The thinking sound of a wooden spoon in the pot
And the weak light in the living room we
All sat on the purple rug our raw bare legs
We traders and negotiators huddled, handling
Grimy playing cards like runes each others’
Secret-Secreted-Sacred wishes for each other
Standed on trees with purpose
And speaking ourselves bigger and
Beautiful-er with importance
In our network’d vines of a beautiful mind
Worth, necessary, serious, our lives depended,
Listen, I’m serious. My younger brother
Delivered a monologue about galaxies.
Respectfully I injected magic into it with
Two precious careful words settled then
decided them we, lulled
By nodding heads
We all headed out after supper we
Messy-headed dirty-handed brimming
Went away
For who knows a century
Or the length of a new sun a
Whole bible from a
Different universe’s world.
Category: Short Nameless Reveries
Small but powerful thoughts and tidbits of feeling. Mostly unedited and “raw,” faintly sentimental, resentful and other strong-and-fast states of being. Things one might scrawl out on the back of an exam or a napkin, meant to be reflected upon for exactly what they are and nothing more.
A leaping fire entered me.
It struck alight with each eye.
I wanted burningly nothing more
Nothing nothing more than something
Soft and warm like other human skin
To begin a prelude to a prologue
To a thick brown novel been loved.
To a leafed, winded and heart-heavy
Volume of body shifting architecture
In phrase by through crossed thought
Out phasing crack of the conscious
When it encounters conscience
Twin infants with wide wide eyes
Small curled star clusters with
Prophecies rolled and tucked into
A locket or their necks.
To be relentlessly strong and kind
Like melted glass flashed into stone,
An ancient alchemy, when
Breaks the cold water all over it.
How could my back be stacked
On the same grime the same grime
Would my ears be above water
When multitudinous, dread
spreads like coral beneath my feet.
I can erode.
I am unfortunately a sculptor.
I slipped and cut my own hand with
My own tool, and glanced over my shoulder
Just in time to see you chipped
And my world’s sky grew deep-sea nebulae.
The invention of music
After the pain
The stretching
Sore willow wood
At strained resin arias
Each violin cried
For a great truth
You struck the rock, prophet
with a shovel until
yellow cryptograms strewn out
rose in the breeze relieved the
rustling of bible leaves on your neck.
Broke your voice for us like
a pomegranate offered me a seed
with pain in your face I liked
to stare at and searching
my head frantic, your eyes were a little boy
some treasure always spread encrusted
under the first layer of earth
handed us linens and grandmother quilts
to cover over ground. You ached
for a death
we’d need to stir the dirt
a stir perhaps pull out a waif
in your old clothes. people-
clients told me despite it all
I looked like the soul
of my father. A sacred pause
in me each instance. That night
I stirred through my head words
to find a gentle lure for your ghost
without you even knowing.
Ana Celeste Poetry 