My soul is a sunflower. [Poem]

My soul is a sunflower
blossoming yellow petals
and bittersweet seeds
that crackle under the tongue
or the heat of the sun,
its withering arms of leaves brushing together mindlessly,
like lost memories.

My body is a green stem
that holds my sunflower soul
skyward
despite the presence of birds and the danger of breezes
that might pull loose some crackly seeds at any moment,
casting them to the dirt below.

maybe to grow
maybe to grow

maybe to rest for a time in my hollow shadows
we may never know.

Photo by Sean Quillen on Unsplash


This week, Eugi asks us to respond to the following prompt:

“petals

tree tokens

fine art”

‘The soul has words as petals’ – Edmond Jabes

A Word Once Spoken [Poem]

“The swiftest horse cannot overtake a word once spoken”

– Chinese Proverb

Be wary what leaves your lips in anger or in passion,
for by fractions those words fashion your reality –
for better or for worse,
for worse or for better.
Not a thing can be unaffected that is touched
by these words once spoken.

Once silence is irreparably broken
it can never be repaired without scars
and you can never unmake words,
Not with the swiftest or surest hand,
Nor the tightest fist,
Nor with the softest kisses
laid across ears that cannot un-hear your words.

The heart heals itself like skin,
suturing along its frayed lines,
each stitch creating new scars
so that even in health there remain traces of brokenness,
faceless faces,
stitched together smiles,
a hollow reflection of what was once beautiful
with eyes that will never look at you the same again.

A word once spoken
does not collapse in the desert,
bone tired and sweat drowned,
nor does it cry out,
legs mangled under the weight of racing the universe,
chest heaving.
It rises like hot air,
borne from the earth into the clouds
to rain a harsh and toxic rain
over unsuspecting heads
while you sit watching the rain in the distance,
knowing what you have done.

Photo by Volkan Olmez on Unsplash

On DVerse, the prompt today is to write a poem that incorporates a proverb in some way. Make certain you state the proverb.

The Time of Night That is Quietest [Poem]

There is always a time of night that is quietest,
whether you are awake to hear sounds absence
or whether you rest tucked beneath a comforting blanket of dreams.
That is the moment when thoughts seem to linger longer
in the spaces between dreams or nightmares or fantasies.

Though when the seas of sound part, for that one moment,
my mind, whether awake or dreaming,
cannot help but drift to you, to us,
to those visions of the future that are too far away to seem real and too close for comfort,
those visions that pause in the space between dreams and memory,
forming a perfect future from the fragments of you, of us,
of the walls we tore down
to let each other in,
and the shadows that stretch from the walls
we are still working to climb.

The quiet is so deafening is that moment
that I cannot help but to seek solace…
but you are my solace and you are not beside me tonight.
When I turn over in bed,
my hands feel empty air
and my eyes see nothing but a blinking green light
at bedside
with no late night context.

I check my phone and see you wished me a good night four hours ago,
before the quiet and the tossing and turning.
Before I woke,
temples sweating
and temple crumbled.
I smile,
hearing whispers in my ear in the tune of your voice
and I roll over into a deep sleep,
the subtle sounds of summer returning
with the chirp of crickets
and the soft hum of streetlight bulbs.

Photo by Josh Marshall on Unsplash

Growing Pains [Poem]

We are born
with legs
unequipped to ferry us
through life
and eyes drawn everywhere
and nowhere
taking in nothing
and everything –
lost in wonder
and the joys of forgetting.

There were no beginnings and endings then
and yet when
we grow
we cannot help but remark at how time
flew by
in a flurry of endings
as our legs grew long,
aching under the strain
of pulling us skyward
against the pull of the dirt
we were born from
crawled over
walked on
and will eventually return to.

Our backs slowly cave through our chest cavities
under a gravity
that 10 million years of history
could not grow our spines
strong enough to overcome.

We are born dying
seeking whys
and wondering at meanings,
giving words to feelings
and puzzling at the space between words,
the emptiness between syllables
growing within our chests
until it becomes infinite,
leaving us gasping for breaths,
our backs bending through the soil
and all our willows weeping.

Cherish each step
on your unsteady legs
and love your endings and beginnings,
until you forget them completely
and dwell in the woes and joys
that exist beyond meaning
in the spaces where forgetting and remembering merge,
in the spaces where age and youth lose all meaning,
in the spaces between your toes
where the gravity
presses the dirt against your bare skin,
and you remember everything
you once forgot.

Photo by meriç tuna on Unsplash

The Shadows and The Fire [Poem]

The longest sunset
pours over the world’s edges
like a waterfall.

The horizon tries in vain to wrap its golden-yellow arms around every inch of the globe, dipping its hands in as many oceans and running its hands along the sides of as many mountains as it can reach. Even on this day, the other side of the mountain remains out of reach and the ocean only gives up some of its depths to horizon hands.

The shadows lengthen
under the spectrum sunset
in contradiction.

The shadows pace further from their homes on that day than on any other, their feet borne beyond the safety of their usual haunts, as if taunting the sunset at its inability to destroy the darkness. Even the shortest, the weakest, the brightest of nights is announced by the darkest of shadows. While the ground melts into nothingness, the sky is on fire.

Look up at the fire
as though there is nothing else –
to know you’re alive.

Photo by Scott Szarapka on Unsplash

At DVerse, we have been asked to write a haibun that alludes to the Solstice.

The Risk of Rain [Poem]

There is in the air
the risk of rain
that makes me second guess
my intentions
and turn over my passions
in the palm of my hand
to see what demons lie hidden
behind them

Rain drops
find my fingertips
and linger
between my umbrella and me
reminding my dry hair
of the way the elements feel
washing over
my exposed shoulders

Rain
wash me clean
and hold me
in a blanket of sorrow
so that I learn
to linger
and not be drowned
by life

Soothe my shoulders so I can risk
raising my lips
to the sky
to drink the rain as it falls
and nourish myself
with the sweetness of the clouds
while they cleanse me
with melancholy

Photo by Matteo Catanese on Unsplash


Tonight on DVerse, we are exploring the theme of risk.

Creating the Past [Poem]

There is no contradiction more stark than time,
which points its arrow along a single axis,
bearing us, helpless, into the future
while its timelines are mired with multitudes,
contradictions,
fateful encounters and chance happenings
that abandon axes all together,
operating in the vast expanse between coherence and truth.

How can I explain time without explaining its in-explicability?
Time, in all its linearity, constantly rewrites itself,
for in each moment,
we overwrite the truths of the past
with the truths of the present,
re-crafting the world in our memory
into something inexplicably new.

Memory knows nothing of the past.
It is an invention of the present,
a clever liar,
a wraith passing by our window in the dead of night,
bringing beautiful falsehoods
disguised in the veil of truth,
truths that smile at us with familiar faces
we have never seen before.

We look backward
to look forward,
our necks bending to the past,
straining against the moment,
our eyes inventing the images
that we will share with our children
when we have finally
shaped them into truths.

Photo by Elena Koycheva on Unsplash

Mirror’s Image [Poem]

I, in my mirror’s image,
am inverted
and yet to my
imperfect eyes
I see myself whole
in that reflection.

I, in time,
refine my methods of seeing
to find only what
that false reflection
already
so cruelly defined.

Who am I
to read my mind?
All I do is think thoughts
others have already rhymed
and internalize the false reflections
I see mimed in other’s eyes.

Under those eyes, mine,
the lines stretch long
as I try to re-invert
that mirror image
to show myself a reflection
that is truly mine.

Photo by ali syaaban on Unsplash

For Eugi’s Weekly Prompt, we are asked to craft a poem from the following prompt:

viewpoint from within

heightened thoughts emerging soon

beyond perspective

Blue Tuesday Heart-String Blues [Poem]

My heart is overgrown with vines

that glow green-radiant
in unkempt spring breezes
and rustle
across the un-tuned strings
of my weary heart
in the most sweet-melancholic melody

Like the ghost of a memory,
that melody stirs something
somewhere in the deep recesses amid the vines,
the phantom limbs of the breeze
hugging my heart
in the wailing and whistling vocals
of my ancestors.

The vines wrap around my heart
tightly against the dusk
and the promise of cold,
their old and reborn roots anchoring me
as the blue-frost edges of sunset
take hold.

Blanketed by ghosts and memories,
my heart aches
as I recall
amid the piercing notes
of my Blue Tuesday heart-string blues
how many vines I tore up,
expecting to remain rooted.

Photo by Pete Walls on Unsplash

On DVerse, the prompt today is to write a poem about the word blue, whether the color, the feeling, or the musical style.