Gray Grounds

You don't have to be Icarus near the sun,
we can lay in shadows near the caves
from which the first philosopher shirked away.
Why should you near what burns, anyway?

You don't even have be Perseus near Medusa;
heroes die in armor while we have none.
Let others take the sword to bone and muscle,
why should you bear the blade that bore you?

You and I are Polyphemus grasping at wool;
they've taken the light away, the steel away,
the fire and the water away. Allow them
all that they can carry on their backs? God damn!

When the last ships have sailed, we have wine left.
When all that our eyes can see have turned to stone,
we have the well left. Water, flowing, breaks rocks.
When the sun and life itself dims, our heads lie on moss.

Personal Record

I told a friend over chat
how this were a season for flowers
and coffee in styro cups
How calendars are marked in red,
circled to remind about rosary dates.

This is the season for that, I'd said,
and that is a reason to stay.

The next day, she'd deactivated.

This is also the season for every
man for himself; find shelter
where there is a kind word, a mild emoji.
I could not see you, I would have said,
but I missed you every day.

This is a season that has lasted longer
than the changing of clouds.
This is a season that has carried with it
more rain than the ocean can hold.
Tonight is radio silence from the edges of the world.

I could not see you, I would have said,
but I missed you every day.
I would have said, I wish you well.
I would have said, take care.
I would have sent you a meme.

Epilogue

When I mounted the dragon years back

It shrugged welcome and soared slow.

It flew low, close to ground and nearly walking.

It could have dropped me and I would have landed

On my feet and with a grin on my face.

Yesterday, the dragon spoke to me for the first time.

“As a creature created by wish, I have never wished

For myself,” it said, “but, my creator, I have a wish

To ask of you.” I set my sword down to listen.

“What is it?” I said. I thought I knew.

We had flown close to the sun,

Close to the moon, picked stars, scooped lake water

In claws and in hands, bathed in it.

Instead of wishing for riches, a family, a home,

The dragon rose up and flew.

Goodbye it seemed to say as it disappeared from view.

In its place it left an egg, small and blue.

I picked it up and put it in my pocket.

On foot, I set off for home. I had never named it.

It may never return.  I will keep its wish where it is warm.

Solemn Things

Lost boys look for their mothers
behind shrubs and trees
Or so I read. I read they cry
under a blanket of clouds
and eat berries in the morning.

If decades were charms on a titan's arm
and lives fall off like lint time after time,
I guess to look for one you have to crouch
and turn over leaf after leaf after
Leave the dead where they've fallen

seems to be the call of retreat.
Those who cling to the chain
are always drawn to look back.
It's only natural, I suppose,
that lost boys seek mother.

The ultimate battle is the battle to cling
and not unfasten the self from the link.
Collateral damage is the left behind,
the craning necks, ever searching.
Why do mothers let go?

Boys will be boys, even lost ones.
The moon compels them to fly closer.
The wind is a caress on their hair.
Boys will be boys, even men.
Men will be boys, again.

Death Anxiety

It was the middle of night
when breaths stir air slowly
and nightmares descend
I was awake

When light goes out it can return
and water flows all over the world
above ground, below ground, it flows.
What of me?

That night horror clapped its hands
and sudden black draped my eyes
what will happen of me
when I die?

How can I ever say again,
"Life goes on," when it will stop
and I will be gone. How can I ever say,
"Later"?

What are the moments before death like?
Is it like sleeping, as they say?
Is it a silent scream? Is it peace?
Is it decay?

Will I rise and fall like water?
Will I simply become dust?
My self. My will. What will become
of "Me"?

Dragonheart

What thinking of you does to me

Breathing sulfur from an exhaled flame

The plumes curl over my head

twins of fire plunder my chest

Inhale, exhale

I've always thought, "Conflagration,

how painful to be scorched

much more to be entombed

in a spiral of fire." Ha!

This is joy.

Your breath sets me glowing from within

When you rose above the horizon

With wings and claws and fangs

Magnificently, like the moon.

Below you this creature stirred

And gaped and laughed and cried.

My arms reached for your embrace,

Frisky as a monkey.

Yes, breath fire. Fly steep

Fly hard. Fly strong.

My heart, you are my heart.

My joy, you are my joy.

I rush up to meet smoke and heat

Love, without ashes.

Copyright 2015 Cristina T. Cheng

posted from Bloggeroid

posted from Bloggeroid

Message Sent

Tap tapping the sound is silent 
but in the synapses within this device

I imagine arcs of light and heat
whorls of energy you recognize
and only you.

In another plane there is a song
not silent but angry 
doomed nonchalant angry
fated capsizing.

Pull down the bar at the top
long-press to refresh memory

at the ready it waits 
for my electronic alphabet
missive to space.

Where does energy go?

Inside an artificial mind
do dreams collapse from chaos?
Or do they find proof?
Dreams of windows and bars
and vistas so far away.

I know this won’t get lost.

In numbers I trust.
Numbers do not doom the hopeful
and the mad.

My fingerprints send these words
to you. Long press. Refresh.

Copyright Cristina Cheng 2015