Breath's Burden

Breath’s Burden

Where Sweetgum falls and feet fail to trudge between thistle and weed,

Yellow roses with scent of Red’s,

Blue Bells and Coltsfoot, here the spotted thorn lay bloomed where lined hands welcome.

Out beyond the cry of skyline, the reach of golden chord -static and pristine-

the junction of worlds, blessed, onramps and Oreo Cows,

blades and bade for caramel dirt and what was worth.

Weighted among stretch of sky,

Candytufts and Snapdragons.

Passed the trickle of stream, drawn shade of lid,

ninety-degree Daisies and Snowdrops alike, soft and stuffy Water Lilies.

Beyond reach of lung and budding tongue, blue -or maybe not- iris,

pinpoint pupil but maybe I’m missing the point,

draped in fancy frills and marble shards,

draped in pollen and blemish

La Mer

So, this is just a quick poem I wrote on MUNI (the bus line in SF for all you non-sf'ers) while heading to my apartment from class. I have been trying to write a lot more lately and so far it is going well. I really appreciate all the views the blog has gotten and I'd love to keep the views coming, so I will try not to disappoint. Would love for you to message me on Facebook or text or anything really, just so I know who is reading and maybe how you are liking the blog. Anyways, here is the poem, La Mer. Thanks again everyone!

  La Mer

I know she is near, the Grand Pacific,

but all I see is Cha’s Tv’s and UPS, sadly,

I’m far too large to ship and they would laugh at my destination.

I know she is near, the Grand Pacific,

but the route times aren’t available, don’t worry,

the transit station is to be replaced with a new, state of the art,wave design. It will look like a Pacific wave.

I know she is near, the Grand Pacific,

but this breeze cannot be hers, it comes across as far too chilly,

and it comes across as far, too.

I know she is near, the Grand Pacific,

but I have lost my orientation, and I fear I’m looking south,

or maybe just not hard enough.

I know she is near, the Grand Pacific,

and she will be my home, when I find her, and,

I know she is near the Grand Pacific.

It Must Be Said

It Must Be Said

For, D.A. Powell

Beneath the water-spotted, ten-dollar glass,

in a box surely ripe with lead, smirching eutrophic promise,

surely during the worst windstorm of the past, I’d say, three minutes.

Surely, it must be said.

But who’s to say all the woodsmen and painters of coffins past,

dirt sickening their soles, stomped atop stumps and stray screams-scant,

careful among blossoming dandies as if short-tempered lions or

lioness.

Surely short of patience and short, more or less.

At least mine breathes, a mere eight or nine feet above me, through

carefully slanted slats, separating my silence from the air.

At least I am alive, or so I feel, more or less, deserving.

Beneath the water-stained, eleven-dollar glass,

in a box surely ripe with titanium dioxide,

the landscape doesn’t seem so useless.

Yes, again, my feet beg for travel,

outside of this once, encasing, box.

My feet a guide from boyhood, you’re feet a guide to life.

Surely,

It must be said.

Cedar

At last, like cemented veins, our streets have resurfaced.

A brilliant divide between oak and hope.

Rough against the flat of my foot but like before

my toes are soft to the step.

I walk the oak fence, piece-by-piece,

tracing the line by hand.

Ignoring drops where wood becomes absent,

ignoring rough snags on my calices,

ignoring disobedient nails for better or worse.

Following from wrist to elbow, a sudden left,

and home is a sun-caused freckle amidst a patch of trees.

Wind whirls like breaths of yesterday,

silent again, but I feel the sadness.

I walk the driveways of familiarity, balancing on cracks,

none of which are cause for concern.

I make sure to sit at each doorstep, an eager eye turned toward the hill,

a lonely arm turned toward the door,

and the scenes are just the same.

At last, like cemented veins

our streets have resurfaced,

A brilliant divide between oak and hope.

I'll take a right.

No Return Policy

One could call it window-shopping,

But my eager-scatter, reflection-to-reflection

Intricate with determination remains receipt-less

As no sight is striking and I’ve left my wallet at home.

By The Hands Of Man, By The Hands Of God

    Just wanted to write a quick poem about the beauty I found out in napa. Wrote it at 2:30am in like 5 seconds so... if you don't like it, its totally fine! ha. No, I hope you appreciate it.

By The Hands Of Man, By The Hands Of God

All that I could do was marvel at the beauty,

of the iron and brass intersected and interchanged,

reaching up towards the heavens and connecting the lands.

A hand made wonder and I’m just in awe.

Until I found myself out beyond the Oreo Cows,

where the green bled to green, and the trees stood tall,

standing up against the heavens and stubborn to their fall.

A hand made wonder and I’m just in awe.

Alive

Alive

It could not have turned out better had we followed the directions,

Your calf found the pocket of my knee,

Your thigh, with just the right clench,

Kept my hips in check.

Your hand, dressed in sheet.

If love were an art

We’re the piece not to be found.

But love is about the passion,

About the rogue ankle reaching towards the ceiling,

The fingers blooming and retracting,

The chin to forehead, nose to neck battle for dominance.

Love is about the chaos,

The toes parted by Achilles, the heels dug into shins.

It’s about the pain, the strain and stretch.

It’s about the emotion, the breathing and sighs.

It’s about the truth of feeling.

Love is about the eye-to-eye stare,

The green-to-green attraction,

Love is about feeling alive.

Napa Wrap Up

Back to reality after the weekend in Napa but I must say it was amazing and couldn’t have come at a better time. Ate delicious home cooked breakfasts, and a dinner paired with amazing wine. Went wine tasting, relaxed and kicked ass at Pictionary, drank more wine, and slept. It was perfect.

Silver Oak was by far my favorite winery, not only because it ended up being the most bang for my buck, but also because the wine was incredible. By far the best wine I have had, and it only was released two weeks ago! Also went to Stag’s Leap, Chimney Rock, Darioush Winery and back to Silver Oak for a second go. All the locations were very different in both appearance and taste, which gave the overall experience of wine tasting multiple mini experiences.

The house we stayed in was amazing; beautiful, comfortable and quiet. It was enjoyable waking up to soft rays of sunlight peeking in through slatted blinds, but not having to wake up and get out of bed. I could have stayed in bed the entire time. Anyways, the entire trip was perfect. Saw wineries, downtown Napa, surrounding areas and multiple wine districts.

Now it is back to reality and back to school and all its glory. I am trying to focus more on writing lately (poems and such) so stay tuned for more updates!


also, you can see photos from the trip here:
Napa Photos

Napa For The Mind

     Wow, I never realized how much of a different life is within 60 miles of my San Francisco apartment and this finding could not have come at a better time. The semester is now going at light speed, the reading and writing is picking up and before I know it, it's going to be summer and I'll forget it all. Stress has been building and added to my missing of home and family, I needed a break.
     We got to Napa around 6pm on Friday. We would have arrived sooner but we needed to stop for some "Northern California" mexican food (because they put rice in their burritos. us "so-calians" find it humorous) and some ribs and goodies. Sweet Tea Arizona? I think yes. A shirt that has a banana-moon smoking a cigar just because we can? Throw that one in too.
     Once we got back on the road it was smooth sailing until we arrived at the house which sits on Malk Vineyard, which has the logo of a pit bull. The drive up was astounding. Fading back and forth between tree covered darkness and revitalizing bursts of sun that made their way between the branches. Although it became semi-difficult to drive through this rave of exposure, my body welcomed the challenge. Winding in and around fields, vineyards, cows and hills, I found myself feeling far enough from the city to let my walls down. The lone country road that gave my eyes a test and put my heart back in motion.
     Pulling up to the house I felt like a pro, like it was no big deal. A steady 17mph down the narrow  road comprised of dirt, gravel and soil, nearing the house but unable to decipher its location due to the abundance of foliage covering its face, I wasn't phased; pretending I have done something like this many times, but who was I fooling? I'm excited!
     We finally get through the wooden, swing-open gate and up the gravel driveway, to the green and brown finished wooden garage door. To the right there are walls of unevenly stacked stones, intriguingly close to straightly-lined but unsettling close to not, surrounded by yellows, pinks and greens of earth dwellers. To the left is another stone wall leading my eyes around the front of the house, which is technically the back, just feels more front like to me (with the view and all). I follow the stones around the house and onto the deck. The wood creeks beneath my feet and I say hello in return. The front of the house is all done in a nice, dark wood, and the deck to match. Walking over to a spot that slowly became my spot on the deck, I was amazed at the sepia colors bursting through the trees. The shadows and the golden ring that formed around the leaves struck by light were astonishing. Looking out over field and fields of anticipated grapes helped me visualize my distance from the city. If I can only see as far as 7 fields. I can only imagine there are at least 10,000 between myself and reality. It was comforting.
      I knew I was on vacation when I could look down at my feet, caressing each rickety contour of the deck, and not wonder where they should be. It was my time to relax, and my feet fell to 2 1/2 feet off the ground, posted up on a wooden stool. Three legs and a top, the simplest comfort, the simplest mind.


More thoughts from my trip to come!
P.S. Sorry if there are typos, It is early and I'm hungover. Just a casual type. But feel free to make fun of me!

The poem that made up this lovely bulldog-

Delightful. Just another afternoon to relax.

I hope they don’t think I’m lazy,

They look at me like they think I am,

But they look at me when I’m not lazy too.

Does my breath smell?

Oh no, maybe it’s my gas.

I hope they don’t think I’m smelly.

I’m just so comfy though, maybe I don’t mind what they think.

I don’t mind.

I’m just so cozy laying here on my face.

My skin is so warm squished up against my eyes.

This is the life.

Zzzz.

Ah, oh no. I fell asleep. They are looking at me again.

Maybe I breathe too loud, oh no did I snore?

I need to breathe softer.

No, no. This is who I am. I know they love me for it.

They think I’m cute when I grunt.

And they giggle at my gassy ways.

I know they love me. How could they not?

Look how snuggly I am over here, they must be talking about me.

They must be talking about how cute I am.

I’m just a cute little bulldog pup over here minding my own business.

How could they not love me.

Oh man. I think I’m. I’m

Zzzz.

Stunning Is

Well, it seems to be that time. My first post on my new blog. There will be plenty more to come but for now, one will do. Need to get this started at some point right? This is a poem called, Stunning Is.

Stunning Is

Stunning is the blackness set ablaze,

the 5am shadow cast from far beneath

by first stretch of sun.

Stunning is the traceless strokes in a pallid sky,

the 4:45 certain glare, the understanding of dark,

a followed foe.

Stunning is the feel-felt, lids upon lashes,

and 4:30 easy-pleasing reason she’s within them,

and she remains.

Stunning is the shut-eyed view of brilliant comfort,

the loaded lonely but content nonetheless

seated at the doorstep of her soul.

The Day Deteriorates To The West

Another poem for those who would like to read. Just wrote it now and have not spent too much time on it but hey, its something right?

The Day Deteriorates To The West

The day deteriorates to the west,

God drags his brush through his palette and carefully strokes bursts of Citrine in-

between the Onyx sky.

Rivers run rapid, bursting with billowing clouds--an eruption of Diamond--the

water is lost.

The ocean, once a blanket weaved of Tourmaline and Agate, now dry--stricken with

Sunstone and Moonstone.

Fields prove barren­--Jasper soil prevails.

Trees fade to Amber.

Lifeless colors lament.

11am and I am still looking east,

to the Peridot and Iolite of her eyes.

You, I’ll Still Adore

One of the four poems from my class last semester. Had the privilege to learn under the wing of D.A. Powell and ended up walking away with much more than I had anticipated. Grew as a writer, as a person of feeling and emotion, and as a bystander of life. (He has a new collection out, Useless Landscape, Or A Guide For Boys. Take a look!) This poem is titled, You I'll Still Adore, but I will also post my three other finals titled-- 1.Red 2. Befog and 3. Nothing But The Best (A celebration of Frank Sinatra using only his song titles) Anyways, here is the first one!

You, I’ll Still Adore

My greatest fear dwells beyond my control,

so I am stuck watching the silver lined nimbi withhold

without a sensible cause.

The land grows thirsty but the population is quenched

with the product of their greed.

I’ll continue to pray.

Nightfall is more frightful than the days I spend alone. By midnight,

I cannot sleep and I start my journey east.

Posted at the furthest reach of pier 39, on the edge of my toes,

I wait.

By 5am my knuckles are white with surrender,

but the first burst of light is the re-birth of hope they need.

I know she is getting tired. There will come a day that I wont want

the touch of carpet on the soles of my feet,

but her feet might wear out before mine. We watch her walk.

Now, as cumuli and strati disperse overhead,

and the tickle of green works its way up my back.

My hand sits, fingers bloomed, waiting for your palm.

And as we watch the sun slip off to sleep, I’ll make sure

to remind you. 

Nothing But The Best

This is the fourth poem from my final portfolio last semester. It uses only song titles from Frank Sinatra!

Nothing But The Best

            A tribute to Frank Sinatra

New York?

Witchcraft. L.A. is my lady,

My kind of town.

Autumn leaves, Summer winds

All or nothing at all, for once in my life,

The best is yet to come.

I’m gonna make it all the way,

Mr. Success.

It was a very good year,            

Loves been good to me,

More than you know.

All I need is the girl, body and soul.

Call me irresponsible, call me

Faithful.

She says, she’s the right girl for me.

Guess I’ll hang my tears out to dry.

I never knew, how little we know.

I could have dance all night, goin’ out of my head.

How insensitive.

You brought a new kind of love to me.

The good times, the birth of the blues

Somewhere along the way, something’s got to give.

I see it now.

I’ll never be the same.

I’ve been there.

Life’s a trippy thing,

Like a sad song.

No one ever tells you, that’s life.

Sure thing, these foolish things, this town,

The day after forever.

You forget all the words.

Yesterday’s, forget to remember.

It’s a lovely day tomorrow, take a chance.

Oh! Look at me now.

Red

Red

A solid foot cannot trump the wandering eye from constant search for a crisper green, and the fence in the foreground promises a fresh start.

But the horizon is farther than it appears, and there, the grass grows untamed and wild.

The home of Mojave Rattlesnakes and foothold traps, the grass is thick, dark and restricting.

The unknown is enticing but the path home becomes lost.

The path out goes, un-found.

Your feet, able to escape sight, struggle and clamor through knots of blades,

Nipping savagely at you ankles.

The eyes you once trusted sit below the green, smothered by color and lack of landmark.

The grass may be greener, but you bleed the same red.

Unsafe grows the uncertainty beyond the horizon.

The slightly browned, unchaste grass of your past’s appeal has never been so great.

Befog

Befog

At six I saw my hero, by seven, my wilted past.

But the sweatshirt you left behind was the hope I learned to count on.

A sign of my future growth.

I wanted to be as big as you, until I learned how small that was.

I was like a seed from a bush,

that dropped not too far from home.

But I crossbred with ambition. I am a tree

and you were uprooted.

The sweatshirt you left behind, once comforting,

now holds my wrists and waist like a straight jacket.

The hood I mistook for your cape,

now nothing but a mask and I don’t know you.

At eleven you were my guidance, by sixteen, you stunted my growth.

You were the child, but I matured. Now,

at twenty-one I surrender, as the bushes sprout branches out of season,

as the sun’s heat befogs the snow, and rolling fists of crisscrossed blades of green

beg for color.