Trees
How many postcards? Calendars. Framed Ansel Adams prints.
Documentaries with people strapped to them, willing to die.
The source of our oxygen. The reason lungs breathe in and out.
Habitat of the loftiest and most noble of all the earth's creatures.
And yet…
most susceptible to lightning. Axes. The need for toothpicks.
Not to mention drywall. We make oars from dead bodies to push
ourselves across the very substance they cannot live amidst,
seated in vessels made of the same.
This thing that fire most wants to eat, we write our novels against.
We lick a stamp, and press it on what once lived for centuries --
thanklessly dying that we might wish Uncle Ted a happy birthday.
Some of them throwing shadows when Shakespeare dipped a quill.
And yet…
Not one of these have ever even known that they were alive.
We, who are so very much aware, but so less useful in our elements,
who are we to think that not only shall we live on this planet,
but also forever after endure -- endlessly, on another far greater one?
And yet…
we do. Some do think this.
© Ciprianowords, Inc. 2016
Tuesday, November 01, 2016
Monday, October 31, 2016
They. Them, You.
They. Them. You.
They say, whoever they are, that you cannot know the girl
until you see her when she does not know you are there.
You will never know who she is. So I gave it a try, tonight.
Halloween night. Halloween party, out with all your friends.
And there I was too, ordering a drink, my back to the bar.
Focused on your table -- everyone there was riveted to you.
Whatever story you were telling, I would have liked to know.
I sipped, I watched, and had brains enough to wait. To wait.
When you were done, I made my way over, as if by accident.
Instead of being shocked, embarrassed or angry, you turned.
That smile to forever haunt every recess of my unworthy life.
Making way for me you asked me to sit down, but I begged off.
And just as I was making my way out, I heard your friend say
above the din, "Is that him? Girl, you weren't telling half of it."
There is a manner of shame that has to be confessed, to end.
This is why, hours later when you have returned home to me
I am leaving on the table this rhyme-less poem for you to see.
I want you to know the exact type of idiot you are involved with.
I want you to know that the princess costume you were wearing
tonight - as you take it off now - is not telling the half of it.
© Ciprianowords, Inc. 2016
They say, whoever they are, that you cannot know the girl
until you see her when she does not know you are there.
You will never know who she is. So I gave it a try, tonight.
Halloween night. Halloween party, out with all your friends.
And there I was too, ordering a drink, my back to the bar.
Focused on your table -- everyone there was riveted to you.
Whatever story you were telling, I would have liked to know.
I sipped, I watched, and had brains enough to wait. To wait.
When you were done, I made my way over, as if by accident.
Instead of being shocked, embarrassed or angry, you turned.
That smile to forever haunt every recess of my unworthy life.
Making way for me you asked me to sit down, but I begged off.
And just as I was making my way out, I heard your friend say
above the din, "Is that him? Girl, you weren't telling half of it."
There is a manner of shame that has to be confessed, to end.
This is why, hours later when you have returned home to me
I am leaving on the table this rhyme-less poem for you to see.
I want you to know the exact type of idiot you are involved with.
I want you to know that the princess costume you were wearing
tonight - as you take it off now - is not telling the half of it.
© Ciprianowords, Inc. 2016
Friday, September 30, 2016
Dickens Again
Dickens Again
Surely there are more momentous things to worry about.
Autism. Attention Deficit Disorder. Tuberculosis. Gayness?
They crept in closer, concerned. Worried. Surf pounding.
All this ocean, what is our son up to. Chronic masturbation?
An opening in the tent revealed him -- in all his fullness.
They had seen that same devilish grin before, in the library.
Immersed in the page at hand, thumb ready to flip to the next
he turned, saying to them, Do you have nothing better to do?
They didn't. It's Dickens again, Dad said, sighing in the wind.
© Ciprianowords, Inc. 2016
Surely there are more momentous things to worry about.
Autism. Attention Deficit Disorder. Tuberculosis. Gayness?
They crept in closer, concerned. Worried. Surf pounding.
All this ocean, what is our son up to. Chronic masturbation?
An opening in the tent revealed him -- in all his fullness.
They had seen that same devilish grin before, in the library.
Immersed in the page at hand, thumb ready to flip to the next
he turned, saying to them, Do you have nothing better to do?
They didn't. It's Dickens again, Dad said, sighing in the wind.
© Ciprianowords, Inc. 2016
Sunday, September 25, 2016
Monkey Bars
Monkey Bars
Who am I, really?
I walked through a park tonight, shadows long before me.
Twice my height, thanks to a lamp-light behind.
In the same exponentiation, oh the tricks my mind played.
For there I was, climbing and tumbling -- as ever I was.
But in my current state of being, I could never achieve this.
I even heard the sounds, those of my childhood.
A different playground -- and that is when I stopped moving.
Swinging like a chimpanzee, with as many cares for tomorrow.
How is it that I can see it -- what database stores such a thing?
I did it, I did it, I did it, I did it, I did it, I did it, I did it, I did it.
But I could never do it. I could never do it. I could never do it.
Now.
Who am I, really? An amalgam of memories of who I was?
If so, I could jump up there, and make a circuit of these bars.
But I cannot do so. If time is relative to distance, how can this
apparatus be so near to me and the experience so far off?
So impossible. So improbable. So impossible. So distant.
© Ciprianowords, Inc. 2016
Who am I, really?
I walked through a park tonight, shadows long before me.
Twice my height, thanks to a lamp-light behind.
In the same exponentiation, oh the tricks my mind played.
For there I was, climbing and tumbling -- as ever I was.
But in my current state of being, I could never achieve this.
I even heard the sounds, those of my childhood.
A different playground -- and that is when I stopped moving.
Swinging like a chimpanzee, with as many cares for tomorrow.
How is it that I can see it -- what database stores such a thing?
I did it, I did it, I did it, I did it, I did it, I did it, I did it, I did it.
But I could never do it. I could never do it. I could never do it.
Now.
Who am I, really? An amalgam of memories of who I was?
If so, I could jump up there, and make a circuit of these bars.
But I cannot do so. If time is relative to distance, how can this
apparatus be so near to me and the experience so far off?
So impossible. So improbable. So impossible. So distant.
© Ciprianowords, Inc. 2016
The Stars Help To Express It
Holding hands on the balcony, he looked up at the night sky.
Then, her face.
You know, have you ever considered the fact the the universe is expanding? I mean, the constellations we have observed and named -- the whole thing itself is so… provincial.
In a million or so years from now, those formations will have shifted -- we observe them from an extremely limited vantage point, that is itself shifting.
[Inspired now, he kicked off his sandals, the lotus position, and touched her face…]
-- Andromeda, Aquarius, Cygnus -- all of these will not at all look as they do today darling, were you and I to be sitting here a million years from now. Not to mention that our own Earth will most likely not be around to observe any of these from, nor our Sun still shining, having collapsed in upon itself and…
Noticing her glass empty, he grabbed the bottle from the ice bucket --
Darling, she said, tightening her grip. Darling, he said --
[A new train of thought made its way to the last remaining synapses…]
Do you see it, though? It is the naming, the fixing, that is wrong-headed.
If you were one, one bottle of wine, you would have to be un-named. Un-dated.
No one. No sheik, no ten sultans, could afford you. And a million, a million years from now…
She was smiling. Oh, that smile.
Darling, I think it's time we went to bed.
In the tone, in the very tone that the universe would say such a thing.
I followed her. Soon to see constellations that no one, were the Earth to somehow survive its inevitable demise, see.
© Ciprianowords, Inc. 2016
Holding hands on the balcony, he looked up at the night sky.
Then, her face.
You know, have you ever considered the fact the the universe is expanding? I mean, the constellations we have observed and named -- the whole thing itself is so… provincial.
In a million or so years from now, those formations will have shifted -- we observe them from an extremely limited vantage point, that is itself shifting.
[Inspired now, he kicked off his sandals, the lotus position, and touched her face…]
-- Andromeda, Aquarius, Cygnus -- all of these will not at all look as they do today darling, were you and I to be sitting here a million years from now. Not to mention that our own Earth will most likely not be around to observe any of these from, nor our Sun still shining, having collapsed in upon itself and…
Noticing her glass empty, he grabbed the bottle from the ice bucket --
Darling, she said, tightening her grip. Darling, he said --
[A new train of thought made its way to the last remaining synapses…]
Do you see it, though? It is the naming, the fixing, that is wrong-headed.
If you were one, one bottle of wine, you would have to be un-named. Un-dated.
No one. No sheik, no ten sultans, could afford you. And a million, a million years from now…
She was smiling. Oh, that smile.
Darling, I think it's time we went to bed.
In the tone, in the very tone that the universe would say such a thing.
I followed her. Soon to see constellations that no one, were the Earth to somehow survive its inevitable demise, see.
© Ciprianowords, Inc. 2016
Saturday, September 24, 2016
Camels
Camels
One of those urban myths, without the urban part.
That's got to be what it is he muttered, cracked lips oozing pus.
Bending low to a dream of grass… no, it was just sand again.
Everywhere. Dunes, mirages, and every oasis a falser fantasy.
The other, hump bent sideways -- knelt for a turbaned rider.
Head turned but reply-choked by his own crushed camel-spirit.
Forced. Off they trotted on their eight scorched two-toed feet.
Hmmm… what's beyond this hill of dust? Look. Yet another one.
Which of us wanted to go anywhere near here in the first place?
[That last part was unspoken by either of them, not unthought].
Just before they reached their thrice-hyphenated destination, #1
gasped Has even one of these things ever asked if we were thirsty?
© Ciprianowords, Inc. 2016
One of those urban myths, without the urban part.
That's got to be what it is he muttered, cracked lips oozing pus.
Bending low to a dream of grass… no, it was just sand again.
Everywhere. Dunes, mirages, and every oasis a falser fantasy.
The other, hump bent sideways -- knelt for a turbaned rider.
Head turned but reply-choked by his own crushed camel-spirit.
Forced. Off they trotted on their eight scorched two-toed feet.
Hmmm… what's beyond this hill of dust? Look. Yet another one.
Which of us wanted to go anywhere near here in the first place?
[That last part was unspoken by either of them, not unthought].
Just before they reached their thrice-hyphenated destination, #1
gasped Has even one of these things ever asked if we were thirsty?
© Ciprianowords, Inc. 2016
Saturday, May 07, 2016
A Certain Table, A Certain Tree
A Certain Table, A Certain Tree
Remember when we agreed to this.
There is no question mark after that.
Because I am talking to myself here.
Admittedly - it was many years ago.
You are to be excused from the duty.
Time erases many things, even time.
And as any doctor will tell you, every
heartbeat is unequal. Fingerprints --
really. One thing constant, the beating.
Yours has not stopped, nor has mine.
Beating and beating away in darkness.
But we have changed our addresses.
Our lifestyle would not be recognized
by the other. Recalled, but illegible now.
I trained myself to accept the inevitable
while I believed in what I wanted --
which will always be yourself.
Today, I realize that you have done a
different task with yours, your heart.
You have managed to occlude it.
And I wonder if you should congratulate
yourself. I cannot know that for certain.
I have traveled one thousand miles
to be here at a certain table, under a
certain tree, at a certain hour, to wonder
which of us has been the greater fool.
I am no scientist. I am no pontificate
in these matters. I do know, however,
that if the sun, which has no personality
whatsoever, wanted to be late eight minutes
the world would freeze to death, in the next.
I have waited here beyond that, beyond thirty.
And so I concede your victory in frozenness.
My wish for you is not unhappiness, but glory.
I hope that the reason you are not here is
because you have managed to forget it all.
That you are feeling warmth.
That I have been usurped.
That, in your memory of me, you do not think me an idiot
for sitting here… waiting for what was not meant to b--
…wait.
is…
Is that the red scarf I gave her?
Is that you… running in front of a taxi?
© Ciprianowords, Inc. 2016
Remember when we agreed to this.
There is no question mark after that.
Because I am talking to myself here.
Admittedly - it was many years ago.
You are to be excused from the duty.
Time erases many things, even time.
And as any doctor will tell you, every
heartbeat is unequal. Fingerprints --
really. One thing constant, the beating.
Yours has not stopped, nor has mine.
Beating and beating away in darkness.
But we have changed our addresses.
Our lifestyle would not be recognized
by the other. Recalled, but illegible now.
I trained myself to accept the inevitable
while I believed in what I wanted --
which will always be yourself.
Today, I realize that you have done a
different task with yours, your heart.
You have managed to occlude it.
And I wonder if you should congratulate
yourself. I cannot know that for certain.
I have traveled one thousand miles
to be here at a certain table, under a
certain tree, at a certain hour, to wonder
which of us has been the greater fool.
I am no scientist. I am no pontificate
in these matters. I do know, however,
that if the sun, which has no personality
whatsoever, wanted to be late eight minutes
the world would freeze to death, in the next.
I have waited here beyond that, beyond thirty.
And so I concede your victory in frozenness.
My wish for you is not unhappiness, but glory.
I hope that the reason you are not here is
because you have managed to forget it all.
That you are feeling warmth.
That I have been usurped.
That, in your memory of me, you do not think me an idiot
for sitting here… waiting for what was not meant to b--
…wait.
is…
Is that the red scarf I gave her?
Is that you… running in front of a taxi?
© Ciprianowords, Inc. 2016
Conviction
Conviction
What does it mean to stay true to such a word
that should itself be in dire need of a lawyer?
Nowhere else in the dictionary is such lack of
control in evidence. In one sense, your neck
snaps - this entirely upon the opinion of others.
In another, you alone know what is the truth.
Yet you will lay your head on the block for it.
Surely the difference will cause the monarch
to not reach Mexico on time, to not find the tree.
The sun to rise in the west. Rain to fall upwards.
Geese to spell another letter than V flying south?
When you were most sure of yourself, looking up
you saw that the clouds confirmed your resolution.
They formed the very image of your mother's legs
splayed, and you bearing witness upon the world.
None of this will happen when the blade is raised
and with innocence you look down into the bucket.
Justice will never be synonymous, with conviction.
So, to answer the first question, you were justified.
To the second I want you to know - they fly askew.
© Ciprianowords, Inc. 2016
What does it mean to stay true to such a word
that should itself be in dire need of a lawyer?
Nowhere else in the dictionary is such lack of
control in evidence. In one sense, your neck
snaps - this entirely upon the opinion of others.
In another, you alone know what is the truth.
Yet you will lay your head on the block for it.
Surely the difference will cause the monarch
to not reach Mexico on time, to not find the tree.
The sun to rise in the west. Rain to fall upwards.
Geese to spell another letter than V flying south?
When you were most sure of yourself, looking up
you saw that the clouds confirmed your resolution.
They formed the very image of your mother's legs
splayed, and you bearing witness upon the world.
None of this will happen when the blade is raised
and with innocence you look down into the bucket.
Justice will never be synonymous, with conviction.
So, to answer the first question, you were justified.
To the second I want you to know - they fly askew.
© Ciprianowords, Inc. 2016
Sunday, January 17, 2016
Our Grand Assumption
Our Grand Assumption
No one alive today is any one thing, even if we examine raccoons.
We know it of ourselves, but how impossible to convince another.
Amazing that the closer we get, other options become preferable.
Exaggerated phrases leap from every closet, ending with always.
Sentences prefaced with You never. Or, Why is it that you never?
Doors are slammed to negotiation and peace talks are only on TV.
Like the majority of the earth that is covered with water, so is this.
This uninhabitable world assumed upon the great majority of lungs.
A pressure. A fissure. A crevice in the ice, wherein we fall endless.
This is why, on this, our anniversary of it all, Our Grand Assumption
I want you to know that only the first line of this poem is about you.
Come nearer -- that I might kiss your bandit rings, garbage stealer.
-- © Ciprianowords, Inc. 2016 --
No one alive today is any one thing, even if we examine raccoons.
We know it of ourselves, but how impossible to convince another.
Amazing that the closer we get, other options become preferable.
Exaggerated phrases leap from every closet, ending with always.
Sentences prefaced with You never. Or, Why is it that you never?
Doors are slammed to negotiation and peace talks are only on TV.
Like the majority of the earth that is covered with water, so is this.
This uninhabitable world assumed upon the great majority of lungs.
A pressure. A fissure. A crevice in the ice, wherein we fall endless.
This is why, on this, our anniversary of it all, Our Grand Assumption
I want you to know that only the first line of this poem is about you.
Come nearer -- that I might kiss your bandit rings, garbage stealer.
-- © Ciprianowords, Inc. 2016 --
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