[21] Let Me Snake My Mouth
Let me snake my mouth
all over your puddle of mud
searching for the lost blade
hiding in your dirt;
let me crawl my tongue
seeking refuge in your forest
of misguided heat;
I am rife with fangs
that cut like lightning razors
opening you up
like a seashell’s womb
that embraces life after it bled.
But get even within the life
of this scorpion midnight;
cut me, bleed me—
I do not expect heaven
as I grope for pleasure
in the heat of our wounded dark
I expect hell that succumbs to ashes
and gets reborn with the wind;
not a garden of rosebuds
but a catacomb cluttered
with broken shards of china
that pierce like cold dagger
on butterine flesh.
Only inside, within
this war of unfinished wars
and unredeemed victors
when we wrestle with our demons
and outslug past ghosts
that lurk between the sheets—
shall we start to heal
and emerge new
as dawn in the shape
of a flawed but newborn
heart.
[22] Fingers and a Kiss
Insistent, restless rain
cavorts a leaf’s chest,
explores shelter…
and then the lightning’s
tongue pierces the leaf
and the rain surrenders
to the waiting, moist earth.
[23] Morning Dance
Words don’t cut through stones;
the sun doesn’t pierce through
a river’s glass chest; the moon
refuses to glow for the grey wolf’s
aftermidnight path: Tonight,
all I need is your voice that flow
like rain on dry earth the first time
I heard it, all I need is a hint
of your presence so I could be
the poet who could command
the sun and the moon to shift
a river’s journey as a grey wolf
treads the dusk onto a warm dawn—
to usher your morning dance.
[24] Night Calls
Winter winds usher
thick robes of darkness
that clothe an orphan leaf;
midnight whispers
that sneak under the sheets
and clothe tomorrow’s promise
with a half-asleep kiss.
[25] Poetry is Pain and Pleasure
Poetry is the first rain of spring
that cleanses wounds that winter
has healed amidst cold and isolation;
poetry is the first rosebud that snuck
out of a summer night’s puddle
of mud that finds comfort upon
a full moon; poetry is the first grey
leaf that touches the scarred flesh
of a moist crevice of a fertile earth;
poetry is the first child that
was conceived in a womb of agony
and bliss, then ushered to the world
in a river of blood, when blood is life,
not death: poetry is the first cry of life
as a mother’s tears flow upon
an infant’s cheek, love finds
home amidst the quiet glory
of life’s pain and pleasure.
[26] Full Moon
If your eyes were not the color of the moon
on a cold spring night such as tonight—
tired but still radiant in its silence…
I would just be a crow lurking in the dark
looking for reason to vigil, finding space to rest:
For your eyes are lights that speak
of the sincerity of a heart that although wounded
has retained its tenderness…
So despite your weariness and sadness
despite my fumbles and miscues,
do not be sad, my love…
I know that for I know that the shifting grace
of the air and the bashful mischief of the wind
have some room and space saved for us, just for us:
by a porch, hand in hand, shoulder to shoulder
under a full moon that has been colored
by our love.
[27] The Sheets
We first skirmished our valued truths
on this corner of the left side of the bed;
we scaled up a hill and tumbled badly
in different directions off a ravine
on the far side of the right wing
of the crumpled but soft pillow case;
we blew bubbles and willingly shared
a strawberry sherbet as we ran
our wearied hands on our aching backs
as we crawled on the off-center side
of the room as sylphs and ravens watched.
The sun set high, the moon glowed low,
heaven’s elevator stopped as a crow
lazily slipped past the windowsill
but a rose remained alive and a star’s
invasive light kept on sneaking
in the crack somewhere as we snuggle
and heave and roll and intertwine
under, over, beneath the sheets—
the sheets are still the same, so warm.
[28] Love in b-flat minor
Like a tired thunderstorm
kissing a sleepy puddle of mud;
Like an orphan streak of honey
snaking past morphine-spent flesh;
Like a starving vulture
surrendering its deadly hunger
to find rest beside a weeping rosebud;
Like a summer sun playing possum
with a rain-drenched August moon;
Like a wild bullet melting
upon the wounded wing of a wandering dove…
I seek shelter in the cold of a desert moon
I long for the serpent kiss that shall poison my heart
to sleep, to sleep… and wake up
in the beautiful madness
of my new dawn with you
beside me.
[29] Longing
A streak of moonlight sneaks in a crack
on a moist windowpane; a random drop
of dew crawls toward the base of a rose—
braving a long bead of thorns; a gash
of wind begs its case upon a phalanx
of bamboos without breaking a leaf;
a grasshopper leaps from atop
a pine tree’s perch to unsuspecting
fern’s fresh bosom—unnoticed but sure:
My heart watches in isolated desperation,
wanting to connect where it once was,
even for a moment’s time—by your side.
The moonshadow outside
does not understand the entrancing
effect of the full moon’s perfume
on your breast, that only me
could smell; nor the crow on vigil
upon the winter’s heart could see either
the clearing of light that reflect
from your aura that shines
in the dark of the bedroom
that only me could freely wallow—
I have learned to own these exclusive
pleasures in the last six months
of our journey into nights
of beautiful stupor and days
of flawed but hopeful bliss,
and come to learn that love
is not a prearranged rose bouquet
that wilt on electronic heating
but ours are randomly picked sunflower
remnants, meticulously nurtured
in a glass vase that lives on and on
long after moonshadows and crows
on vigil have abandoned the night
as snow’s hands reach out for spring.
[31] Heat
As the first rain of spring instigates ruckus
upon a tin roof; butter cavorts a burning skillet;
late night mist loses sanity on a leaf’s cheek:
our worlds meet on a 20-minute journey
where sun and moon merge under the sheets,
atop pillows, and in tiny rooms within us
where eternity explodes with a syncopated,
quiet scream of mutual conquest.
[32] Making Love
Mouths agape in awe
like half-opened mound of earth
provoked by intrusion of heat
that seeps through the gutters;
mouths that navigate
the dense of hidden scars,
lushness of flawless
imperfections; discovery
is rewarded in each naked
moment of fears, melting
with each thrust and moan;
new seeds are sown, falls
into a hole of reopened
wounds that seek healing
within the universe
of a nighttime.
[33] Mouths Like Fingers of Fire
Fangs with broken poison:
like tiny arrows, insistent
zealous August rain piercing
earth, little fingers of fire
that burn, tease, poke, meld
and heal, soldering an empty
but awoke hole with protruded
heat, eagerness that calms down
in your moist hallow, inner wars
that ceasefire deep within
a naked but secured warmth
in a moment’s wild abandon
but quiet, intertwined mischief.
[34] In Between
In between sea and river
turbulence and calm collide;
at the cusp of sun and rain
unease and quiet engage;
in between exploration
and discovery, warm surrender
and insistent need merge—
all in the flawed but undying
universe of these mortal midnights
as our pain and pleasure reach out
for love’s transcendent refuge.
[35] Making Love as Snow Falls
The blue, dark sky
sends out a burning message
with a viper’s urgency
onto the bare and protruded
petal of a moist lotus:
The message is insistent,
like wind breaking through
bamboo sheaves,
sure like stabs of rain
on open grass—intrusive
like feline mischief on
volcanic rock,
molten fireballs
that pierce the earth’s
naked fort…
Like us, like us
broken seashells upon the shore,
we roll and cavort,
leaving all moments’
glories to the waves’
generous dictates,
like snow flurries that meet
and kiss and touch while
suspended on space,
and intertwine
as we drop to the ground,
exhausted but ecstatic
in quiet, beautiful exhaustion.
[36] Pledge
When our universe is reduced
to a solitary driftwood upon
a famished riverbed
at the end of days and nights,
I shall lift us from the abyss
and hold you tight, so tight
as we ride through the rapids
onto an angry waterfall—
but I will stay with you
with all my might and madness
until we merge with the sea.
[37] Mouth, Moist, Mud
Like earth that opens its warm pores
to vagrant rain and ushers cracks wide;
so worms and hands could frolic in the mud
kneading the need to scrape over and over
the soil’s scarred flesh and dig in
for shelter within so seeds could thrive…
This miracle of hard rain and moist ground
happens on a single aftermidnight.
[38] Scent
The undying spray of the sea
that finds home in a seashell’s womb,
the morning breath of a rosebud
that lures a bee to its mischief,
the full moon’s perfume that lingers
behind your ears, between your breasts:
These make me both weak and strong
conquer and surrender my light and my dark
on a single night of a hundred dreams.
By Pasckie Pascua
