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Past LivesWe substitute coffee for madness
and hear the silent song awaken us
this is not a dream yet
reality does not strike us

your fingers devastate
any savagery to our transitions
softly cradling the restlessness
smoothening the wrinkles of
a forgotten past

we stand on edges
slowly hoping
wistfully longing
endure a lifetime of waiting

to be brought back.

Though our past lives
may not agree
the delirium will not pass
until you quiet the beating

or until you and I are one.

this is nowthat was then:

i muttered your name while his hand was down my dress.
told him i couldn't, shouldn't, wouldn't

but he kissed away my syllables as the absence ate away at my heart and soul

this is now:

i miss you when brief flashes of nostalgia
overwhelm and contort my senses,

but you don't deserve it

that was then:

you were my daily routine, ranking higher than breathing
i wanted to inhale you like the cigarettes you regularly smoked

pledged forever and always and carved your name behind my eyelids

"i love you", "ok".
i should have known it was never going
to be okay.

this is now:

you cross my mind from time to time,
and i

griefloneliness was supposed to be
a castle to be shielded
from intruders

but i seeped through the cracks
leaked onto sand
the way i bled was abnormal

do i get picked up from here
or am i scattered in wind

thrallyou were two parts of the same thing,
two stars of the same system:
binary, temporal, constrained.

like a sun courting a planet,
you cycled through your phases,
tethered to her by the strength

of a solar flare,
electromagnetic storm.

without her,
you are still ultraviolet and pristine,
your cold, clean light—

but the sparkle has left your surface.

you orbit around
an imaginary object,
a placeholder for her gravity.

Whiteoutyou taste rust on your lips
a rush of light to the eyes--
and they crowd there
like unwelcomed guests

desert ranges, white cotton
unfurling under your fingers
your hand
though it refuses to move
reveals impressions,
depth of skin and warmth
heat really, permeating
as though it had been there
for hours

she left an afterthought
of sunflowers
sitting placidly on a table
lacking sun or shine

though it blinds

you never really understood
the nature of sunflowers--
following the sun all day
and bearing its name
(a metaphor for obsession?)

so you think about the girl,
the madly blooming flower
and what you meant to her

the o

Imagined UniverseTraces of it still linger in the subway,
long after the nicotine and languid eyes left
the fluorescent lights illuminated
the dark passage and the passage of t i m e

the signs are everywhere,
laced on the walls were punk-graffiti cave paintings

We are carbon copy flesh and bone
unique to the idea we are unique
tracing ourselves back to the ruins of the past
of ancient civilizations below sea level
and floating above, high in the heavens
instinctively knowing the diversity of life
exists from the second we step off the train
and land our feet on solid ground

I've never known the wisdom of the earth
until I met the eq

Our ShapeThe second is cosmic dust
now, your reflection
is a conduit to a dream.

The image:
[you in the middle of the square]

Amidst the beating of feathers
you look around a sea of faces.
Mid-run I watch
your opaline smile,
the lustre of your sweat

It occurs to me
that you had been waiting.

I stop. You'd been waiting for me.

The sound of longing
pulsates in some
unsung crevice
of my heart.

The past is color coded
an iridescent kiss,
the dark blue
of our eternal twilights--

a monochromic measurement in sighs.

Now, in the mere flux
of years eyes wander
on the weak link
of your fingers

a perfect frame, a circle
a wedding band or chain.

You

JupiterI lay, gutted and waiting
for you to respirate my heart
seized in its fatigue
to awaken and return your gifts.

How desperate am I to
stay the course, yearning
to keep you even as I know
I must be set free.

Sliding into the waves of
Jupiter's amber clouds,
my lungs fill with the
heady storm of its red eye

that plunges me into dreams
weighed down beyond the
poisonous burn of muscles,
lulled by a false sense.

And still further, till
oblivion reveals nothing more
than the sulfuric rust

the color of heart chambers
(a deep thrum of ventricles).
The descent seems an eternity

while I hope you'll follow,
pulled by your fear

After Late Nights with You that Last Well into theI have never peeled an orange. I watch you do this
often. Eyes slim with sleep, the sun forms slits

on the wall and you cross your leg over your knee
across the table with your body tilted away from me.

The harvest moon is angry in your hands.
You make it twirl and jump and dance, and dance.

You smile. You have made a fool of the moon.
Tall puppeteer, it is too bright and too soon in

the morning for me to make these haughty metaphors.
You stop your jilted juggling and toss me a glance before

you gouge the orange with your fingers and
dirty fingernails. Elephant skin falls then

darkly to the floor, the limp heart lies unbeating

chinese lanternsi said, there is nowhere you can go
that you will be unknown. every
new city, every new bed, every
new taste, will remind that you
belong in a faceless place.
just think-
you, little tadpole, nestled in my soul-

he was far more interested in
the winds, and were they southerly,
north northwest, or brotherly? he
was far more interested in the
gnashing of teeth, always Danish,
always present in sleep. he did not
hear me-

because
time stole what God gave us, honey. or rather-
the presence of the present time, not the passing of it.
think of it this way- the painter
is not doomed by the rainbow, but by
the singular torture of

on resignationthe ocean swells are
merciless and grey,the
sky follows suit- it is
only far more fragile. flat.
the ancestors condemned to miss
evolution pool at my feet, it would
be redundant and cruel to pity their gloom.

the eyes i have been
given are complaining
for lack of color. for
lack of valor, my heart
aches slowly with them.

i have manipulated
my own misery, calling
it something noble. some
small, careful crab sneaks
an insect into its pinchers.
even the crab is transparent

since i cannot make peace with you,
i have settled for making peace
with your memory. it is a
stale attempt. it is like
trying to mak

Amante at MariaLove was all the rage at 17.

Amante, in the twilight
of his youth went his way
unbound, enraptured.

The phonographs
played melodic saturations
of love foretold,
drowning his own inner
salient beats.

He wanders,
edgewise of reason
past shops, the town market

and falls
mid-veranda and entangled
in the throes of desire

against a backdrop of roses
and that Old World culture
so-filled with passion
rattan lattices, cedar chests
mementos of Spanish ancestry

set upon a glassy-eyed, kaleidescopic
beauty, imagining bougainvilleas
in the midday heat.

A born conquistador
struck by the frenzy
of the feeling
he searches for her,

AbandonedI.

The absence of your voice is bad for my health – and I'm more than heartsick my dear. I'm
headsick and stomachsick, needing your syllables to knit together my shattered bones after a long
day of running on empty. Without you I'm winter struggling to spring, and my precious un-opened
flowers are trapped under ice and my half-furled leaves are coated in hoarfrost like the fingers of a
hypothermic climber caught unmoving at thirty thousand feet.

II.

They say I'll get over you eventually because even the deepest wounds heal with time but what they
don't know is that my clock is running backwards and every second tick-tick-ticks by

she never had eyes as brightshe never had eyes as bright as
cold
or song as clear as
dark
but ever into her starry skies
I withered,
drawn into abysmal depths
by the promise
of a ravaged warmth,
somewhere near the centre.

now,
at the zenith of her autumnal beauty,
I find myself lost;
her brilliant voice
in prosepoetry elegance
shall whisper "I love"
into corroded dark
and tear all of the roadblocks
forcibly
from my mind.

Rose PetalsI'm in the company of your letters
Tracing my fingers on the body of words
Observing the elegance of your cursive
in black, untainted ink.

Laying on green fields and gardens
sometime the flowers will consume us.
Your image is melancholic. Red wine
and cigars. Eating rose petals
on the stairwell of my parents house.

They ask
so I take your picture with me:
This is my love. This is his smile.
Yes, he's a soldier.

You live,
You live in my memory.

To find pleasure and solace
between these war-torn sheets
is a language only we know.

At times they come in different forms,
the back of wrappers, manila paper,
water stained envelopes

and I am l

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MusicianIf you ask me again
then you do not know

there are certain truths
that I keep sacred,
three laws that I abide:

Do not steal, do not
inflict harm upon
your fellow men,

do not delay love.

This is the order
to my existence.

Rules are my way of coping,
love is a path to harmony.

This is the song of the universe--
three consecutive beats,
my brother's pale origami,
your brown eyes on a Cerulean stage.

In playing the violin
you will learn how to shatter the sound
of cosmic silence. You will learn
how to cry.

Three things will play
with persistence, the resounding
truth of your mortal ideology

that you are regulated
by frequent tenderness

1:28 AMI tell myself that you are young.

So often I forget the sound of
the ocean. The gears of my inner organ
cannot emulate pain. It would
ruin me

but the mechanisms howl for a name.

I couldn't hate you.

The garishness of my drunken
syntax delights upon the vision
of a once loved you.

When I think of you
I think of what we are--

cosmic dust in the universe.

but yes, I understood
as I plunge down into the senseless
reimaginings of a past,
an orifice, a symbol.

Indifference is cruelty.

ContactThese words
"lips", "you", "us"

they falter

in my tongue's
secret dialect.

Written in sequence,
"Kiss me on the lips."

Our whispers flood the skies.

River goddess
rain is etched on your skin.

They call it asul when my lyric
and your eyes meet,

it turns infinite. We transgress.

When it comes undone,
unfurling into the river of Myth

let us comfortably share silence
with the god of the departed.

Anointed, bough-heavy
in the aftertaste of streams.

Oh, river goddess
when you are carrying the sky
and unburdening wildlowers
it all tastes like rust
and the bitterness
of sweet-smelling perfumes.

--

There is a strained song
ringing in my

HowlWhy does my dog cry at night?
He howls at the darkness.

The wind chimes ring
with vacancy.

It scares me,
the way animals weep.
Do they have souls?

Earlier I heard a gunshot
in my neighborhood and
a long, long pause.

The sound of rain
cannot muffle tears.

He cries,
does he know
something I do not?

A loud honk startles me,
it was monotonous like
a weight was on the
steering wheel.

I did not want to find out.

I'm scared to know
why my dog cries at night.

Van GoghOf love,
these thing I know

it is the grace of being born
over and over again
in your arms,

your eyes

They are the same shade
of sorrow as the painter's

XanaduWhere your feet tread
the sound of weeping,
the eyes of yearning,
the robin of eternal sighing,

the carrion of last we met

possesses the air. The miasma
of all our encounters billow
over my wasted soul.

With age-old rage
I curse the shards of your breath
yet chant in fragrant hymns
all our antediluvian names.

Obsidian Eyes, I cast you out
yet you find me.

Find me then --

Brotherless One, Grey Walker,
Phantom Stranger

and quench my eternal longing
for the love of men is fleeting.

--

It is only your arrival
that I can never foresee.

You are never captured
in the fall of rain
or fixed in the cosmic
arrangement of stars.

In memory,

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by ~MariaTala, Nov 26, 2010, 12:25:14 AM
Literature / Poetry / Romantic / General / Free Verse

They say you can see it in their eyes

a techni-colored universe
embodied in existentialist decay,
the egregiousness of now.

The feeling:
imperishable by will and
fragment of an ideal--
an afterthought
of a closet romantic

wonder then why illusions persist.
For the promise of gilded butterflies
we spend lifetimes of anguish
to chance upon that sun
personified.

Affinityby ~MariaTala

Literature / Poetry / Romantic / General / Free Verse

_{worth the wait

edit. 9/28/2012. oh god this was awful, tried to salvage it.}

*IAmPoetry Sep 28, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Indeed, seems worth the wait.

`FuzzyHoser Sep 28, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

This is absolutely gorgeous, love.

~SZografos Dec 16, 2010

Why indeed? This is lovely, Maria.

~MariaTala Dec 16, 2010

_{Thank you so much. :]}

~londonrey Dec 8, 2010

This is delicious!! Not a fleck of a phrase out of place.
That second stanza... ooooofdah!

You're so amazing.

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~londonrey Dec 8, 2010

And I can tell that you tried. (:

~BipolarBearDisorder Nov 29, 2010 Hobbyist Writer

I have to say, this is an exquisite piece of poetry! It's beautifully written, and brilliantly executed. The way you effortlessly roll off words and phrases and amazing; there's a rhythm in your poem that is both pleasing to the ears as well as the mind.

This techni-colored universe
embodied in existentialist decay.

This is an absolutely brilliant line, and now I wonder how long it took you to choose out these words.

I'm already one of your fans; your poem past lives was the first piece I've read from you, and I've been a fan ever since.
Just keep writing and I'll keep reading. :]

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~BipolarBearDisorder Dec 7, 2010 Hobbyist Writer

i really enjoy your poems, there's nothing more i could possibly do then tell you how much i love them, and encourage you to write more.

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