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Posts Tagged ‘curve’

I hate my photograph,

it is not me-who stare

at you behind the mirror.

That false reflection

with curved lips,

chinkee-eyed to greet

a hello. To whom?

 

I don’t want witnesses

to frame me in that split-second

prison cell of disguise.

I buckle down, and sweating

my bones, electrocuted,

dead nervous of strangers’

gaze into my inner being.

 

I hate questions.

I hate it when you whitewash

a harsh reality with a soft answer.

It’s a scalpel dissecting

an organ, trying to find

hidden tumor that metastasized

blood flowing a river

and then you drowned

along with drowning the negative

until it sinked in.

 

Please,  tell the doctor.

He is not welcome here.

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Your alabaster beauty

fills these empty halls.

I am watching you.

As my hand memorizes

each curves and contours

of your sculptured life.

I chiseled. I breathed

a ghost of someone

who will never  be able-

to reciprocate nor return

the passion unfolding

in cold stone, white-

washed in lunar glory.

 

Hush now, Venus, hush

in your half-baked shell.

Please  lay by the fire light.

Under the moon’s silhouette

and the night full of stars,

feel my night’s embrace.

Letting your nakedness

guiding the master’s touch.

The ocean tides mounting

under my skin, surging.

Setting ablaze a part

of me. Hidden, unrequited-

this undying desire.

Rise now, Venus, rise.

I want you.

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Still.

There are unspoken

words left unwritten.

Thread of thoughts

broken.  Unsure loops.

Scribbling faint lines.

Curving, arching,

shaking. Unsharpened

slow and slipping.

This pencil stabs

a heart. Fragile bleeding

through teardrops

and graphite smudges

leaving grey notes.

To long lonely days

against whiteness

of a blank page.

Still.

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No string quartet.

No conductor to signal the baton.

No orchestra to anticipate my usual swoon

of randomly plucked staccato

alternating octaves

like a mad man in Vienna.

 

Alone in the stage,

I would linger

unvigorous in vibrato,

punctuating this sadness

in glissando. A solo part- how I wish

to serenade the muse. Longing

to tell her story in music-

under the sweet  delicate pitch

sorrow of Cremona.

 

The episodes, I have written on

mellow notes, resonant harmony-

bowing cello. Passionately

romancing my fingers to the smoothness

of her nape, the ebony board. While

sitting on a chair, I am a young lover

in blue, embracing memories.

 

My gentle touch travels

her body,  her maple waist

to her bridge, her sensual curves.

Choreographed my movements

spiked to her gravity. My slow breath

became whispers reverberating,

counter-pointing her lucid melody.          

 

I chose to be soft rather than loud,

my cello swooning treble of a tenor-

overwhelmed by a mezzo-soprano.

Quenching beneath this segmented,

disjointed and abruptly shifted

monotony of a lifetime

asking for her forgiveness. 

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I build

with lines and curves

in syntaxes, in symbols.

Blank space waiting

to emerge in form. Subdued,

muted in tone verses. Tempered

by time, organic

in proportion,

inspired.

 

Scale upon scale.

Measure for measure.

Out of paper,

subliminal life

surfaces. A voice,

a message in letters,

of pure and simple

speech.

 

Impressions.

Outside

looking in. Experience

subtle reverberations,

palimpsest graphite

echoes of human

dimension.

 

The length,

the width and the depth

of an architect,

I build.

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