Samsara

Why I can't let you go.
Why you can't love me.
Why fate keeps

bringing us together
so you can hurt me
over and over.

Why I don't fight back.
Why I repeat the same mistakes.
It's tiresome.

In another life,
when we have paid our debts,
when our souls have grown wiser,

you touch my back
with your chin,
warmth, silence.

Nothing is desperate.

The weight of tacitness

- on how loudly I can scream your name -
twenty-five years ago
my partner standing three steps away
I learned in drama class
that every so often no one wants to scream,
but sometimes it is necessary.

In my favorite 'chick movie'
there is a girl who asks a boy to walk away for fifteen meters
so she can shout out everything she is afraid to tell
to his face.
Her 'I love you' is ultimately abducted by the wind.
The boy never hears it.

I have this recurring dream in which
you leave again and I want to stop you
but when I open my mouth
no sound comes out of it
and I wake up crying because I know
how easy it is for you to just go.

Heretofore and hereafter

I had a dream I dyed my hair in intergalactic hues
and when I woke up I laughed at myself
thinking about how it would never happen.

I owe you an apology.

I did not see you in the small things.

Yesterday was the hottest day in the city in the last 105 years,
I escaped to the mountains and the sky was so clear
I should have remembered to look for you.

Forgetfulness discredits my promises.

I am in love with a young man who
does not know how to be loved
and I can't teach him.

I tell him he matters and that I won't give him up,
and I choose to love him every new day all over again,
no matter how difficult he makes it sometimes.

I owe you an apology.

I did not see you in the small things.

"If you loved someone, you loved him, and when you had nothing else to give, you still gave him love."

― George Orwell, 1984

Classical mechanics, complicated machines

It's time the things you
say and do
stop messing with
my body.

you are near,
my knees get weak.
you leave,
I get allergic to the air.

you look at me,
I drop the world.
you turn away,
my heart caves in.

you fabricate me stories,
I pass out.
you keep silence,
I die.

Everyday a little.

The organization of taste

I start a museum
with the seeds you spit -
tamarind is an acquired taste,
I want to tell you.

I want to tell you it took me time,
first to understand it,
then to cherish it,
sourness.

I may have wished
once or twice you were
sweet rather than acrid

before I learned that
all the tastes exist on
all parts of the tongue.

Breathing exercise

He laid on the couch and
fell asleep with his shoes on
while I, sitting on the corner
of the room,
studied his body
under dramatic lighting.

You figure
first and always
among the things I cannot touch,
like the flying man
and the rooftops
on my favorite painting.

I loved and I love you.
Even when you told me not to.
You push me away,
you tell me to leave.
I am stubborn,
I won't listen.

I've been stashing all the thrill
below my fifth rib
for years now,
it makes it hard for me to breathe.
That is why I have and
will always speak my heart.

Awake

In a dream you're so close
all I need is to move my hand
a little in any direction to find your skin.
I whisper your name.
I wake up to it.

In a dream you're so far away,
I don't have my glasses,
I watch someone your shape fade.
I cry out your name,
I wake up to it.

Disaster Preparedness

That the gentle hours
we spend together
they are preparation
for your absence.
That every time you
treat me to silence
you test me for endurance,
it never gets any easier.
This I remember:
your every laughter.
Because of you
my days are better.
This I forget:
that the gentle hours
we spend together
they are preparation
for your absence.

Losing hope

I lie about my scar.
Had I gotten it for being brave
rather than stupid,

had I repeated courage
a thousand times
instead of weakness.

We pretend to
read each other well.
He looks at me

once every six months.
I live a little. Die a little.
Lose words.

I replace pain with silence.
Respond separation
with unconditional love.

But my heart is so tired.

(I am so tired.)

Lull

you tell me how locomotives are powered
minutes before we hear the 2 a.m. train,
I have feared it for so long but not just now.

one cold orange night,
instead of sleep we choose to
go over old movies and viet congs.

you learn to look me in the eyes
and provide me with refuge in your embrace.
all things come to those who wait.

A heart from scratch

A language
made of
lost words.

You. I. Quiet.
While you were away,
I walked my little world

from pole to pole by myself,
hid my heart
where no one else

could find it,
my only weakness,
you.

(from my Poesia Torta)

We are the great danger

A cycle is to an end
- the water says.
Let it be old grief,
I am so tired
I cannot cry,
small sadnesses
clump up inside me.

I've lost a shoe
walking the
flooded streets.
I was and am afraid.
My bones did and do ache.
None of these
stopped me.

We are the great danger. Psyche is the great danger. How important is to know something about it, but we know nothing about it. (Carl Jung)

The house of sure things

I built it around myself.
High walls,
heaped imperfections,
bruised knees

and clay.
They tell me you can
count on nobody
these days.

There can't be
such thing as
trust in the invisible,
they say.

I care very little about many things.
I have to.

I inhabit a dream
with my own name.

Glittering dimness

I've been known for standing still 
in the crowd long enough to draw its sounds,
get lost. 

He's been known for going places,
talking to strangers, sunflowers, bridges
getting lost.

For some time we kept a trail of stars 
pinned to the sky like crumbs
pointing the way home.

Written for Karin's NaPoWriMo prompt over at the Imaginary Garden 

Disguised

Don't be cast down
in a strong impression of fondness
toward another living human
you become aware of
based only on your
senses.

Or:

Don't fall in love
with
anyone
you just
see.

Written for A to Z Challenge using an OuLiPo technique called Definitional Lit 

Caterpillars

When I was a child

I lived in this neighborhood where

trees produced caterpillars 

instead of leaves and boys would 

chase screaming girls around for hours 

holding them on sticks,

trap them in bottles sometimes,

sometimes inject them with fluids,

locate and open cocoons

until learning in science class

they were the biggest predators

of butterflies.

Day 3 of A to Z Challenge, a little bit late but here. 

In this one life

On the night we were introduced
you came out of the shadows supposed as a surprise,
but we were sure to have met before
and that it might have been in another life.

In this one life you skipped classes to see me,
I was grounded for a month
for letting you sleep over while my parents were out of town.
In this one life you were my best friend,
we nearly kissed. Twice.
In this one life it was your choice to part,
it was your choice to stay away.

I kept saying your name for years because
I didn't want to lose it, because I would always
be able to use the letters like coordinates to the memories.
Your leaving ruined me for the human experience.

Written for the PAD Challenge, today we were asked to write about departures, there are a few departures it was hard for me to  get over, this was one of them

thankyouplease

Dear God
I heard we choose
our own pains,
let me not be
an extension of my errs,
I've always been careful enough
not to break anything.

I mend my fences,
close my eyes tight,
write my feelings out in full,
fuel an unusual courage.

Ask me again
what I wanted to be
when I grew up.
I wouldn't say lonely.

Both Fireblossom's NaPoWrimo prompt over at the Imaginary Garden and Cuyahoga County Public Library's were about music. Though being recently involved in a musical project, I couldn't be less musical, I suck at writing lyrics (Fireblossom's challenge) and my musical taste is quite peculiar. I've been listening to a lot of The Books lately, they make extraordinary, exotic music that is very calming to me and always returns me to my self. 

Bow tie

I wanted to disappear,
but I'll tell anyone how naive I was
instead and
hope to be forgiven.

You fall between my fingers
like a handful of sand.
Leave.

You climb a big wall of cumulus
and this time I can't follow you.
Go.

I cried my way into sleep the first night,
but not once I blamed God
for the helplessness.

Say present unreal conditionals.
Say punch in the stomach.
Say getting used to it.

I put on serenity and pink lipstick,
go over the memories you
wanted me to have.

Some days there is an old song
playing in my head.

Some days I still wish you could
see inside my lungs.

To live in this world

Growing up
we had twelve addresses,
anyone would have
taken us for nomads.

Every place, every person
we knew and loved,
was left behind again and again,
all to be resumed time after time.

Home was separation, wholeness.
Food was the basic understanding
that nothing was ours to keep,
that all things are transient.

Written for MZ's NaPoWriMo prompt over at the Imaginary Garden. 

The title is a line from Mary Oliver's poem In Blackwater Woods which I  really adore.

Alper

photo credit

Isn't it curious that
your mother called you
brave heart while mine
named me after a mountain
in eastern Africa?

That I was meant as
God's resting place,
but it was from you
I learned peace?

(Day 1 of A to Z Challenge. My A has always been for Alper, the first man to see my soul. The poem plays with the meanings of our names)

Orhan

My soul still resided
an old coffee can
inside a cabinet in
the Euphrates Valley
when he found me,
a broken genie repeating
the Hereafter would be 
better for me and
trying hard to believe it.
He told me it was okay
to take the lid off sometimes
and come up to the surface
to breathe.

Written for Magaly Guerrero's NaPoWriMo prompt over at the Imaginary Garden. I first thought I could write poetry after reading Turkish poet Orhan Veli Kanık's poem 'Dream' (you can read it here). Kanık is one of the founders of the Garip Movement, which broke with the conventional style of Turkish poetry and literature between the years 1945-1950 by using vernacular speech and surrealist elements in poems. The italicized line of the poem is a reference to Quran 93:1-4.

This I regret

I guess it's too late to live on a boat,
to discuss the advantages,
or think of the possibilities.

Had we left when it was first an idea,
when we started to understand maps,
when there was a North.

Had we left behind our fears,
been taught detachment,
learned the seas from pirates

in our childhood books.

(Written for napowrimo.net early-bird prompt)

NaPoWriMo - 2015

It's almost April again and this is my public commitment to 30/30.

I'll be selecting favorite prompts of the day to write from the following websites offering prompts throughout the month of April, which means I'll be writing more than a poem a day!

Imaginary Garden With Real Toads
Writer's Digest PAD Challenge
Napowrimo.net
A to Z challenge
30 Day Poetry Challenge
The dirty thirty
Writers Victoria
Apparatus Magazine
Cuyahoga County Public Library

"Let the wild rumpus start!"

Won't haves

I want the world to be whole again.
I want things to be found on their
original places, glued to the ground
thanks to gravity, floating bodies
to be left for the outer space.

I want to raise a child to made-up
music and stories, to cloud watching
and sugar apple because life can turn
bitter, sweet memories aren't that
widespread these days.

I want January back, your invisible
hand on my chest, your laughter,
your heart, some rain. I want to
carry you home, and ease all of your
pain. I want to ease all the pain.

Resignation

For years to come I would wish
I could have done something
other than sit and watch
everything precious to me die.
Then again I am reminded
this is how all living things end.

A cartography of the blank and oblivious states

The man I love will

most certainly one day

fit in his doodles with my tattoos

write promises on my thighs

and poems on my back 

and songs on my belly.

He will recite the poems

and shout the promises

and sing the songs 

when I start to forget 

this is how he will be able

to bring me back

this is how he will be able
to bring me back. 

Sunday ends

I lie in bed in savasana
for not everyone can be a starfish.

The untrained circus monkey mind
swings from one thought to the next.

Timing

"The sky in March is
as beautiful as I remember
it by your side
and I love you"

- he says.

And he means it.
The way I did once,
watching him disappear behind clouds,
my heart bleeding off altitude.

Kensi 'n' Tom - Peace then pieces

Listen to the full EP by clicking here. 

:: Thirty-three and one third - TB

33 1/3 revolutions per minute,
In his home,
Listening to, thinking about
Dylan’s Revolution in the air.

70 heartbeats per minute,
Rising to 100,
Reading through, thinking about
Injustice, violence and suffering.

10 blinks per minute,
71 by the President,
Informing and then telling
Everything is going be OK.

4000 steps per day,
Rising to 10,000
Walking over, then resting on
Old ground.

:: War footage - KC

It's beyond late

when in a dream

I get war footage of

your neighborhood's

exploding buildings and

smoky streets,

I am mad at you already

for not keeping your promise.

All of a sudden

you come into the picture

dressed in your

stepmotherland's colors,

trying to make your way

through the crowd.

A tall man blocks your

passage, whispers

something in your ear

and kisses your cheeks

before you disappear.

In the e-mail you say

you've been thinking about

leaving the city and that, maybe,

we should consider working

for the Ringling Brothers,

now they are ending their

elephant acts.

You could be a fire eater,

I could be a lion tamer,

or we could both be

smartly funny clowns.

I wake up crying

for it's beyond late.

Anticipation

Coming home after work
I anticipate you for 12 miles,
twenty-eight traffic lights.

The miracle of love
is that of
everyday things,

of breathing things
like open windows
and turned pages,

of things that move
with the wind and change
at the pace of clouds.

The day before I discover I wasted a wish

Coming from somewhere
between desperation and rage
a man with a gun
jumped in front of me this week,
he wanted my cellphone.
I couldn't hear him at first,
I was only halfway through a song
that says everything I would
tell you in my vows.
Had I gotten hurt,
you would have been
the last dream of my heart,
the last wish of my soul.

Jöjjön

Come on a Sunday

to challenge the house noises

and hide me in your chest,

let's read each other's eyes, 

let's waltz in our private silence.

Calm down the death of roads

that can only lead to 

burning desires,

spell togetherness in 

imaginary languages.

Prepare me for uncertainty,

for the prevalence

of the ephemeral,

for letting go of

the memories we are making,

of the taste of existing around you
that will linger in my mouth

if we ever part.

Treasures

Growing up I had a
jewelry box where
I kept a collection of
stones instead of pearls.
I can only begin to explain
why I save your sounds.

Constraints

Your discomfort with my words
imposes me a pattern:

I must not speak of love
I must not say your name
I must not tell my wishes
all in the same poem.

This has to be the
most hurtful of constraints.

(about constrained writing)

Incomplete volumes

I'd lie with you wordless
in the backyard
mid afternoon counting clouds

midnight listening to stories
told by ancient stars
your head touching mine

my hand touching yours
two unknown bodies
placed silently beside each other

thoughts speaking volumes.

Kensi 'n' Tom - The wheel of misfortune

Listen to the full EP by clicking here.

:: Bee-ing - TB

Will this matter a year from now?
For now I am a honey bee
Hunted by hornets.
They try to murder my dreams
And deliver homilies of their own.
How doth the little busy bee
Continue living from hour to hour?
How long will she be free
To gather honey from every little flower?
Flowers are not as sweet as they once were
And seeds fall on hard ground.


:: Bee-gone - KC

I conjure these men
somehow,
men who can't do feelings.

Repeat old mistakes:
love them more than I should,
love them more than they deserve.

A discombobulated soul
I go into the world,
take the wrong turns.

They mute their hearts
so there is nothing I can use,
no North.

This is how they spell
begone.

N.B.:

-  TB writes Under the Toadstool. 

- These poems are shared with The Real Toads.

- Kensi 'n' Tom EP original photos and artwork by TB.

Boy walking tall down fiery street

He's got noble feelings
and big dreams
but small hands,
not made for fighting
- especially not wars
against the will and acts
of giants.

Weak and limited as he is
he still walks on
with the raging crowds,
pursuing the common good
above his own,
he was once told tears
will turn men into boys

by cracking open their chests,
their hearts made visible,
left vulnerable.
He knows now it's the
consciousness of vulnerability
and the imperative of self-preservation
that will turn boys into men.

(ab)sent

For an entire month
before you were reunited
with my letter,

I was afraid to have said too much
and then
to have not said anything.

How do we come to mean something
for each other
walking home alone from this far?

How do I come to love
the sound of your feet coming and going
around the house?

How do I come to love
all of your
silliest sounds?

There is so much I didn't say in that letter.
There is so much I don't say
when I can think about the words

when there's no rush to press send,
when I'm haunted but not scared
by the thought of your absence.

(Written for my dearest Michael's get listed challenge over at the Imaginary Garden) 

Time management

He leaves bed,
makes breakfast,
scans the news for news,

does the dishes,

listens to music,
checks his papers,

looks out the window,

goes over a couple of pages

of his current reading,
doodles, babbles, twirls
around the house,

goes for a walk,
hums random songs.

runs a few errands,

takes photos,
comes back home,

writes notes for poems,

gets sick,
lies on the sofa,
spends time with
the walls and ceiling,
forgets about me.

Never enough to write

Aşkim I've kept the letters.
I read them once a year.
Still wonder what to do
when the paper gets
too fragile to be handled,
when my mind gets
too weakened to remember.
I like to imagine you kept
your promise to never forget me
and I was on your mind
during the earthquake,
you touched a memory of us
and it helped you not to be afraid.
Was there enough time
to run to the kitchen and
get my heart from
the old coffee can
inside your cabinet?
Where have you hidden it
after that?

(This is a poem abou a deceased love. I revisit his memory every Valentine's, you remember him from this poem last year)

(Written for Karin's Sunday Mini-challenge over at the Imaginary Garden)

Kensi 'n' Tom - Happily miserable

Listen to the full EP by clicking here.

:: Grumpiness - TB

Smile he never does.
Smile he never wants.
And you think a smile it was.
It’s more likely to have been a grimace.  Smiling has been a while for him.
It’s like idle chatter.
Speak purposefully.
No time to natter.
Smile what for?
Smile I don’t want to.
Smile it’s a chore.
Smile, no thank you.



:: Being Eleanor Rigby - KC

I tried it many times.
The diary thing.

Then I noticed lonely days
repeated themselves
in a frequency I didn’t want to think of,
a frequency I didn’t want people to find out
because everybody feels sorry for the lonely people.

Even The Beatles did.
They came up with Eleanor Rigby. Poor thing.

See?
See what I’m doing here?
I’m feeling sorry for her.
I’m feeling sorry for the poor woman
despite the fact she might have only been a name
someone picked for a fictitious character in a song.

I don’t fully believe it though.

I don’t because she has the looks of many people
I see on the streets everyday
trying to go invisible in the crowd
they have the same taste for clothes,
the same haircut,
they walk at the same pace,
they all have Eleanor's
and my face.

I could be Miss Rigby if I weren’t so loud.

N.B.:

-  Mr. Grumpy Crayfish (a.k.a. TB)'s official residence is Under the Toadstool. 

- These poems are shared with The Real Toads.

- Kensi 'n' Tom EP original artwork by KC.

The Golden Rule

It's not about what people do to us,
but the way we react to what they do to us.
A younger me would have confronted the lie
and the man behind it with torn heart and teary eyes

because what could I possibly have
done wrong to be lied to?
Have I not been honest enough,
open enough, enough myself?

A younger me wouldn't have been able
to deal with a man assuming her to be
less than her clever self and therefore
would have confronted the man and the lie.

I have now lived long enough to know
It's not about what people do to us,
but the way we react to what they do to us.
This is the energy we send out in the world.

The post-apocalyptic assumptive world

You're a room
which only opens
from the inside,
I was told,
whose furniture and walls
I anticipate through a spy hole.
But what we see when
we look at things
doesn't really depend on
what is there,
I learned.

Upright

A fourteen-year-old
eyed me unblinkinly
around the classroom today,
as if instead of his plump,
clumsy English teacher,
I were one of the ballerinas
of the Royal Ballet,
flying over the desks
in a grand jeté, 
and offered me a hug
in the end of the class,
for he was carrying
no bouquet.

The art of walking upright here

is the art of using both feet.

One is for holding on.

One is for letting go. 

~ Allen Curnow 

Chaos

If you leave,

stay gone.

I will open the door for the

same butterfly just once.

I'm a woman

and a Gemini,

I have just the 

decent amount 

of chaos in life 

I can take.

That's enough 

vertigo.

Crimson red

I dropped a
favorite coffee cup this morning
blind with anger
and sat on the floor with the shards.

I, who have always wished to be made
of iron, am reminded
I am not past the porcelain state,
crestfallen in a puddle of crimson red.

Blackout recipe

This is how you erase
two thirds of stars
from the sky:
you grow up and apart
from the people
you are loved by,
then you mark
your path back home
with lamp posts.

And thus we became friends

A wounded animal

I was, 

aching and scared

when we met,

hiding behind

a raging mood.

He watched my 

breath and waited

for a miracle which

wouldn't come.

Yet he didn't flee

or shoot.

Kensi 'n' Tom - La vie dans mon ciel

 

Listen to the full EP by clicking here.

:: La vie dans mon ciel - TB

Spin around,
Round and round
The windmill of my mind.
Spin around the many sides of me.
A child with curiosity brimming,
The art of asking strong women
about the world, the weather, the whys.
The art of looking at the world with new eyes.

:: La vie dans mon ciel - KC

A yard,

for dogs and a tree I'll plant 

when you come into being, 

little one.

I'll watch you climb it up

and fall from it a few times,

dear sovereign to your own

kingdom,

before you have learned the distance

from the top to the ground

- this I cannot teach you.

But I will kiss your bruised knees,

and tell you about the persistency 

of clouds.

N.B.:

- TB lives Under the Toadstool and here. 

- These poems are shared with The Real Toads.

- Kensi 'n' Tom EP original photos and artwork by TB.

Titan

Do you understand

my universe is
so little

I carry
its celestial spheres

like a pendant
on a necklace?

It's so delicate that
by rolling over in bed
sleeplessly
I turn the heaven
on their axis,
causing the stars
to revolve. 

Bouvard et Pécuchet

It is probably my fault.
I ask difficult questions that lead us
into everlasting discussions every time.

Is competition to survive necessary for organisms to evolve?
How friendly is causal entropy maximization?
Is world peace an achievable goal? I ask.

It was twenty years ago
I read Flaubert and wondered
when I would have my own Pécuchet.

It took time, but we've met.

(This is a poem for my best friend, Erick, who never gives up on me.)

Kensi 'n' Tom - Naked as we stand

Listen to the full EP by clicking here. 

:: Honest reflections - TB

The light seems to brush
My left shoulder.
It leads all the way down
To my elbow,
Which on this occasion digs
Into my ribs.
Left hand gripping my brown locks.
The awkward pose leads me to ask
if my feet are on backwards.
Bruises paint my left leg.
Hair stands on end on the right.
There are the dangling bits
And the gangly bits,
The toned and the honed parts.
The toned and the honed parts
Must be mocking the floppy.
Whatever lives in that belly?
And why does it rumble like a bear?
My face is what I usually study.
On this occasion I forget it’s there.
I glance up and down
Each time checking if anything’s changed.

:: Laws of reflection - KC

You 

make it a habit

to stand before the looking glass

and face it proudly

like your own super hero.

Tonight you’re Wonder Woman.

(If only you brushed your hair on Sundays and 

had a cool tiara somewhere

to improve the immersion experience)

Note here these stretch marks,

this body,

a straitjacket to contain your rebellious soul.

Nolite te bastardes carborundorum.

Nolite te bastardes carborundorum.

Nolite te bastardes carborundorum.

The moment you made your mantra

your war paint, 

you could no longer be contained.

The first gray hair shows

to honor you 

for your restless efforts

over the years 

at being a better human than your reflection.

This vessel will fall 

with everything else in the world.

You never cared about 

keeping anything but your spirits up

anyway. 

N.B.:

- TB's official residence is Under the Toadstool. He likes to hang out. I like to have him here.

- These poems are shared with The Real Toads

- Nolite te bastardes carborundorum is pig Latin for "don't let the bastards grind you down." The phrase comes from Margaret Atwood's book A Handmaid's Tale and is tattooed on my chest. 
- Kensi 'n' Tom EP artwork by KC.

Kensi 'n' Tom - Space to dream

Listen to the full EP by clicking here.

:: Bitter sweet ceylon tea - TB

My dream, in a teacup, needs stirring.
I sip and decide it’s too bitter.
I add sugar and realise it’s now too sweet.
I actually liked it more when it was bitter.
Now it’s a bitter sweet ceylon tea, that’s right.
Should I just leave this one to go cold like the last?
What if i drink every last drop and end up hating the pictures with leaves?

:: Wings - KC

What I am going to be today,

I decided in a dream last night.

It was by tripping too close

to the edge of an abyss

and falling down into it,

I discovered I'm winged.

N.B.:

- TB's official residence is Under the Toadstool. I like to imagine I'm his winter house.

- These poems are shared with The Real Toads

- Kensi 'n' Tom EP artwork by KC.

Paper boats

I recognize the spark in her eyes

as she storms into my room

because it's raining outside
and she needs a good paper boat fast
for a stream forming in the yard.
When I was four myself,
my father used to fold me boats.
I would sit beside him spellbound
watching them go,
making up stories about the places
we would see if we could sail them
down our flooded road.

(A workmate brought her 4-year-old to work yesterday and I gained one hour of origami folding, singing and making believe.)

Kensi 'n' Tom - Conversations with a stranger

Listen to the full EP by clicking here. 

:: Just talking - TB

He’s talking,
He’s bleeding,
Becoming weaker with every word.

He’s talking,
He’s conceding,
He thought you hadn’t heard.

He’s talking,
He’s crying,
Tears making things blurred.

He’s talking,
You’re not listening,
Again, his words have been spurned.

:: Paper - KC

Happy anniversary,

It's been a year.

You left the gate to the zoo

open,

my wild thing

looking for shelter

walked in.

We don't usually talk on a Tuesday

- what happened to "No talk Tuesday"?

What's the last dream you remember?

Are you already awake?

How do you see me?

if you could grow anything from your belly button,

what would it be?

You do beautiful things here,

inside me, I mean.

N.B.:

- TB lives Under the Toadstool. I'm just lucky he likes to spend time with me.

- These poems are shared with The Real Toads

- Kensi 'n' Tom EP artwork by KC.

To build things that matter

Don't stay here
if in your heart
you plan to leave
when in a dream
I need you to
just sit in silence
by my side and
you need to be
somewhere else.

Kensi 'n' Tom - Modern life, let me out

Listen to the full EP by clicking here. 

:: Techno thunder – TB

Oogledy googledy goo,

face booking, snap chatting. 

What’s appening in here?

I C Q Ing for the next one,

I pod iPad iPhone

I’m sad at home.

Look at the beautiful blue skype. 

Yahoo ooo,

I’m getting there eventually.

Lycos, like this, unlike this,

Thee usual for the internet explorer.

Asking jeeves to show you the door.

Unfriend.

:: Stream lines - KC

KC can't tell for sure if she is awake.

KC is too tired to put on makeup today and therefore is wearing her zombie face for work.

KC is listening to The Evpatoria Report.

KC is feeling selfish.

KC won't share her people.

KC is counting up to ten (seven times).

KC is eating carrot cake.

KC wishes she had more time to write.

KC has a sore throat.

KC is sure someone somewhere keeps a voodoo doll of her.

KC is having a day full of emptiness.

KC wishes she had a space to disappear.

KC is reading Ready Player One.

KC liked the photo of a baby dressed in a blue monster costume.

KC is ready to be a mother.

KC's next tattoo will say: but surely tomorrow. #Beckett #WaitingForGodot

KC is feeling grinchy.

KC has a Skype meeting tonight and would like to know what time 20:00 GMT +1 reads in Brazil.

KC's hair looks like grown-up Simba's mane today. #badhairmonth #hakunamatata #TheLionKing

KC is thankful Google and Facebook bots read her poems. #webcrawlerlove

KC thinks she's dying today.

KC survives.

KC is wondering if the other person's silence becomes our own after some time.

KC has gone for a ride down memory lane. She'll be back later.

KC knows it's too late to join NASA.

KC doesn't like existing on Friday evenings.

KC can't sleep.

KC is wishing upon stars that won't fall.

KC now knows it takes no more than two hours sleep to make a nightmare.

KC's chances of falling on the street today are 1.000.000:1. #heavyrain

KC is visiting the online photography archive of The Library of Congress.

KC should probably spend less time with faces of the past and find a face in the present to look at.

KC finds a face in the present. It rarely smiles.

KC still finds it a nice, calming face to look at. 

N.B.:

- TB has a house Under the Toadstool and another one in my heart. I'm always hoping he moves permanently inside me.

- These poems are shared with The Real Toads

- Kensi 'n' Tom EP original photo and artwork by TB.

Mr. Coffee Cup

(Image by TB)

He sits on the counter
with memories
I don't visit often
and smiles
because he knows it better:
I can't get used to the
English cold.

The first and the last time
we have been together,
the days spent in exile
each of us locked
in his own cupboard.

He smiles
because he knows it better.
He returns to me my understanding
of home.

Listening

On a train crossing Central England
he is not the same man who left
but he's thankful for the meadows and the trees,
weather is surprisingly good,
he's thankful for being home.

To be reunited with innocence,
hurt and pain are unloaded here.
Tired. Shouldn't have carried
so much luggage.
Listen.

Back to his motherland's womb
he is one with perfection
to sing and recite poems to the stars
to dance with the wind and the earth
like a whirling Dervish.

Listen:  Presence - Shy, low

Dreaming

My heart searches for
a peaceful spot to
open itself up.
Careful!
- I say.
A word at a time
or we'll scare him away.
Are we still dreaming?

Kensi 'n' Tom - Already thrown

Listen to the full EP by clicking here. 

:: Left to fate - TB

The over-pleasant lassitude
Has eaten away at him,
Resulting in the desuetude
Of the once tended-to fields of his mind.

His mind, his nemesis.
His thoughts, a labyrinth.
Better wait up for Lady Luck to reappear,
Dressed in her alluring, seductive, diaphanous gown.

The ephemeral joys of deciding for himself
Are soon plucked away by the deft fingers of fate.
She loves me, she loves me not.
Toss a coin. Tails says nothing changes.

He thought he’d been prescribed the elixir of life.
He’d obviously picked up the wrong bottle
And then spun it in the wrong direction,
A sign maybe, a harbinger of doom perhaps.

:: Binding forces - KC

I know fate very well.

When I was young

we were best friends and

fate taught me to read star maps.

It sat in my classroom once and

devoured all the books I recommended.

Fate is a memory

buried under an ancient stone statue

on the top of Mt. Nemrut.

Fate is a jerk.

Fate kisses like a girl.

Fate has me wrapped 

around his finger.

Fate is pro naturist.

Fate makes me sing.

Fate is so smart.

I search fate in bed

in the middle of the night

but it's destiny I spoon with.

Destiny plays with my curls.

Destiny and I don't talk much.

except in the mirror before

we leave for work.

N.B.:

- TB's official house  is Under the Toadstool. I'm so used to his company already it will be awful when he leaves. 

- "Fate without destiny" is and idea derived from the Chinese concept of Yuanfén.  For some time, I've believed I'm destined to loneliness. (Sad sad panda)

- These poems are shared with The Real Toads

- Kensi 'n' Tom EP original photo and artwork by TB.

The itch

They see me from afar.
They see me and think they know
what I am made of.

linen, lines, lies on storage -
they think they see me from afar.
They think they think.

They think they see
for they have been granted eyes.
A heart, a mouth and a mind -

They have also been granted these things
and left to discover how to use them
for themselves.

They think they know how to.
They think we're made of the same stuff.
They think we do closeness.

Kensi 'n' Tom - Exposed to the elements

Listen to the full EP by clicking here

:: Future told - TB

What will the weather be tomorrow?
Happiness set against violet clouds.
Misery reflected by the sea.
Anguish languishing in the eye of a hurricane.

What will the weather be tomorrow?
Warm days broken up by scattered showers.
Mild nights. Threat of storms.
No exceptional warmth.

:: June showers - KC

I was born on a cold rainy morning in June 1978

the first images recorded on my retina

were those of my mother's face

and nimbus clouds.

As a baby,  rain tunes were

the only thing to calm me down.

As an adult, I can always count on them

to soothe my mood.

Growing up I would always cover my ears

in the shower moving my body to and fro

to create my own rain-like songs.

I still do.

N.B.:

- TB's official house  is Under the Toadstool,  but I do think he matches my walls. 

- These poems are shared with The Real Toads
- Kensi 'n' Tom EP original photo and artwork by KC.

- I'm in permanent state of delight.

Anatomy Lesson - Juan Manuel Roca

We were given the body
To have our enemy nearer,
To watch him
So he doesn’t have time
To hide behind a tree
And wait for us to go by.
We were given the body
So that between him and us
There would be no mined ground
Or ambushes.
We were given it without asking,
Like the prince got the throne,
So he couldn’t
Mix wine with poison
Without abdicating his kingdom.
Later was the imposition
Of the habit of going with the body
All over the place,
Of having a bath with it
To avoid the surprise
Of a dagger flash behind the curtain.
We constructed the habit
Of following the body’s steps
And setting it the trap of the mirror,
Of not leaving it alone
Not even when it sleeps.
We were given the body
To have our enemy nearer.

Kensi 'n' Tom - Some lights never go out

Listen to the full EP by clicking here. 

:: Walk on - TB

Walk, walk forwards.
Don’t ever step back.
Tread, tread safely.
Don’t step on the toes of my dreams.
Carve, carve its soul into yours,
the odds shall be in your favour.
Live, live in hope.
Me, I just live in this city.

:: Window - KC

be it across the street or the Atlantic

a window is a window is a window.

I can only see what you want me to

and you see me because I let you through

because I want you in as much as

I want light.

N.B.:

- TB's official house  is Under the Toadstool, maybe one day he moves in with me, huh.

- These poems are shared with The Real Toads
- Kensi 'n' Tom EP original photo and artwork by TB.

- A lifetime of writing and performing poetry and children's rhymes with someone I adore. I don't need much more than that.

Kensi 'n' Tom - The social animal instinct

Listen to the EP below

:: Animals - TB

Feeding time,
under the cover of darkness.
Someone needs advice on wearing animal prints.
That can wait till the morning.
In the morning they’ll discover which pool they’ve been drinking from,
Whose ear’s been ‘accidentally’ mistaken for tucker,
And where they finally nestled.
It all begins with the poetry of the foot.
The moth launches its assault on the butterfly.
The cat brushes against the legs of the elephant,
While the panda yells out bamboo.
I sip at my nectar and monitor their movements.
I feel the closest I’ve ever felt to being alive.

:: Instinct - KC

He comes under my skin

a word after a word after a word

bridging the gaps of time and space

existing between us.

I wave to him 

to come on, 

which he does cautiously,

stopping every few meters

to look me over - 

we construe reality

with the words we're given.

When you get up courage to approach

you'll be able to read me deeper.

  
N.B.:

- TB is usually found Under the Toadstool, but don't you love seeing him here? Maybe we should start a hashtag: #stayTB.

- These poems are shared with The Real Toads
- Kensi 'n' Tom EP art by Kenia Cris
- TB is definitely my Queneau. <3