"The only journey is the one within." - Rainer Maria Rilke
apple -perfectly enclosed cup, your brightness erupts and paints you red from tree to tree.they've crowned a river valley upon you and gave you a womb of soft sweet flesh that swells in the palms of handshiddenand rumbling beneath the core.when a single stemmed tree extends then our bodies open like apples on the kitchen table,and the earth receives its seed, and preparesfor your return. like Da Vinci painting Mona Lisa and hiding her breast,the earth will hide you appleuntil it's time to shape you as a round planetdestinedto wax and to shine bright and redlike a ripe desire tempting our kitchen tables.©pio_jasso
ode to a table knife
table knife,life’sedgeforgedby fire’smost orange lake.from your mirrored face of steel you still reflect the paleolithic prophecy of your crudeancestors:the chipping flintand the hand axe:both used to sustain life, both stained in the blood and hunt of ritual, to remain as rust, spotting your shiny smooth blade. and now, you hidein silencein the kitchen drawers, resting flat and impassiveon the eating tables, as though you were innocent.in the hands of grandmothersyou are kind and deliberate.you cut to feed but never to fatten.in the hands of parents you hang like the sword of Damocles, dangling over uneaten peas. and like the sword of Solomon,you threaten to halve all things into equal shares, disrupting nature's natural imbalances.in the hands of the child you cut quick, and scrape and squeal like a pig running from a band of hungry, hunting pygmies. but the table knife in the hands of politics,always slices life so thin and indelicate,like delicatessen meat. can you stay sharp and stillbroaden your blade enough to carve more generous portionsfor the poor?for without food on our plates to cut,you remain flat and silentin our drawers,and absent from our tables, lifeless as a silver bass,rottingin the basin of a dry lakewhere you shall remain forever guilty.©pio_jasso
you take shapein the shadows.you take shape in the spaces where the rats and the roaches copulate,and the trash cans overflow with plastic, sour milk,and funky red meat,in the space where babies sleep on pool tables, and mothers push funerals in broken strollers. your belly is a pouch, a marsupial,festeringwith the rapes,and the murders you've swallowed whole.a fetus floats in the soup.and hair and teethand nailssettle in the coffee. you are a slipperydark ghosted place. and your traffic lights bleed.©pio_jasso
Is it real,or a figment or a mistor a wraith? Is it a softclayed thoughtcontrived;vitrified in the factitious kiln of memory,glazed untrue? Did it ever really happen?©pio_jasso
have u ever?
have you ever livedin a boxof crackers,across the starkbuffet of an almost meal? do you know the tasteof not today, the taste of maybe tomorrow, the flavor of not really ever?well it tastes like rockslodged in the pitof all you know, blocking the flow of hope, writing recipes flavoured in never.have you ever really lived?©pio_jasso
i fell into a lake of poems
walking and lost inmind,i fell intoa lake of poems.more of an oceanthan a lake,it was adeep water of words,a vast expanseof verses,flowinglike a currentpulling me into its purgatory drift. i seized withpanicas a rush of poetryfilledmy lungs.is this my death?this drowningin words,this floatingin a bloated graveof metaphorandsimileand meaning? unable to swim,i sank intoa holeat the bottomof the lake,as grammargatheredlike sandand syntacticalsedimentsformedan uneven floor. i stood,wobblingand walkingovergrammarlike a toddler,slippingon the slopesof commas,falling into deepparentheses,and climbed onthe top of question marksto escape. i traveled fora timeon an even patchof periodswhen syntax’sshrewd terraintrapped me once again. still, i marveledand watched assolitary lettersfloated bylike tiny fish,forming wordsinto colorful speciesof meaning,schooling into lines,and forming neat, like meters. then led by a single word,the letterswiggled away,like a string,disappearinginto a swiftwavyblue-green mist. other wordsshoaled into poems,fat and complete,floatinglike slow moving coral,or stayed unmoving,as a millenniaof rocks. a strong feelingwashed over me,and I felt theeyesstaring through thewatery fog. and as suddenas a punch pulledshort,a tiny poembrightas a goldfishpopped out of nowhere,appearing flushedagainst my face,suspendedin mid-air. we stared ateach other in disbelief,and the tiny poemlingeredas if it hadsomething to say,but as quicklyas it had appearedit swam away. the watergrew murky:as viscousas syrup,thick and mixedwith meaning.only shadowsmoved now asthe colorscollapsed intoa grayish-green hole. i sensed i had gone too deep,perhapsperilously deep,to the bottombeyondthe grasp of allmeaningand syntax,beneatha wavy existencewhere even symbolsrisk drowning.and a solitary questionswam beside meas a fish: where am i?
Beneath a starry sky, the bird stalks the midnight pond. His eyes in a hooded-glarecarried the moon like a ship sailingacross two lethal seas. Covered in black, feathered in shadows, crouching into a water biting stance, he listens intensely to the movementsswishing and swirling as if stirred, wetly by a spoon, beneath the surface inside the wombof the dark whispering waters. In a bladed salvo of claw and beak and wings,it stabs, slicing long deep gashesinto the face of the pond,blinding the waterswith shredded stars. His beak twisting and turning, shaking off the foggy night,as he rippedfrom the boggy fabric the bubbling rush of a fishnow buried in a grave of gnashing jaws, swimming from red flesh to death down the long throaty coffin of the bird. As it swelled,it seared in a flame of wings, stepping into the air, hugging the approaching wind,unfolding its span,rising into the clouds,mighty and highthen shiftinginto a fading, flapping, moon-circled silhouette, like the pupil of an eye. ©pio_jasso
The golden bell stirred the brown-eyed sleeping sunflower now awoken to a reaching sky, sliced aglow in a yoga poseof rainbows, bending high in a bright bowed asana of lights. The flower now transfixed,pierced by sound,marveling over the orange songs of a bird whose melodies took flight like minor rising stars,still bright, rising to singin the distant ear of Arcturus.©pio_jasso
ode to a vacuum cleaner
i’m told that nature abhors a vacuum,for without you there’d be more nature in the house: slivered twigs, crumbled leaves, and dried withered spider bodies.dirt is your cocaine.and like a train you leave raised tracks like history in the carpet.addicted to an allegianceof clean, you hoardthe four corners: a hoover - hovering, leaving nothing for clean white socks to collect.member of the family electric, you stand quiet and compliant in the corner,the corner where the childrenno longer stand, then your sound drowns out the room like the whirling blur of a thousand blenders. culture and machine, made from human hands, hands the preacher saidgod made from dust. ‘from dust thou art’, said he, 'and unto dust shalt thou return.’return to whom? to be born anew as the accumulated treasure in you: me – a man returned to dust?©pio_jasso
he searches himself, under the dimmest of lights, surrounded by cold dark echoes. and every shelter he seeks becomes peopled with wolveson the broken river of reeds. quiet he prays,folding like a flower,lost in the woodsof blood and boozeand the poisonous exile of rain.©pio_jasso
Validation innateby birth,trophies and praisesthat outgrow their shelveskept on showfor past smiles with an ever losing shine.Acquired it young,a field of mango treesadored for theirsweet worded fruitsa neem tree ignoredfor its honesty, insteaddeclared bitter and envious.Given and takenwhen old,a part of the crowdthat believed to stand not on their feet butwalking on toes to stand outto catch hold of even anappreciative smile,tending to alwayssmile first.Validation diedwhen contentment knocked,knocking on fragile doorsbuilt with egomeant only to fall.- T.S.
"Scared, asking for words,only good ones to calm nerves,otherwise it burns."©kairos_
Once doors thatopened willingly with a smilenow creaked alonewatching years fly bybegging me to leavelike I did beforeHow I wishedto smell the lost times,whiffs of whichstayed in the wardroberotten now inside outlike my worn out mindgiving upStepping on the floor without careeach tile yelled aboutlittle fingers crawlingworking feet rushingaging bodies limpingI could hear them well,without any recognitionPaints on the wallfalling off bit by bit, commemorating the onesthat left and my return,loved ones that stayedquestioned my loyaltyalbeit in a frameShouldering my past,my knees crumbled likethose old pillars,windows welcomed mewith a caressing wind anda stench of familiarity,both, I once abandoneda stranger I became which I always was,in my broken home.- T.S.#abandoned#wod@writersnetwork Thank you for the welcome. Hoping that your team has been alright.@mirakee Grateful to you too. Thanks for making our lives, readers and writers alike a tad bit better.
"left to come back,right to stay and not.correcting times and wrongs,forgetting right paths."