Miel et Lait

(C’est quoi
la vie)
Un paradis?
Un ciel rouge
Noir?
Un simple au revoir?

Deux baisers
Une étoile
qui brille

Miel et lait?

le sens et gris
mais clairement
on voit
ce n’est pas un rêve
ni une joie
brève
qui donne à la vie
sa voix
les sentiments
dit gentiment
sont tout ce dont
on a besoin
c’est tout sympa
grimper là-haut
la vie est juste
un mot
qui est fait
pour se plaît

la vie
est douce
comme l’eau
(La vie est dans la peau)

__
Miel et Lait
par Lauren Clark

Advertisements

Poetry Chapbook is out on Amazon

For all you readers who have asked about where to get a hardcopy of my poetry, thank you for appreciating my craft. In honor of you, the chapbook is now out on Amazon and clicking on the link below takes you there.

Thank you for reading. Much love and wishing you peace, joy, and comfort this New Year’s 2015.

I Want You to Be Whole

Ginesthoi!

Alicia

Bali, Jan 2014

(Broken)

I am not pretty,

I confess;

But I will love (you)

While you ask me to bid goodbye.

I won’t even write about hope

any (more),

yours is a granite door painted-shut,

painted-out.

I won’t write about

fireplaces and your lips on my shoulders

deep long talks about birthing dreams

climbing mountains

a house with lots of windows

laughter

and pillows

hands curling feet by the lake.

I said hold on, give me a second;

And you didn’t wait

not a second, not for me,

but (quickly) filed me away in that category

full of index cards and manila folders,

misshapen lives and unwanted women.

That’s where I belong now,

in a gray metal cabinet,

while you look on with distaste.

Like I am a lemon while all you want is chocolate

lava cake.

Before I knew it,

we were reduced to a plain waste

of a contract, your cold hard math

and unilateral decisions,

like human relationships don’t matter,

like I never once brought you any joy.

Paper Pigeons

1072806-1440x900-[DesktopNexus.com]

Once

And no
More

Rilke in the

rain
Kissing

In          evitable           tragedies
We

are little boys and         little girls

Who live to
Tell and
weave     s     t      o

r   i   e

s

Of  needs  and               w

ants

Shaped by

fear
And words
gifts                                 trust
respect                            honor;

Watching                       bridges burn
As we

sink;                                singing

Like

Once and

no
more;

And yet, we
dance                               in vases

to                                      gether

and a

part

For                                    ever.

Love in the Time of Quantum Physics

So here I am sitting on my bed trying to use quantum physics and astronomy to cope with grief, that I couldn’t have possibly lost anything or made any mistakes or have any regrets if what we have are dimensions and a parallel timeline and the other “me”s made different choices and I now travel alongside “myselves” on a different course, never crashing, not worried about the finish line, only about the vastness of space and the magnitude of light years, galaxies, constellations, a billion suns. My best friend in Rome calls me and I tell her I am hurting. It is evening over there. She says, “It’s ok you’re hurting, it means something broke. If something broke, it means it still works.”

 

“Well, something works all right, everything, everything still works,” I shed tears into my morning coffee. “So fix it,” she says.

 

And suddenly I remember. Huddled in the corner is a backpack. I put down the coffee and buy a one way ticket to walk along the Silk Road, right where it started in China. It’s amazing how much gold and silver had been traded for thread that comes out of a worm; how many lives gained and lost and transformed by commerce, faith, winds of monsoons and thirsty camels. As I plot my route, I go into caves and taverns and speak with merchants and kiss strange men who are on the same journey, for different reasons. I sit on canoes and drink in waters of rivers, touch uncut diamonds and lose oxygen in high altitudes. I plunge into prehistoric forests and dance and shoot game and rub soil on my face. I steal honey from bees because I am hungry. I will fall and die and break all over again and learn to say goodbye elegantly. I find friends and family on the streets of India, Persia, hanging off rocks with my fingers.

Like the history of mankind and the migration of peoples, we are all seeking, searching, wandering– Mongolia; Kazakhstan; Istanbul, where you cross the Bosphurus River and one minute you’re in Europe, the next—Asia. As empires rise and fall and faces launch a thousand ships, dynasties overthrown by concubines and gypsies with dreams, I will get everything stolen from me and despair once again, but out of that despair, I will suddenly remember. I will remember. Then there will be a call. And I shall come home again.

Alicia Khoo,
Costa Mesa, CA
October 2013

 

Suddenly I Remember

I was washed up
at sea, shell cocoon
born of a tiger and
a lamb, the sand that
came out of my nostrils blew
into glass, amber, fossils with bees
collecting nectar,
trapped in remembering,
and forgetting.

When my father hands me his eyes,
I burn them into
the palms of my hands,
yellow, ochre, gold.
He puts me on a cliff of eagles.
I jump.

Horns of Babel and civilizations
trumpet and spill into the ocean,
onto shore as people, ships,
and gardens;
Commerce comes pouring out.
My father runs, my mother follows
into the highlands and cries into canyons
when she cannot find him.

It’s not as easy as it seems,
they bellow;
I wipe earth off my face and pull out twigs
from the soft of my heel.
I hear her.
I hear them.

I feel ridges of wings pushing
through flesh and skin
like a wisdom tooth.
My shoulder blade bleeds and
baptizes daisies into birth.
I sing.

Honeycomb drips off my fingers,
we eat, we eat, we throw ourselves off bridges,
we rush forward and our faces appear as stars
drumming like hammers into the black nothing of nails.
Loose, loose, my oldest friend.
We bloom into mountains, into shrines.

Alicia Khoo
Signal Hill, California
Oct 2013

Concerto No. 6 Outside the Post Office

Who would have thought,
I would be the kinda girl to sit
in front of the post office in Huntington Beach
listening to Allegro, Concerto No. 6 in B-Flat Major.
Oh the Academy of Ancient Music. Richard Egarr! Bach!

And turning it up, up so loud,
it’s like candy,
It’s turning my brain into jazz.
Like coming out of slavery,
I’m sitting right here rockin’ out,
like it were Bon Iver or Patrick Doyle
on steroids.
It’s the sweetest procrastination
you will ever have,
here, right outside the post office
in the middle of a sunny day.

How did I get here, you ask?

Well, first of all,
let’s just say Hatred and Envy and Sabotage
Didn’t break me nor kill me,
They just made my poetry stronger.
Yes, in a way, they killed me,
but I was reborn.
Like Viktor Frankl and Ingrid Magnussen,
I write on wallpaper and stick it
into the cracks of walls,
I polish the enemies’ stones like champagne,
cold and crisp without any sweetness
in the final freedoms of my mind.

I will not stop writing,
and I will fight to live.
You will continue to hate me,
but you will not have me.