It's been a long time (which agrees with this watch of mine)

Jump over the moon

And dive into the sheets
It’s a lover’s lagoon
of slumber and peace

Blankets like waves
Blue eyes like whirlpools
I float in your gaze,
my two favorite jewels

Shine on, you crazy diamonds
Shine on, forever

I’m setting sail with you
Setting sail for wherever
Let’s cast off from the shores
So, toot toot! All aboard!

Mistress Moon.

A pearl in water; a supple ship
pulled by gravity’s merciless flow
sailing circles in her endless trip
‘round the only world she’s ever known
a humble planet of sea and stone

Damn telluric rock, she wants the star!
it’s the closest one, but still so far
in dreams and darkness she bathes in light
and returns a beacon every night
to romance that distant shining sphere
Oh, my Sun! If only you were here…

trainspotting.

Slumped on the curb

he stares at ants
congregating near his feet.
They’re curious about
his recent regurgitation
of stomach acids.

I wonder 

what ants would do
with a human degree
of consciousness.

I think
(hope) they would do
something other than
numbing it away with
alcohol and television.

I don't know why
it's so painful
to be conscious,
but I'd like to think
it's worth it.

naiad.

The Moon, lithe naiad

shining a smile for the night,

adrift with grains of fainter light.

She floats and waits, a lily pad

in an inverse sea of stars.

But her smile is a shadow,

and her light – sad reflections

of a far-off sphere;

a waxing, waning, white veneer.

entwined.

same ocean, different shore

I don’t want to write

about love anymore

each stanza a painful pleonasm

of how much I miss you

I'd swim the gulf

just to fall asleep once more

together, with knotted limbs

inhaling gentle breaths,

exhaling gentle snores

but for now, at least

I’ll answer midnight calls

half asleep, spewing slurs

across five hundred thirty-three miles

but entwined in futures

love is a star

a commonplace luminescence

in the milky way, and across the universe
born in a bewildering brilliance
and leaves in a supernova hearse

each spin tales of traveling light
that go on after death
and inscribe countless skies with diamonds

love is a star

night on the sun.

soft lips sit--

a patient smile
makes them smaller
than those that open wide
to shout some stream of babble…
speaking to fill any awkward silence.
or perhaps they thirst speech to such extents
as to have no honest prerequisites of their partners.

but strong voices cannot be contained for long

and, oh, how I crave your conversation!
fingers and gestures, too, can be nice,
but sign language is no substitute
for those who say ‘I love you’;
a phrase with importance
perhaps only when
imparted betwixt
two pairs of
willing lips

ceiling fan.

listless and dreamy, I lie
and stare up at my fan
spinning endless circles
against a popcorn ceiling sky
a perpetual motion machine

lulling me to daydreams
of your sweet, sweet smile
I close my eyes

so I can get lost
in yours for a while
each pupil; a universe
deep and star-filled
I drink in the memory
of your warm presence,
a lovely potpourri
of kisses and sneeches
oh! can I just say,
I missed you today?

more mush...

we exchanged
and embraced
each of our fears
summoning tears
no reason in midst
behold:
we irrational scientists

but that’s love, I suppose
and, oh, Darwin knows
no reason resides
in ardent romance;
what a blindfolded dance!

so I’ll stick to my plants
and you to your genes
and we’ll leave love
to centrifuge elsewhere
in those subjective machines
we call hearts

and perhaps
they, too, can be smart
but just in case
my dear clock face
I'll tell you anew:
I love you, I love you
I love: you






peace.
-lise. 

maybe.

I searched the dictionary
and the thesaurus
on the internet
I thought I had the paper ones
in my room
or something, somewhere
I swear

I was searching for a word
any word
I wanted something tangible
to tell you how I felt
or at least more tangible
than constellations of pixels
on my computer screen
and the spaces in between

I just wanted a word
one word
(how silly; absurd!)
I just wanted one
perfect, luculent word
as a canvas for art;
as a sleeve for my heart

I wanted a word
And sure, I found plenty
I suppose they were okay
but none of them were that word
the word I was looking for
I couldn’t search anymore

Then I remembered your face,
your smile, your laugh
and I laughed, and I smiled
because I realized right then
maybe the word I was thinking of
maybe, maybe it was love

optimist.

Hello all! Sorry for my extended absence, but I have returned at last. Here's a buffet of words, pictures, and music to make it up to you!

"Antonio"


oh!
those chatoyant eyes
a perfect pair
of shining spools

a naïve magpie
I am entranced
by the luster
of their silken wisdom

what an instant
ensnarement,
spun and tangled
into those – oh!
those chatoyant eyes

peace.
-lise.

the secret life of birds.

birds fill the air
in a silent swoop
of ten thousand feathers

so fastidious, those birds…
they gather their prey
and their gossip,
dissolving the days
in circular flight

in the streets below
filled to the brim
with mice and with men
they choose the one-ways
rather than roundabouts

so peculiar, those mammals…
always racing forward
never facing forward
just looking up
at the birds above
wishing
for those wings




peace.
-lise.

a new poem.

they sing a song to me-

the trees, I mean

softly they hum verses

of beauty and family

I smile and sit down

at my grandparents’ feet

peace.
-lise.

an old poem.

I can’t take this suspense, damn your impuissance.
And damn mine, too. Oh, what I feel - if only you knew!
But instead, where are we? Trapped in this stalemate,
useless weaponry clenched; each soul landlocked
in a parallel trench. We sit side by side, yet miles away,
and we watch and we wait, in a cautious impasse.
Will either encroach? How long must this last!
Please let’s jump out, and cut through the barbed wire,
I don’t want to win battles; it’s just you I desire.
I’m breathless and weary… I can’t fight anymore.
I thought all was fair in love and in war?

I wrote this almost a year ago. I never posted it because I believe private poems retain a sense of power that published poems can never have. But it seemed time to let this one free. Enjoy the weekend :)

peace.
-lise.

float like a bee.

I stand on the shore
of an endless, silent pool
and skip a stone
a pallid gem
cast away, out
into the unknown

minutes ebb, and minutes flow
but where
do all those minutes go?

Once I get my camera back I'll post some sketches and photos, but until then you'll have to put up with my amateur poetry and current music obsessions.

peace.
-lise.

a quiet lament.

dearest bic pen:
emptied,
but remembered
in landscapes
of meaningful ink.



True story.

peace.
-lise.

mad rush.

the world keeps spinning
and everything seems to be
in a mad rush.
I keep watching, seeing, missing.
slow down! I plead,
there is too much beauty
to behold in a single spin.
I need a freeze frame; a suspended sky.
in a dream it paused for me
and I stared, confused.
the splendor had faded away.
I awoke the next day
stretching, stifling a yawn,
my eyes boring holes
in the ceiling, and in the walls.
perhaps the beauty was in the mad rush,
after all.


peace.
-lise.

lamplight gardens.

a forest of golden bulbs aglow in my night,
each fleck so small, yet how they flood the abyss!
the palmate rays affix a whiskered kiss
upon my wistful soul, and like a match
this simple act ignites my candled heart.
how can something so intangible burn so bright?




peace.
-lise.

passerby.

whilst walking I chance upon a passerby
and within each eye I see a story;
deep folds of tragedies and comedies.
I walk pass, and they walk by

and I bid adieu to all those lines I never read.
but I know they’re there, they always are.
just in a different language, or order, or rhyme.
but I always wonder: can they see mine?

peace.
-lise.

the skin within.

our skins collect memories like shelves collect dust
each layer, a story; each layer, more rust.

new chapters are plastered by the laminate masters
they deftly craft you, a breathing chef-d'oeuvre.
marbled with moments of love and of beauty,
painted with pictures of doubt and suspense.
speckled with scriptures and spider-webbed lies,
whiskered with seconds of hellos and goodbyes.
our lives are all written, too often we find,
with verses and stanzas of the most sesquipedalian kind.
the layers continue, each concealing the last;
though we cannot erase the present or past.
but if we could wipe it all clean, no more dirt or debris;
then what could be seen, and who would we be?

peace.
-lise.