to be read with a lit candle on Solstice night Dare to stare into this flame, this singular substitute of the sun, your point of light for this long night of solstice. Dare to stare and fuel this flame with your memories of all kinds and flavors, let them evaporate into the stars above. Dare to stare and celebrate this moment. There. Stare.
A poor rhyme Is not a crime As the critic Of the lyric In his prime Throws a brick In the center Of an altar For a god we never believed in.
Throw a rock in the river. Enjoy the miniature tsunami you created, floating away and vanishing. Dare to put one foot in the river. Sink it in the very old sand, resting, cooling your blood flowing to your heart and your optic nerve observing the show in the water. H2O molecules bounce against your skin cells. They swirl like Turkish dancers around you until they rejoin in a feverish whirlpool to continue their voyage downstream. Your dancers will return. They will fly up in the sky and pass you by, then rain, somewhere upstream. They will return for your encore, or, rich of your experiment, for your new show as you let a second foot sink, then a finger, ten of them and two hands, now twisting and waltzing. The river flows, passing you by, unperturbed. Cool, you think. You are refreshed. A creative beaver blocks the river downstream, You are now dancing in a lake, making your own whirlpools with the molecules that stayed in the moment.
My pen spat a blob of ink Like an asteroid on the planet of my page Chaos ensued It bounced and spawned other blobs Small and large And I waited for it to dry, saw the skylight reflected in each Tried to give them meaning: This is you, I pointed an arrow to the smallest; That is chaos, I pointed to a large one Landed between serious lines of my thoughts, Read into it nothing but a blob of ink Waiting to be absorbed into another constellation.
Berkeley is a very walkable city in a country where people dislike being away from their cars… It’s about the Addison Street Anthology… Go read it on lindaleith.com!
A meteor shower of little effect on the planet In beholders’ eyes became Highness expressed in a chaotic display of lights Bulbs over ideas Disco ball over dancers At dawn shut Leaving traces on neurons Re-ignited.
It’s just an old sweater of yours That I found In memories of our common past. Little did I know you would appear in a plastic box at the back of the closet. I thought I’d return it to you Wrapped in a cut paper grocery bag Write your name and the last address I have for you Take it to the post office, take a number, Ask for nothing special See it thrown in a bin full of other packages Should I include a letter? What would it say? I saw you receiving an unwanted package and a letter maybe, Throwing this sweater in a bin for Goodwill With all things from me, the past, this town. Your scent having long left the soft wool, Chased away by mothballs, I washed it in cold water and delicately Dried it flat and for a few days It lay near the back door The object of my curiosity, softer to the touch of my passing hand Until each of the threads caressed my arms and my …
Syrupy Substance A spot of sweet glue ready for osmosis touched the back cover of my book as it was placed on the table. My finger wiped off the offending matter, enrolling the help of others to dissolve the sweetness (note to self: must wash hands), ordering the diffusion of an all-out warning about a rogue sweet spot, innocent-looking like a drop of water that won’t dry, waiting, perhaps forever, for the coming of an ant. A Trace of Garbage The garbage bag had a hole in it, and the ants followed the path it made from the dumpster back to the building, into the elevator, through the corridor, into the apartment and the kitchen where it all started, or ended. It was an epic story of antesque proportions, telling of unhealthy snacks, empty calories, nutshells, and plain old dust. A forensic ant-analyst concluded a trace of a vacuum cleaner bag had led to a fruitless day of cleaning and dusting, the myth of Sisyphus repeating itself as intended.
Ropes curled, neatly inside The disenchanted serpents of your skiff Floating away in the silence of a deserted pier The town shrunk to museum size Then blurred impasto Destined to memories and The traveling theatre of your dreams You navigate on seas now calm then rough Counseled by ghosts and gods Against pirates jealous of your light purse Guided by the stars Confused by the clouds Siphoned by currents You reach A new port, outside your map Charming you with strange music To set foot on dry land Behind you the horizon Absorbed your history and silenced the voices of the past So far away now That you take a new name.
There he is, dead, alone You cannot disturb him any more And you think that’s how he wanted it And you think your puzzle is incomplete. You look above for signs of an angel Taking away his soul As in the image in catechism. As in the image in catechism You remember the angel busy cleaning your soul But yours had cracks in it Caused by a fall Caused by you Causing eternal pain Causing unmanly tears retained Your head bounces on an aluminum locker Your head spins about unsaid words and questions Locked in for eternity Another mystery, as they had many You had to take for granted Your finger ventures its back On a one-day beard Your lips prohibited long ago On the freshly shaven cheek Reserved for a good housewife Now watching your gesture And you withdraw deeper Into a mound of puzzle pieces That will never come together.
Bibi Tiphane 