The Gobi Desert Cycle-VOICE

VOICE

a hilly valley of sound,

not quite up or down

but both, I think, one crack following another

that has it’s own sort of  vain charm.

 

hoarse and high pitched at the same sound plateaus

nothing more than laughs and question marks

that edge at the air just for the sake of respect, without real sencerity

“I don’t know” seems to be you’re favorite line (what a pity).

 

I can clearly remember a conversation I heard on the bus

some uneducated minor

talking on the phone  about how he was going to get drunk at the end of the day

and then, sadly, it made me think about how much that sounded like you.

 

“Tear apart all the words!”

The protesters make it clear of the human condition-

now I want to mangle your grammar and contort all your sentences

until they land right side up on my ears, clean and poetic, and then I will smile and say:

“son, NOW you’re making some sense”

but it doesn’t help a bit.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

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The Gobi Desert Cycle-SKIN

SKIN

I ran into

an abandoned olive grove

and pressed out their skins

to make yours.

I took nine green olives and

painted them onto you,

each detail

perfectly  softened.

I daubed a dot of black on your

right cheek, near your eye

and created starry symmetry

on the geometry of your face.

I stopped and then glanced at it all

a blended self-satisfied color

rich and full, yet one that seemed

fitting. You climbed over these rocks

and stood

self satisfied and steady.

That’s it, easy and steady,

yes, a bit like your first flying lesson,

when you soared over the burnt umber dunes,

 tart and sweet, like a fist kiss!

I wandered on the ground then

pondering your disappearance:

Then I find you

as I look upwards:

a line of burgundy, and a sliver of your

dark penetrating profile.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

The Gobi Desert Cycle-DISCOBOLUS

DISCOBOLUS

he  rakes leaves with his chest like statues might in a Discobolus.

he would always cast down his eye on everything.

 

he had led a small-ish life so far, but consequentially,

or, because of it actually, he could hold onto a tiger and not bear down at all.

 

he whispered a fervent prayer and was surprised when his voice was engulfed

into a pandemic-like sea of other voices; this one nodding, that one cautiously still.

 

but, musing,

as any

girl would,

I can

only remember,

of course,

the faint

pressing outline

of his

backbone protruding

from his

white collared

cotton shirt

and a

questioning neck,

leaning out

only to

ask a

pointless question.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry 

The Gobi Desert Cycle-HANDS

HANDS

These Hands seem to have matured too fast.

They do not enter: they appear as if by magic-

 always caught up in a lightening strike

dashing away, only come back, softly embracing, as David’s own:

chiseled, fingers tipped, and, essentially, they were perfect.

 

Godly dear, they were all anger, perhaps distrust or worry, 

but someone said that they were lazy, and I had to agree.

They sat slumped, on his collarbone, waiting to be straightened

when will you stop that nitpicking?  i wonder, and it makes me as mad as his hands looked.

On occasion they broke things, and, essentially, they were unshakable.

 

Sometimes, when I lie in bed alone, I silently wish that they would come out and press gently against mine.

just five,

maybe eight good seconds.

It would stop my heart from throbbing, 

It would stop the hoping, the watching, the waiting, 

and maybe the strange , awe-struck wonder.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

 

The Gobi Desert Cycle-EYES

EYES

I long to lunge inside them

pierced with-what? how to say? an unnoticed sort of intensity

as if the reader had known nothing of their raw value

I long to lunge inside them

his lashes are fanned sticks opening up a glass world,

a curtain holding up a stage, looking in.

I want to hide inside them

Every day, the roundness of them pulls me closer, then tosses me back

In the end, he finds me sighing when I least expect it, and then i shiver audibly.

I want to hide inside them

even then, I still feel a sort of emptiness. he does not want me. probably he is thinking,

“I know, barely, I know you are out there somewhere ,I think”

(darling, if we walk by red storms, then maybe you will see me, and we can face them together).

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

 

The Gobi Desert Cycle-HAIR

This is a cycle of love poems I am working on. This is the fist one in the cycle. Hope you enjoy!

HAIR

The sand gets caught up in his hair every once in a while, like white marble castles drifting on seas of dark evergreen

trees.

he brushes it  off. Always it is night there, a perennial obsidian coffin, buried with incense. The light  cannot escape it.

it’s curve is

forever a hushed daughter’s keepsake, kept in place and twisted horribly all at once.  Hush, she whispers, fingers

grasp

each strand like a horse’s mane. He is a quiet warrior, like a sleeper who is not talking,

wading

through the silent grass. A bridge echoes through the dark waterfall of  the daughter’s mind;

it breaks

evenly, vertebrae by vertebrae, slowly cracking, each piece of it’s  driftwood crashing into the open mouth of the  river:

she drowns

but she doesn’t know it yet.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry