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

For F.A.M.

I caught you right
At the back of my throat
Where you sang
A rhapsody in E

My breath
Passed through
Your voice
It was nice

Copyright Cristina Cheng 2014

Glimpses

Frame this
A lea for grazing mouths
On a plateau
Clouds on blue sky
You and I
Away from the maddening.

But you are
Looking to the tree line
For crows
And I am seeking earthworms
To feed them.

It's not all green
Blue and white.
Sometimes it's crimson
Under the blanket.

I miss black
And you miss yellow
As egg yolks fresh
Into the silver pan.
I wish for coffee
To embitter this.

Sunrise sunset
And treetops bow
The wind takes its time
You and I gazing
At the horizon.

Frozen in time.
Bleeding in time.
Staunched in time.
Always in time.
Still.

Im not holding my breath
When I close doors
you've left open
Or pick up after you
Fall asleep holding the remote

Breakfast is eggs and bread
With blessed coffee
Work is a ticking clock
Rides are to and from
One concrete tomb to another
Evenings drown in stillness

Still when I look at you
From across the room
I'm not holding my breath
I'm breathing.

On Cheating

Why not?
Purpose and doubt
Form a trail down her face
And fade into
Thin collarbones.

She may as well
Be on the moon.

Cracks on sidewalks
Are craters for her
Or portals to a world
Where bones break even.
Whatever for

If we cannot?
It's a small thing.

Really, why seek
What is in the hearth?
Remains of another day
Another night
Old life.

She is a walker
Without a helmet
Oxygen on exhale
Long road breathed in.
She is. She was

Lost long ago
Lost again
In every blank roaming
A closed door.
Why not? What for?

 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.

You write me:
the page is a landscape -
skyscrapers jut up to
stab the horizon
and a rising sun.

Sometimes it is utopia
all blue and white space
barely punctuated
or punctuated much
too much.

I love when you write
post-modern novel-esque
slashes and dots
so heavy the earth
is scored.

So? I spread
a blanket over t's
of your country
and let your steeples
people me.

I keep a continent
in my desk drawer.
I keep it for when
you come and for
when you don't.

Copyright Cristina Cheng

F1
before you
shift-delete
me
control-x me
out of your life

Alt-tab please
before everything else
there might be something else
before you alt-F4
us

Control-z again
and again

Control-escape
I'll give you more
F10 just please
I will alt-enter
and be better
than default.

I can F4
no more control-c
control-v
remember
backspace this place
control-a and shift-
delete

my enter
don't escape
I promise to tab
from now until control-
alt-
delete

F3 how we were
and F5, please.



Copyright 2011 by Cristina Tan Cheng

Note: keyboard shortcuts reference guide: http://support.microsoft.com/kb/126449

6 AM

Continents slide into the sea,
believe me, while you sleep.
No measurements needed.
Though no geologist would certify,
oh my, the ground shifts
while you dream.
I don't know what science is this.
Just when your eyes close,
the world quakes as if to wake
you and every princess
from here to eternity. Believe me.
I would never fool one like you
who could call Fenrir
to come slobber here with one
whistle, snort, or snore.
What am I saying, my meaning?
Wake up now, my dear,
and hold me near and steady.


Copyright 2011 Cristina Tan Cheng

Nemesis I'm not sure
if this is cure or a whip
against your flesh-
this laying on your shoulder-
for either of us.

In flight, you unsheath
a smile. Here I pluck
at your sun-bright eyes
and bring the night down
to blanket our embrace.

When we met I sprouted wings
made of wax and feathers.
When we met you grew a halo
and sweetened the sea.
Grow a fire for me

because I am ready to fall
as I come closer to heat
and your yellow heart.
I don't know how to be good
anymore, not as I cry out.

I've found a dagger.
Imagine me,undone,
to find the hilt in my hand.
Your head on a pillow
as my skin become scales.

I have to fall on my knees
begging you turn the blade
cut out tongue, ears, jugular
of this beast. I have earned
your cold shoulder.


Copyright 2011 Cristina T. Cheng