Skipping Stars

standing at shoreline of cosmos’ ocean
skipping
skipping stars
skipping stars like diamonds
skipping stars like diamonds in a cup of black tea
reading floating leaves that Venus pours us
predicting how tomorrow’s constellations may shine
ruminating on why it hurts
ruminating on why it hurts to see rising sun 
finding solace in moon the forgotten guide
dipping
dipping broken
dipping broken toes
dipping broken toes in swirling black holes
wondering whether to stay or to succumb
deepening gaze on shimmering stellar haze
tossing
tossing another star
tossing another star to gamble the game
forgetting why this very here and very now
remembering
remembering you
remembering your echo
remembering your echoing
remembering your echoing name
remembering your echoing
remembering your echo
remembering you
standing

standing at shoreline
standing at shoreline of cosmos’ ocean
standing at shoreline
standing

~ Emily C.

11.12.17

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A Grand Illusion

everything is a grand illusion:
the sunset, clouds,
the night’s long-dead stars,

the way you smiled at me.

how the trees touch the sky
and my breathing
— in, out, in, out.

metronomic existence
timed to expire
when the game is done.

trick of the eye, this life…
like your love
bad roll of the dice
random happenstance
slick hands you had
and
words as concrete
as the tide,

that always detracts more than adds
when it pulls away,
subsides.

leaving worn rocks…
deceptive in their strength
erodible in time, like

the strongest hearts.

if we close our eyes,
does nothing exist?

when we open them
what
can we trust?

~ Emily C.

8.14.17

Nomad

nomad
dissecting earth
into vanishing patterns
geometric footsteps
etch hexagons
spirals
into slipping crust
wading groin deep
in labradorite cracks
iridescent shimmer shines
blues and greens
like your eyes
that eye the sky
wondering is it your next
unexplored terrain
untethered domain
every star
a city
every map pin
is home

ditch
the compass
it misguides the guide
what lies outside
must be found
first inside
close your mind
stop time
stop predicting
breathe and point
you will find
what you need awaits
in unknown formations
where you need
you won’t know
until your feet land
until your wings
spread
go

~ Em C.

3.28.17

Soon

Off in the foggy distance, the skyscrapers bloom. 
Steel replicates.
The gears of cranes turn out another floor, another view, 
another cold frame to be filled
by eager young dreamers.

Soon, they will outnumber the pines.
They will put pines on roofs; roofs with faux life, 
balconies with manufactured green. 
Vines to soothe the animal in us.
Forced smiles and fake barbecues.

Binoculars provide temporary relief
of confines.
Chosen. Million dollar deals.

Need not venture out. Just take the elevator to the cafe, the gym.
Have your groceries delivered. Take the meeting in your bed.
Clouds conceal the penthouse. 
Soon, nothing to see.
Stratosphere is the new ocean.
Untouchable sea.
The birds flee.

Art in the hallway, behind the commode,
provides a convenient canvas distraction,
a feast for eyes that can’t see.
Can’t touch. Can’t smell. The forest.

Piped air. Crackless windows. The tower boxed life.
Soon, nothing to live.

 

~ Emily C.

Søren Kirkegaard

“What is a poet? A poet is an unhappy being whose heart is torn by secret sufferings, but whose lips are so strangely formed that when the sighs and the cries escape them, they sound like beautiful music…

And men crowd about the poet and say to him: ‘Sing for us soon again’; that is as much as to say: ‘May new sufferings torment your soul.”

 

~ Søren Kirkegaard, Either / Or
 1843