Bones Full of Winter

“Winter… would be cold without warm memories.” I wholly agree with Sanaa’s words—I doubt I’d be able to survive New York winters without piles of mind-heating books, crazy socks, and indecent amounts of ginger and passion flower tea… reminding my frozen bones that spring will be back soon.

“Bones Full of Winter”

Bones full of Winter’s darkness,
sparkling in chills.
Face pilfered by frosty bites,
oned… glaciated…
beaten…

no, not beaten, never that; just
hibernating within dark pink thoughts,
sipping April Showers by the glass half full,
filling the womb fertile,
burning the heart with ice,
brewing cold yesterdays into warm tomorrows.
Cradled in January’s arms, waiting…
to Spring.

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a wee note…
– First published in 2013.

pink-body-sock
photo by Vincent Fournier
via

Self Bloomed Rainbows

This holiday season, I am hosting flesh and bones bursting with unwanted guests. Mistress Nausea brought Sir Hurl. They arrived almost two weeks ago, accompanied by Lady Fever—an insufferable harlot who refuses to take three steps without her good-for-nothing boy toys, Dizziness and Fatigue.

And I can’t even think of throwing them out, since they are best friends with Mr. Pill, and he is the only one keeping Lord Crohn’s from puncturing my pipes and letting all sorts of crap leak who knows where. I haven’t been able to pretend that the undesirable horde is not constantly around. But most days, sipping tea and nibbling on pomegranate seeds dulls the effects of their visit a considerable bit.

When their presence gets so loud that it threatens to crack my skull, I sip on words and tell myself stories to quiet them out. Some days (nights?), I share the stories with you. And you add your bits to my bits… Our united bits say, “We aren’t alone in this. We are awesomely strong. And goodness, we are so freaking modest! In fact, our modesty can only be surpassed by our extreme hotness.”

So, there you have it, my Wicked Luvs: when my bones and gut hurt so much that I must squint to see my screen properly, I write things that make me grin. And I turn to friends who morph said grins into laughter. Then I wait for magic to happen… in the company of self bloomed rainbows.

“Bloom a Rainbow”

If winter blues
ever fray my edges,
I shall bloom
a rainbow…
and fill my-Self
with spring.
self-bloomed-rainbows

My Dominican Breakfast

Kim, over at the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, asked for a poem about cooking that “appeals to the senses and is related to [our] life or culture in some way.” I woke up with the Dominican Republic singing memories into my mind—a poem about the kind of breakfast I used to eat when I was a child tasted just right. The side order of nostalgia that came with the writing of the piece was not part of the original recipe… neither was the craving for breakfast in the middle of the afternoon *sigh*.

“My Dominican Breakfast”

Morning food was green bananas,
doing a tenderizing water dance
in a cauldron kissed by firewood.

Next to the cauldron bubbled a tiny pot
that had never been called a kettle; yet,
its belly brewed nothing but ginger tea.

My belly sang its rumbles to the brew,
waiting for the spicy warmth to simmer
true, readying its self for morning food.

True morning food is green bananas
and ginger tea, over firewood and smoke,
conjuring memories… to sting my eyes.

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Linked to Poets United (Poetry Pantry 330)

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caldero-fogon-cauldron
“Fogón… What’s Cooking?” by Mercedes Dayanara
via