the sunlight. Saturated chills.
It's in this moment. Something inside is expanding.
Blurs of dark maroons and reds. With specks of glowing
yellow and purple. When you rub your eyes. Those colors.
Slowly, then all at once, you forget where you once were.
Even words, the instruments, don't know how to play.
Smooth acoustics, the warmth of two skins, a slow spinning.
beams and heightens. Holding breaths. Where are the stairs?
What stairs? Then the body floats and lifts, weightless. Light.
Like a feather, with a tear slowly gathering at it's edge. There
are no words for true serenity. The calm of two souls.
Not even suns, or smooth, or sound can cut it.
This a visual of joy.

It's all ephemeral. Crystal. Many faces.
The walks can not be branded or sealed, simply with a stamp.
It's more like a rubble, not quite clean. With books
and letters, objects of sentiment. Ripped pictures.
All with a layer of dust. They don't make sense together.
And on top of that, add the misjudgments, the mistakes.
Mish mosh pish posh. How to begin the ration when, so much
of it is marred by perception. Human connections.

You ask her how she's doing.
She answers "It's complicated" But is it really?
How many of those reasons are mere illusions of mind?
Negative creations of reality. Harsh on others. Harsh on self.
The quicksand is close by still. Forget it. Really.
The tension is in the concept. The journey of self.
Focus on oneself, many don't. The pendulum of sway.
Keep it balanced with instability. Stability. Truth. Untruth.
These are all just words. Uncertainties. Truths and untruths.
All faceted together in a web of colors. Neither one the other.

Tilting.

You know how they say there’s a man on the moon
well there's a man on my tonsil. He never leaves though, only
A lump in the throat. Like the books lined neatly on the shelf,
it tilts, the lump, with the unsteady flow of a clocking brain moving loosely.
Mirrored and engaged with those blue and red lines like we see
In that of a 3D movie. The mind has no rush to clear the haze. Instead,
wanders the foggy winds of thought and tries to open boxes
without tops to hold. That sounds like a slippery feat. It doesn’t sit straight.
Like the books that can’t seem to hold it together but they should.
Shouldn’t they? Bound precisely, by the factories wishing. Unless,
There’s something amiss. A miscommunication of distorts. Leaving
The things around and within us breathful. I think you mean breathless.
Enough. There’s no need for that one hundred percent. A tear sheds
from the corner of her eye, loose but with a firm landing. A filmy wash of
Tired trials ache to make sense of the twisted knots. Still no give.
No tell for energy’s return and arrival. For now, the swoon has taken a liking
To her. It's staying with her with the tilts of blue and red lines .



The eye can’t focus for very long.

An Ode to The Three O'Clock Sitting

--An ekphrasis written for Matisse's Three O' Clock Sitting--

(1924)

The cerulean waters lap and curl their way

Around the little white boats that perch

Upon the waves and rock back away with

Fervor of the afternoon hour of gold.

By the lighthouse not far off, a little home

Within it, framed beauties decorate antiquity

Spotted silhouettes of red and green, marble

Sculptures too. Art is celebrated here.

A bright pupil sits clothed in blue chrism

It’s floral speaks of new hopes and femininity

She’s still learning to paint outside the lines

Master abstracts and color tensions

The subject’s crevices and curves endear

The light and flirt together with such character

And the pupil paints each goosebump patiently.

The room musks with warmth and sweet humidity.

The pupil sits with a foot a perch the easel, concentrating

And remembers the goosebumps of her past

Nervously straight behind the red velvet fabrics,

Lines and body language memorized perfectly.

The dress holds her chest back just slightly too tight

The audience whispering sheens of eager chatters

All the calendars mark this inevitable date

In red, and all eyes beam now with a sparkle.

But she is not as elated. Standing just stiff.

“A fresh insight into emotion” Once complemented the Post.

Those were the days of lights and freedom

Before the nagger crept it’s way into her brain.

This new character gossiped of pressure and nerves

And pressed her menacing agenda of ruined reputation

The perils of getting older in this acting business

And ripening negatively, soon to be forgotten.

The nagger fought with her fame and made

Her stomach squeeze and worry. Until the

Bright fabric lifted up and the light pointed

To her fear and laughed along with the audience.

It was a bad dream, wasn’t it? That moment

When she got up on stage with her plethora

And armor of learned lines. And just stared

At the people blinking. Not a dream.

So here she sits, carefully studying the collarbone

Of her naked model of mixed nuded strokes

The palettes various mixes and brush’s movement

Sooth her nerves and smooth the goosebumped past.

Her attempts begin with a simple wash of basics

And continue with organic shapes that cover each

Atop the other. There is a certain fun in figuring

The perfect hues for contours of human anatomy.

Brushes and color are the start of art. A larger

Encompassing real, the textures of thought.

That help distinguish the piece from plain to pretty.

Never underestimate the power of color choice.

Picasso had shared these thoughts with her

Over cappuccinos and scones, simply comforted

Her worries absorbed with the pores of clean cloth

Lopping up to carry the tangible and make it real.

Gently, she pats the cloth onto the art, to lessen

The darkness under the neckline of the model

The harsh lines are calmed with this cloth

If only it did so for her scars of fright

But still, she alternates the pressure of her strokes

And creates the layers of dimension. Content.

This realm of swirly mixes of peach orange

Purple and shamrock green. Here, she has control.

The subject repositions her knee and places

A lock round her ear. This nervous straight

Reminisces of the bright velvet fabrics. Fear.

The naked feelings now mirror each and other.

These goosebumps, still remembered but

Calmer with the hand gestures of the brush

Sparkle in her eyes, she’s still creating.

They shine content at the product.

Behind the Mauve

--An ekphrasis loosely based on Picasso's Woman in White, 1923--

The cushion is surrounded by frothy rings

Of shadow. She slumps there, with her heart.

It's cracks remain. Emotions seem to move slower

than the chords of a ballad. She’s alone.

The mauvey marbles spread along her face

Only one wish is to forget those things

Sweet amber smells and delicious words

Her eyes though, still stuck on the thing

She most wishes to forget. There once

Was a time when peaches were very ripe

When the mess of mind felt organized

The key at the end of the tunnel was found

The passion was there, gentle but strong

With foundations of disobedience and hormones

Under the streamlined white warmth coming down

From the sun, they were one with the trees.

Unnoticed hours passed, jumping hearts

The ninth cloud became the unerasable image

The love geese had found each other , it seemed clear

But the tunnel was, in a way, too narrow.

Her home lay in the thick of cloud nine

A beacon of yellow in a  gray world

Floating in wreaths of endless possibilities, holly.

These goals wrapped in naiveties of future.

G-d is not the puppeteer. We are not his puppets.

Exactly what we put in makes us who we are

Successes defined by money in this hedon world

This was his mind, an outcome of his tarnished past.

For a while, these two minds complemented each other

Strings of hope held tight between their fingers

Gazing eyes connected with serious smiles, always.

Roadblocks fueled both parties with fiery overlaps.

Through the seasons, the fruits of labor ripened

Foundations sometimes cracked and opposites

Fought the passion and faded it into something else

The amber sweet smells started to feel temporary.

The yellow beacon wasn’t strong enough. Naiveties.

Try convincing a concrete wall to stop being concrete.

And then he said those four words that closed them

Through tears, “I can’t believe anymore”

--

Now, streams of tainted words wrap themselves around

Her mind until no more pain can come.

The streams squeeze her until she is numb.

Oaths are lies when they don’t come true.

But it’s finally over. She can rest now, supposedly.

No, her mind cycles faster to attempt to unravel

Those mangled tainted words she can’t forget.

The scars slowly peal their way off, sometimes.

Like tattoos that wear off. The thinking cures.

Beating odds. Breaking rules. None of that.

Only childish pulls now. Lies. Expired with the milk.

But with each day, those words loosen hold.

But still, melancholy overstays her welcome.

Was it ever true? Why did it happen? Questions

Remain embossed on her face, no plan to leave.

Now, her gates are shut tight, the shade is only mauve.

She locks the gates and throws the keys out.

Keys have no use for questions without answers.

The yellow beacon is mute for now. Change wonders

if she will ever creep into her jaded soul.

Yellow Words :)

Tick. Tock. It's hanging from the metal loops
Swinging back and forth making cuts in the wind
The lover place hold is no longer breathing
It expects nothing, the scars run deep.

Time heals all wounds, apparently. At least
that's what the books say. Books lie. He lied.
The once, bright full heart of red now hushed
Her lips don't rest. Tight, zipped, closed.

There is moss on the keys sitting in the grass.

Sprinting still though, she’s happier now. Even

With the muted corner. Time has told it’s tale.

The passing of ticks and tocks cures alone.

But that’s not it.The dissolve is accompanied

With something new shining through the gate’s

Pickets. The stubborn gates purse and pucker

But the shining flickers persist on past the pout.

Tightened for a while with the rays push.

Until one day, the glimmer takes a new path.

She takes out one earplug, and listens to hear

Yellow words of endless nights and sheer amusement.

The gates hold closed but wither slowly away

With each passing day, the edges soften. Affirmed.

The shine allows pain, mistakes, and imperfections.

But the lock holds on, in the moss. The fear is stronger.

The yellow words keep to their cute chatter even if

She doesn’t let them through. The pickets though

Are almost gone, held by only one splinter of wood.

It’s hard to ignore the glistening smile she now wears.

One day, those last splinters go with the wind and

She’s left there, unveiled without the layer of safe.

Yellow’s arm reaches down to her and picks her up

And twirls her in the air, with the echoing laughs.

The nets are released and opened. Finally, she

Allows herself to feel the childish pulls again.

Distant now, the tainted words sit in the moss.

She’s learned trust, and this time it’s better.

Sea Surface of the Clouds by Wallace Stevens: A New Stanza

In that November off Tehuantepec

Night stood still with the slopping of the sea.

Just some moonly white melted on the deck.

And made one think of tickled chatter

And smooth noises. A slow mint green,

Tip-toeing through the white, pristine.

Of ocean, sways her wavy tendrils

Who then, stays to watch the fun that

She chippers, playing with her lashes.

Chippers? The buzzing hovers round

the crocheted waves of blue flex and coil

Ce fut ma vie, mon amour, le bleu.

The sky whispers a tune of chirp

And smiles gazing down at the curvy

Tendrils. They reply with sweet nothings.

Pearly clouds fluffen up the open space

like freshest pillows feathers flurry

The moon reflects frost unto the blue.

(Full poem here)