Don't know what this is about *shrug*

calling for gentleness now

is a hitchhike to the desert-

there ain't no way-

sweet knows its place

and the damned slot it in

round in square, full

slough it off.

a joke now might be nice

or off-color, so what?

last night maybe

it could have been right.

now just rip it off.

I had a lover once

but lovers tarry, turn 

to bulls taken by horn.

copyright Cristina T. Cheng

Fairest

This feels safe:
run against the gloaming
towards a child, to a mirror.
It is entirely safe.

Undrink the brimming cup
or awaken when the pin drops.
How? That is no bed for sleep
nor a cup to be denied.

The secret word is passage
to the dark forest. The apple is
far from the sheltering tree.
The only light is fireflies swarming

to please the motherless child.
The begging: "Girl, fade before you
are saved." It must come
with the early clarion call.

She runs for the horizon-no matter
that clouds gather. Shelter
is not under the bowers
of the stately and unbowed.

When will the orphaned rest?
Sunlight broke before the final
spoken word. No heart can
wound when it is beaten.

Girl, three times denied,
fold back the blanket of rain.
Step forward and touch fingers
with the woman in the silver sky.

Copyright Tina Cheng 2012

How's this
be here hands up eyes
down
to catch a rose
for grinding down

a pyre holds two thoughts
that you cry with the rain
and that I can return
what had flown away

be here sitting at the table
waiting for a gust through the window
to blow out your flame
to count down the years

say hello
to this scene
no master no slave no whip nor chains no beginning no relief

be here is all

Copyright Tina Cheng 2012

The tower grows lips
while all around the trees sleep
and a dragon blinks out flames
meant for more mythic things.
"Who goes here," the echo quiets,
"And for whom? Will the claiming
take all morning? There are threads
to be spun and tapestries unhung.
Let the dearest sword come;
the tower is empty."

Copyright Cristina T. Cheng

posted from Bloggeroid

A feather from your white bird
pressed
between pages heavy with ink
and spaces
remembers its part in flight
(towards or away?)
cannot even twitch
free of semi-comas
now.
The ornithologist flinches
at this treatment
but he is South for a month
and cannot send
an electronic reprimand but
for a dash-
silent treatment-

You remember that day
never far from your pen
you write, "Someday,"
the song in the air
that day
will catch in your ear and there
die.
Bits of bone and keratin
will be blood-borne
miracle of medicine
right into the niche
that held vows and memory;
will break some
unbreak the only
(that day) refrain
refrain.