Amaranthine; a blog of original poetry

  The baby is born making a fist, Punching the uterus until it breaks… Then punching the air Hoping to break that as well. It punches and punches And realizes  The fist can’t free it again… The palm opens, A white flower is being splattered with blood Somewhere,  The sand in the hourglass is blocked by an infant snake Somewhere, The sea smells of rotting veins Somewhere… The baby is born making a fist That gradually opens So it can do more than punch. Now it can hold Rusted chains and iron bars That can break the new uterus It is stuck in; A uterus Where one doesn’t feel the warmth of one’s own blood, But is boiled in the blood of others… Spilt by one’s own hand. The palm is stronger than the fist, For it can hold a weapon…

  He is a red flower in the white vase On the window sill, Seeing himself all the time; Seeing his own petals crawling with bugs And falling… He is a red flower in a white vase On the window sill, Seeing himself all the time, But not seeing himself clearly. Sometimes there is rain, And he believes his face is getting distorted, Sometimes the sun devours his reflection And he believes he’s going invisible… He sees himself, But not always clearly; Sometimes there is a bug on the pane, Or some kind of dirt. Sometimes people look in, Sometimes there is a crack, Or a glittering scratch From the leafless branch That gently rubs To show romance. One day someone will shut the window drapes, And he’ll believe himself dead While he is still alive…

  I glare at the wind; The sunflowers with their mighty manes Roaring quietly To scare me off. It is indeed scary To think myself alone here. I wish you were here To weigh down on one of my shoulders, I wish you were here To put these lions to sleep With your hush and song, And to hold my hand, And give me courage To walk through this Slough of beasts To get to the tree; That tree all bare Except for a necklace of white flowers… That tree where we used to sit And watch the beasts crawl below us…

  A blue feather caught in a rose bush, With a dab of blood on its whiskers… Calling out to the wind To bring back the bird that sheltered it A blue feather caught in a rose bush, Once always asleep beneath wings Feeling like tea on a foggy hillside… Like snuggling into a blanket With a pillow for company When no one is there… A blue feather caught in a rose bush, Drips and drips Until what little blood stays dries, Making the blue whiskers beneath it Dead And unmoving. Still, The parts that move Move with frivolous intensity, Like a flame stuck in a lantern, Shaking in the storm, Going extinct and coming back… Going extinct and coming back…

  The dew falls And the water rises up Like lips that kiss back for a second And retreat, So that no one notices that it can love… The dew falls And the water rises up; Water as cold as a dead heart in the freezer, Looking like meat covered in ice… Because that’s all it is; Meat covered in ice… But inside, The water is warm Like a blanket on a rainy day. Inside the blanket is warm, But no one knows… Because no one has the courage To take a deep plunge…

 I’m a skull; Looking bad, Feared by all, Locked up in glass cages And wooden boxes… Staying quiet while they watch, Scratching the cage when they leave, Hoping to break out one day. I’m a skull; Looking bad, Feared by all, Yet being joyfully celebrated During a single day Every year… People wear me on the outside And act bravery, People watch me from the outside And act fear. I’m a skull; Looking bad, Feared by all, Yet smiling Whether rain or sun hits my glass case… Smiling Even though I lack a few teeth Here and there…

  You’re a sunrise Photographed in black and white; Reborn everyday, Yet looking old in the numb color. Yet I admire you For I know how you truly look. Yet I admire you For I’ve seen you outside photographs… When once I woke up on the sand, Drunk… Smiling at the swirling colors of the sky; Colors that are pretty, Yet it is actually the blood From your screaming throat, Screaming to be set free From the frame of the sky… Screaming to be set free From this canvas Which creates beauty by trapping different colors In different parts… You’re a sunrise Photographed in black and white; Reborn everyday, Yet looking old in the numb color. Yet I admire you For I know how you truly look.

The yellow light squeezes between buildings Like a gentle beast, Tickling the windows like petals on water. The yellow light squeezes between buildings And the noise wakes me up. I open the window; A yellow finger patting my head, Making me giggle like a child. There is smoke, There is noise, There are the cranes rotating about the horizon. But there is you as well, Yellow beast… There is you as well, Mighty beast. There is smoke there is noise, There is the smell of coal and tar. But there is you as well, Yellow beast… There is you as well, Mighty beast. And that’s all I need…

  Sometimes, Life touches me Like a low hanging branch of Bougainville Nodding up and down, Gently stroking the water… Making it giggle Like a girl Cuddling with her man In a shabby room On a winter night, With radio music, And an old TV Going static and bright, Static and bright… It’s the same feeling Of having a cup of tea Alone on a park bench, Listening to the finches Sing songs meant to be heard together… The feeling is the same, But I choose the latter. The former has been done to death in the movies…