Here are four poems that I penned and were published in the first (and so far, the only) issue of The Locket, the literary folio of The Chain. A little background: That issue (2008) revolved around the seasons, having four divisions for poetry (one for each season), plus a section on prose and contributions from the alumni. The fate of this folio is uncertain, given the direction that the current staff seemed to have taken.
They tremble, these coupes, like pigs
trapped in muddy sties, doomed to
taste the sinless kiss of the razor.
Eyes meet where the yellow lines lay
in muted slumber; feet step on the
cotton beds frozen by a grumble.
The red hand flares, the wheels pause.
Staring continues where motion halted,
while lips lock in the highway of souls.
The departed leave the rosy petals,
while the engine mourns the debris
of a grave the thread of time choked.
Earthly singsong melodies mash the
rumbling voices, a jade hand heralding
the zigzag of letters on the asphalt road.
I Fell for Her – I Mean, Him
My heart stops
every time I meet her
at the hallway during recess.
Marble tiles and dirty-white walls
turn to sand and bamboo
when she passes.
that long, dark hair,
swiveling hips that punch the soul.
Eyes – male, female – worship her
when she walks by in her
silky Gucci dress.
my heart broke as I strolled
along the park (I had followed her).
Last I saw my girl, she was holding
hands, kissing and groping
with some other guy.
through faux shards and panes:
tattoos, short spiky hair, piercing.
Tears leaked from my eyes.
A candle reformed.
… Ah, the majesty of four
jagged peaks at a distance.
The Nicest Place in Town
Neon flashes brighten the
otherwise sordid quarter.
Laughter on one sidewalk, much
strutting on the other, lipstick stains
and nail polish plus a couple of
unbuckled belts – the
cheap perfume pervading the air.
Faint footsteps join the smiling
and prancing: the warm embrace of
vixens at the nicest place in town.
The rooster crows to the ceiling
with its faint, spaced-out leer.
Read: Me Not Dumb
It has been
since you bade
Well, a slap on the face
and four teary eyes
don’t really make
a nice goodbye,
My cheeks are still sore, mind you.
A garnet slash
on my cheek
is all there is
to remind me
poured down buckets –
enough to dampen
my Garfield pillowcase
and Spiderman comforter
for days –
on that snowy evening.
But after you slammed the door
on that frosty night,
with me standing dry
in my polka-dot pajamas
at the dimly lit foray,
I know you smiled
and inhaled the night air
Darling, I’m not dumb.
I’ve known for months.