Object Imagery

Well well, it seems I've taken to mass-posting my poetry recently, instead of one at a time. I find it works out better if I give myself time to self edit the stuff a bit. Not that these will be perfect by any means. But I like 'em. So, the three here that I'm about to present all use objects as symbols. Two of the following situations are true and one is false. You can guess which is false if you like. Although, I think it's pretty obvious which one it is. Either way, i hope you enjoy ALL of them. Adelante.


Dead-Heading the Day-Lilies
Every morning, I circle the house beginning at the same set of day-lilies
where the orange ones are blooming, the earliest of summer.
As dark as a sunset, I cut away the old petals,
dripping with red juice that stains the hand that plucks them.
The first of many colors: later yellow, then red and purple.
The thin ones break easily between my fingertips.

And the short fat white ones, always wet from rain or dew,
are hidden in spider webs beneath their own leaves.
I trim them all until I arrive at the last blossoms
These overrun their patch, a paler shade of sunrise,
at the side of my home, beneath the kitchen windows
where the smells remind me of a deep hunger beckoning.

This is the pattern until fall. The path does not change day to day.
Yet though I move in circles, no two days are the same.
And some plants are yet young, unopened and ignored,
while empty stems are cut to the ground; they cannot run wild.
The flowers won’t return anymore; I’ve learned to shut my eyes
for every night, what was beautiful closes in the dark.

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The Red Vase
Of everything I’ve broken I remember my red vase:
the spilled water when it broke like a dam breaking
a release of pressure and the relief to the sun-baked skin of the floor

I made the vase in art class, seventh grade,
painted it, glazed it, and polished it to show off.
I even told stories to my schoolmates
that neighbors complimented it when they came by
that my dad refused to sell it to his colleagues.
And in a month, nobody remembered it but me.
Yet the red appeared to bleed through to the wood
as it sat proudly centered and alone on its shelf.
I would glance at it from time to time,
writing in my journal or before I went to bed.
It dominated its corner of my room
and changed daily away from perfection
to a deformed pot with misshapen arms.

I should’ve smashed it from the beginning.
Now ripples breathe from the red shards on the ground
like they had once been part of my beating heart.

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The Napkin
Once, this was written on a white napkin
while waiting for take-out in a Chinese restaurant.
The original will be lost someday:
smeared with grease, or used as a tissue,
or left in the backseat of a car to be trampled on
and then thrown out to clean up.

I say this so you won’t forget beginnings:
often humble, malleable, yet easily forgotten.
In these ways we connect, this napkin and I.
Storms soak us and bitter times tear us.
But looking back I remember who I was and who I am,
even as I hope you are remembered today
in your home or on a busy street,
that a friend or a mother notes the change.
The smiles affirm that you are alive and splendid,
restored like this poem, printed on a fresh page.

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I really enjoy these poems because their endings make me think. I believe the last one needs the most work perhaps, but hopefully the meaning is clear enough. Well, goodnight and sleep well.