Shipwrecked

A sequel to Into the Deep

Photo by Biorock Indonesia on Unsplash

Tears welling in azure eyes
you recited your amorous soliloquy
I bathed in the water of your emotion
permitted myself to rest
to be soothed

At long last
be content

You proclaimed my imperfections endearing
My scars — badges of honor
You aspired to be my person
To travel — to battle — alongside

But when the veil of infatuation lifted
and love’s bounty could truly be discovered
You cowered — deserted
too feeble to exert the effort

Starstruck by serendipity
I had envisioned the beauty in our future
Surmounting struggles
a path to strengthen our union

Did you not trust our relationship to withstand?
Or did you simply become apathetic?
At what point did admiration fall to disregard?

I showered you with tokens of affection
My first
now my last
poetic declaration

You sang my praises
Lulled me with sweet nothings
And I
the enchanted fool
was enthralled by your music

Captivated by your siren’s song
I lowered my shields
Allowed you to see the wounds
residing in my soul’s abyss
immersed for a decade
concealed from view
by warrior’s armor

When did our treasure begin to tarnish?
Why carelessly lay waste my self-respect?
Or are you oblivious to your actions’ aftermath?

Masquerading as my beloved
you celebrated with my family
Camouflaging your discontent
with flattery and lies

Buoyed by false affirmation
I sailed hope’s waters
Swept up on a promise
A doomed flight of fancy

Was I always your dirty little secret?
You couldn’t admit
even to yourself?

Once again battered and broken
submerged by my own tears
The suffocating weight plummets me
shipwrecked
into the deep

Into The Deep

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Photo by Tim Marshall on Unsplash

I’ve waded through the shallows often.
Colorful, glistening creatures
tickled my toes and skimmed through my heart.
Alluding to promises
never to be granted.

I’d nearly forsaken the expedition.
Weary of the fleeting encounters,
apparitions of affection and
shipwrecked expectations.

Prompted by tedium.
Coaxed by kismet?
I endeavored once more.
Hope beckoning like the North Star.

Hesitantly, a signal was launched.
A gentleman and his retriever
the siren’s song.

The message acknowledged,
courtship’s discourse began.
Formal pleasantries swiftly abandoned,
yielding to intimate conversations
oblivious to the passage of time.

Safe harbor determined and a rendezvous is set.
The two captains’ galaxies twinkle with flirtation.

Crystal Caribbean eyes enchant.
An alluring smile delights.
Tender first kisses,
rip currents of passion,
affirm the attraction.

Captivated, our two spirits ponder,
Are we ready to draw up anchor?
Chart a unified course?

Can we be brave enough
to submerge our souls?
Immerse our selves?
Into the deep?

The Woman in the Moon Face

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Image by Mona El Falaky from Pixabay

A pericarditis poem

Palpitations reverberate her ribs
Tremble. Thump. Squeeze. Tremble. Squeeze.
Staccato rhythms ricochet to her skull
Throbbing. Pulsating.
She awakens

Brain awash in a celestial haze
she levitates with caution
drifting to the vanity mirror
“Good Morning,” she sighs
to the Woman in the Moon Face

Half a year since the voyage began
Launched into orbit by an autoimmune flare
She tried to abort the mission
but there is no dousing
the combustion of chronic illness

Disease incarcerates her heart
Unrelenting gravity constricts her core
Shallow breaths through concrete
Each gasp measured
to preserve oxygen

Countenance circumnavigated by treatment
Her once lean expression
now eclipsed
Medications store plump reserves of blubber
encapsulating like a spacesuit

The image on her home screen taunts
A brighter, joyful time
Two years earlier
thin, carefree, euphoric
flanked by her sons beneath the Grecian sun

Averse to comprehend
this alien reflection
Reluctant to accept
the morphed figure as her own
The morning’s trek has made her weary

She retreats to her bed chamber
and dreams of normalcy

 

Basil, Babcock Peaches, and Salt Air

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I want to drown in the fragrance of my grandparents’ house.
To be enveloped by the aroma of Italian Santa Barbara.
The scents exist only in that corner abode.
I have searched,
but have been unable to find it anywhere else:
the bright bouquet
of basil, Babcock peaches, and salt air.

When they visit, their clothes, their blanched hair
possess the perfume.
I inhale,
take a deep breath-dose
before it begins to dissipate.

They’d rather be home among soothing saline breezes,
away from the harsh valley gusts.
Grandpa observes our weakling lemon tree
struggling to live in the choking clay dirt
and dreams
of his white-fleshed fruit trees thriving in black soil.

It’s what saved him — the earth — the doctors said,
after his stroke.
No nurse’s deep kneading,
mechanically flexing his limbs,
could match the therapy
of tilling his own garden.

My grandma eagerly anticipates
the gathering of pale peaches for pies
and the drying of basil for ragu.
She carefully cuts shoots for my mother,
who wishes to match the recipe,
to replicate a taste of her old home.
My grandparents once tried to bring their harvest,
but the delicate crop was too fragile —
spoiled by the drive.

Time remains remorseless in its passing;
Incessantly stealing the physical.
In return,
it bequeaths an inheritance of the senses —
tender remembrances
of basil, Babcock peaches, and salt air.


Originally published in @HumanParts @Medium.com

False Bravado

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I told a lie.

I told it multiple times.

I told it over and over. I told it ten times, one hundred times. If I told it once, I told it a thousand times. I must have said it a million times. I told it infinity times infinity.

I told a fib. I told a tall tale. I told a cock-and-bull story. I did a song and dance. I told a whopper.

I falsified information. I misrepresented the facts. I perjured myself.

I told a little white lie. I told a whole pack of lies. I lied down with dogs and picked up some fleas. I lied like a rug. I lied in wait. I lied in ruins. I lied at death’s door.

I told it with a look. I told it through my teeth. I told it with a smile.

I told it in a whisper. I mentioned it in casual conversation. I shouted it from the rooftops. I told it to the ends of the earth. I told it to the moon and back. I declared it to the heavens.

I put it mildly. I put it bluntly. I told it to the best of my ability. I told it with piss and vinegar. I told it with vim and vigor.

My lie was an all-out effort. It spared no effort. It was a last-ditch effort.

I told it at full strength. It was my main strength. It was my weakness. It did not know its own strength. It was my pillar of strength.

My lie kept the home fires burning. It was fired up. It was fired upon. It added fuel to the fire. It spread like wildfire. It fought fire with fire.

My lie was a force of habit. It was out in force. It was full force. It was forced down my throat. It was a force to be reckoned with.

My lie was idolized — customized — publicized. It vitalized — galvanized — agonized.

My lie has been an open secret. A trade secret. My lie has been safe with me.

I told it to my friends. I told it to my co-workers. I told it to my neighbors. I told it to my pastor. I told it to my family. I told it to acquaintances. I told it to strangers.

I told it to myself.

My lie has reached to the sky. It has been out of reach. It has reached its boiling point. Has it reached its conclusion?

If the truth be told, it’s the moment of truth. Can I handle the truth — the naked truth, the gospel truth, the honest-to-God truth?

Here’s the truth:
He died. He’s gone.

Here’s the lie:
I’m fine.


Winner of the @Medium writing prompt contest