hanna’s outer band bears down on the man. waves impound concrete piles on north padre island. a mist-maker, circling in his pen,
hurls the sun to work for grams. atlas maps palms pouncing our borderlands. he salvages what mangroves supply to their roots’ belonging, throws tailings at the dam:
the monarch of mustang island, whose tower buckles on loblollies, captures his dune grass with air conditioning.
it’s the warmest summer since the thankless tolling of a pendulum.
the earth keeps spinning towards lunch for ectopic life.
the feeder fish flees to a bowl of rice inside each of us, who’s a pail against the well in the metamorphosis of storm to a machine’s hollowing badum-drum.
hanna crosses the fence to the pheasant sanctuary. water leaves them flightless with lilliputians: whims of poseidon that’d flood the tank.
alas, atlas has strength, but he cannot swim.
for west virginia, heart grows fonder
after a national river floods
old boy we look wet to allegheny what to do but golden gallows don’t drain black tubes, it is bellow too tough. winds brush outcrop i make chicken on, too afraid them suneyes will shut. poplars rise at diamond bluff to screwtail deviling a rope, some metals. no muscle gorge making cuts in a fountain drenched shawnee blood. backwoods backing rhododendrons, princess of our mountains. so the soil is poisoned:
hear statesmen crispen & lips saying brailled lizard-skin to best be chanting the hare, should us shepherds smell, then move a village inside nuttal sand- stone dug road, so creaky shaley springs forth a yellow, with me, the yoke
& mother, a load of standing roofers crossing endless milder walls, younger for moonshine, the tendered lookers on. flight is grist, ground bakes ice malt, spin spun clothes coming off the summit: 70,000 acres a way we cross & dropping stark, in august, the river’s family sweeping around small bluffs, grows up. i let me wrong us. the aspirant you are runs to the fox
on the windy seat of county, to hear from my heart: this body hunts outside your coastal time. it carves bitumen art. we still have the smudge.
Zixiang Zhang (he/him/his) has poems published or forthcoming in Hanging Loose, Cathexis Northwest, Consilience, Pedestal, The Nature of Our Times, Pensive: A Global Journal of Spirituality, and others. He holds a degree in geology from Stanford University. Once, he published a study on brachiopods in the journal Paleobiology. Now, he teaches Earth science at a small high school in NYC and enjoys growing succulents, erging,sunbathing, and sundry. He may be active @zzverse.
Image: Dosseman, CC BY-SA 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons
These poems are published connected to a series of workshops produced in partnership between Day Eight and the East Rock Creek Senior Village supported by a Creative Spark grant from the DC Commission on the Arts and Humanities.
Housekeeping
I’m beginning the housekeeping; it’s time, Time to clear out all the cobwebs and grime. They only masked a truth that needed to be seen, A reality waiting at my doorstep—unforeseen. Lies and manipulation, hidden in the corners, Offenses where you’d never suspect them.
Now, I see clearly— It was always there, Hiding in plain sight, Waiting for reflection.
Those cobwebs clouded my mind, My judgment skewed, leaving me blind. Tyranny attacked my thoughts, Discernment drained my energy, my time. It’s time to sweep, To brush away the crumbs of empty relationships, And those who never fed my soul. I won’t entertain you anymore. You’re swept into the trash, Buried for safekeeping.
Next, I’ll dust the surfaces Where reckless decisions have settled, Letting go of results that hold empty promises And cloud my vision. I’ll gladly discard those memories— They held me hostage, left me in need. Oh, and I won’t forget to dust the fans, For if forgotten, they’ll spin self-doubt again, Whipping up illusions, Clouding my view of what’s real, What I truly envision.
It’s time to let them go. I’ll remember—but only as lessons. No pity parties, no fear of reckoning. It’s time to let go of regret, To vacuum up the fear, the doubt, Making sure I’ve caught every negative thought, Every heartbreak and disappointment, Sealing them away—permanently. Yes, they’re bagged and gone, Disposed from my midst.
I’m closing this chapter. No need to revisit the past, No need to worry about what could have been, What should have been. What’s for me shall be, Even if it can’t be foreseen. When it’s all said and done, It’s time to move on. On from the clutter that no longer serves, My headspace is now clear Of cobwebs, dust, and grime.
The circus of chaos has packed up, Illusions gone, Confusion stilled. Peace is what I’m seeking, And as I take a deep breath— It’s peace that now fills my being.
Inhale, exhale— I feel it settle in my bones, Where confusion once thrived. The dust has cleared, And in its place, I find—me.
Yellow Brick Road
Making the most of every moment!
Eager to explore what the future holds
Not allowing my golden years to pass me by because there’s no time to let things run awry
I’m making my bucket list and checking it twice
Rather than thinking about it, I am rolling the dice
Taking a chance, I press on with strength With great enthusiasm I explore and travel great lengths
In my golden years, I am grateful to God at the blessings he has sent
For I have tried my best to be faithful
And while my bucket list may not seem ambitious to you these upcoming years are no time to be wasteful
Relocating to the realm of my dreams to explore all the places I’ve dreamt of
You see I really want to see what’s at the end of that rainbow
Folks have said that there, I just may find my King of Pentacles
So be happy for me as I would be for you
There’s no reason to be hating
Forgive me for breaking the barrier of these four walls and the stagnant mindset that’s stressful
As I start my trek down the magical yellow brick road it’s fine if no one accompanies me
Although, I wouldn’t mind a friend or two to share the memories and talk the tea
For I can carry my own load to the next space and time and bask in the light of the future of mankind
Because I’ve come to understand that there’s a vast contrast between being by oneself
Verses being lonely and stuck in self-pity within one’s self
Do Not Disturb
Do not disturb my peace Walking through life not looking for strife Do not disturb my peace If I don’t respond back Not looking for any flak Do not disturb my peace Staying in my lane Not looking for folks to drive me insane Nor point fingers or blame Do not disturb my peace The world is crazy right now No leader can take a bow Do not disturb my peace A world full of the fake Out for the take Do not disturb my peace We must unite For there is so much at stake Do not disturb my peace The need for more discernment To avoid disillusionment Do not disturb my peace Staying steadfast to my belief That there will come some relief Do not disturb my peace I will have faith It’s not up for debate Do not disturb my peace I pray that integrity will be sustained God will be with me throughout This change “I will fear no evil: for thou art with me.” So Do not disturb my peace!
His Touch
From the moment, He put his fingertips, Upon the temple of my face. I felt an unexpected feeling of connection. One of mixed emotions, Of intimacy, A tingle, yet serenity with each stroke.
His touch soothing, yet sensuous, As he rolls his hands over each mound of my sacred space. Forbidden to many, restrictive at best! Access meant only for the Divine Masculine. For only he, May invade, Only he may trespass, This Empresse’s sacred space.
Will I allow this one? Just this one? To trespass my inner sanctuary. Because secrets may be revealed. His touch stirring up memories, In me of a past connection. One that was passion filled, with taboo. Of forbidden love existing in a prior place and time. Could it be he? Did we cross paths before?
His touch ever so soothing. I welcome it with each grasp. I harbor no fear of him, As he embraces each curve, It ignites a fire within me! Exuding warmth, and gentle care. Such a pleasurable embrace.
Perfection in one human touch. Mystical and magical sends chills up my spine! Perhaps a glimmer of a simmering passion from another place and time.
With each touch, he shows compassion. As he ever so gently, caresses each and every curve. Sending healing energy throughout, Every nerve. I comply, For I am jelly in his gentle hands.
Meant to be healing but, ever so titillating. His touch sparks memories of, A time not known, to man in the world of 3D. As he delves into every crevice of my body. Each caress reveals secrets at the very depth of my soul.
Does he sense this? Or is it only my imagination? I keep this feeling concealed. For only you God, in heaven truly knows.
He stares into my eyes. I turn away, For fear, that my eyes will reveal, The secret of what we both, May or may not have shared long ago. Unexplainable, to others I wonder if he knows?
And if so, Thou shalt ignite my Soul! For the anticipation of blissful honey dust powder and pleasure balm delights! Stirs my imagination of, Passion filled nights. Did destiny cross our paths for a karmic meeting? Will we finally reunite? Has destiny bestowed upon me this sightly man who could be kryptonite?
Catherine Klein was born in Brooklyn, New York, of West Indian descent. She moved to Washington, D.C. as a young child, completing primary through secondary school followed by an undergraduate degree at American University. Catherine worked as a professional writer and subsequently a Senior Project Control Specialist/Quality Manager. Later, she worked as a Senior Acquisition Specialist. Catherine adopted a little girl in 1993 and is now a grandmother of three. She spends much of her time visiting with her family, exploring new adventures for her bucket list, and using her decades of writing experience to fuel her newfound passion for poetry. In her recent retirement, Catherine has found joy and peace in both the written and spoken word.
Featured image in this post is, “Women Washing Clothes by a Stream” By Daniel Ridgway Knight, licensed creative commons via Wikimedia Commons.
Did the sound of the clicking hooves cause you to starve yourself?
Like a poor scavenger, you fed on scraps of sin and servitude, injecting guilt and regret into your lifeless, demonic veins. As you pierced your flesh; depleting your body of love, of innocence, of respect.
How are you not full?
Has your throat not expelled the harrowing sins you’ve been so intimate with?
Purging Riches
I weep riches.
As I admire the delicate rubies that gush–
tickling my forearm, suffocating the bathroom grout with their vibrant red hue.
The leftover rubies gurgle, seeping back into the slivers of my wrist, waiting to be tucked in by a tender, fresh layer of skin.
70 pounds of purity. Bones. Vomit. Starvation.
I have never felt so wealthy.
Alyssa Mariel Gutierrez is a first-year Psychology PhD student and poet. Her work uses raw, vivid imagery that explores themes of body image, eating disorders, depression, and anxiety.
Image: Pablo Picasso, “Crouching Woman” [Internet Archive]
Tyrant-Poem
I
We will shake our bodies like animals abandoned in the forest,
and the moon will sing lullabies for the
dead;
the dead who were mine and did not know how to die peaceful deaths;
and the hour will come,
and it will carry away in colorful shrouds
the faces of the barbarians;
we will stand tall
but at what cost?
at what cost
will we survive their cruelty?
If the poem with which I drive my hand into this land
does not serve to withstand their assaults
then it is not a poem.
If the poem with which you drive your hand into this land
does not withstand, rewrite it.
If the poem is there
between its jaws, the earth will rise again;
between its jaws, executioners and traitors will die.
II
We must seek the country that lies
between the ledges, even if what we find is not the same.
We are already in the final lines
and we have not even honored the poem
that roars behind the mountains.
Listen to me well:
Beware of the poem that emerges
from its hidden zone,
it will come like tyrants fall:
without warning and eager to kill.
Salvador de Bahia
Set out from any point. They are all similar. They all lead to a point of departure: A window, a cliff, a back to hold on to when the night gets rough, your legs wide open in the middle of summer, Salvador de Bahia, The South so blue, your long speeches about justice, memory, the terror, not yet overcome. How could I not remember that as the beginning of many other endings. The silence —that was so rare in that city— resting quietly in your open fists. You were tired of fighting the wars of your ancestors, the same wars that your children would have to fight, that’s why you chose not to have any. That and the economy: that’s a luxury only rich women can afford, maybe they’ll rent my body for a few months, and that’s the closest I’ll get to experience motherhood. Then you’d laugh and pass some more dendê correcting my Portuguese with your soft tongue.
I hated dendê but never said it to avoid hurting your feelings. Mas você parece saída duma revista de Nova York. That’s what you said when you saw me at the bar wearing those leather boots, nobody wears boots here, you said showing me your flip flops; you told me in Rio you called them “chinelos” that’s the first word you taught me. The second one was “sapatona” which I understood to mean dyke. You wore that label proudly, you said it took many battles to wear it that way. Our last day at the beach you bought me coconut water, when we said goodbye you cried a little, took one last selfie and said holding my hand: good is to forgive evil, remember, there is no other good.
Not us To Jeanette Vizguerra
If we cannot make poetry a cry let us clench our fists and search beneath the earth for the mirror that shows us the most fleeting truth; we are all the same, connected by tiny threads that never break. Politics is also to amplify language against the despot. Language, which does not speak for itself but designates others. Let us name things as they are so that the executioners do not render us mute. They expected us to bow down before the oppressor, but we poets raised our hands and gathered the daughters of others in our arms. We come with sharpened tongues, carrying the truth and the word in our pockets. What do they carry in their mouths of salt? Others will tremble, not us. Others will fall, not us: We who exist, demand our own possibility to seek justice not only for the dignity of life, but also for its tears.
Carlota Roby is a human rights attorney, and the co-founder of the project Vocales Verticales. She is also a poet and a cat lover. Originally from Venezuela, she resides in Washington D.C.
