Xanadu
 

Try and catch them. They flit away, fluttering and floating just out of reach. So untouchable they might not even be real. Step into light filtering through the window. Squinting through the thick, dazzling haze— the air is bright. Your nose and hair is bright. Look! The particles have been caught on your lashes. Millions of tiny ones.

I traverse the vast frozen lake— with each step, deep haunting rumbles emit as the surface fractures with each stride— this sheet is giving once more, under the weight of my trials. Beneath the ice— where the murky, frigid waters expand into the depths of the indefinite— the threshold of light’s departing, and the birthing of darkness. Those who fall through the ice— succumb to the cold, surrender their will, sink to the lake’s bottom, wish for another chance. Those who rise

I dangle from the withered stem,  the radiance of my color reflects off the sun.   You pick me, peel off my flavedo and push them to the side. My pericarp not needed— paying no attention.  The strings hanging on like a noose and yet you dismiss. Dangerously draining my vessels I become your vitals. The pigment of my peel is disregarded.  You peel until you get me how you want. You peel without recognition of how I feel. You peel until I am just how you want.

The putrescent petals  were pried away,  and my sepal had surely scraped. You cut me of my dignity— but I grew  with vulnerability. I could've been nodeless,  rootless in my wrath— but instead,  I poured my energy into blooming, transforming pain  into photosynthesis. The sun reached for me. The rain spilled over me. The air moved through me.  My stamen and pistil made love — and I flourished.  My receptacle held not only flowers, but resilience.

You create a mold, carefully handbuilding each part and  wedging it to remove imperfections until it is bone dry   and leather-hard. The clay body you created, thinking it will hold, thinking it is glazed to perfection. But it isn’t. Someone sees a crack, the greenware to your design that you claimed was scored and slipped  to your liking— to their  liking. A mold once keenly crafted has begun to come apart. But why? It was made with such careful planning—  burnishing each pa

The chassis is my body, tires my feet,  axles my arms, and the engine my heart. This is it, flying as if I were a bird,  trees become blurs. Nothing else on the mind but controlling my body.              the combination of a million tiny metal pieces  coming together is my peace. Like the car I have become, peace  can go just as fast as it comes.  Incapable of permanence in one spot.

The circuit is closed— the path has all loops, loops with the incandescent light, the light of your foreseeable truth. Plans that have no thought.  Why does the lumens not shine my way? The constant flicker — the gleam of uncertainty dimming the glass envelope to let the objective flow like the measure of wattage to get to where you want to be. The voltage in a human to succeed. The constant reminder— do not fail.

In the closing pages of Sandra Cisneros’ The House on Mango Street , Esperanza shares her desire for an independent and unrestrictive home. A place where she can write her own life. A life free of objectification and gender guidelines. Cisneros’ style can be categorized as prose poetry.   A House of My Own  Sandra Cisneros   Not a flat. Not an apartment in back. Not a man's house. Not a daddy's. A house all my own. With my porch and my pillow, my pretty purple petunias. My bo

Even when I am unlit, I promise patient light. Strike me— I steadily shine for everyone I brighten rooms. I soften corners. I make myself useful. The flame flickers higher the harder I try. A melt pool forms at my feet like a quiet surrender, warm and easy to ignore. I tell myself, this is what shining feels like. But the more I glow, the deeper I sink— melting middle walls weakening inward. The tunneling begins. I burn. I forget the rest of myself. The room is now radiant an

Crystals dancing                                                                              with glistening beauty and unique angles. So much to offer, yet easily overlooked. As they descend, they disappear                                                       not lost, but they become a whole. Laying there, hidden in the crowd, getting covered by millions, unless you try to understand the intricate pieces, that shapes its elegance.