Raw

My skin has been grinded out
scraped leaving my nerves exposed.
Instinct, I recoil from touch
and shy from the light and sound.

My head is heavy,
as neurons drown in a dark poll;
And my neck struggles,
to keep my head over water;
As my shoulders hunch,
with unremovable burden;
Along my pale face,
two training weights drag at my cheeks;
Low lids dig my eyes,
within the shade of dark circles.

You ask me if I am ok?
I am fine thank you.

I just wish I wouldn't, 

burst at every setback,

acid lava within shouts.

I just hate who I've become,
I look worst than my grandmother
behave worst than my mother. 

I just wish there was more to me
than the feeder, cleaner, enforcer
the silent listener, lover.

I just hate the world,
not you, not them,
just me in it and thereof.

Twinkle twinkle balls of fire

Twinkle twinkle

Balls of unfathomable fire

In relentless ire

Mighty gods of life.

Twinkle twinkle

Exotic fusion cooks

Recipes to feed the universe

Of fleeting ingredients. 

So, twinkle twinkle

Balls of untamable pyro

Blazing news to years farther.

More, twinkle twinkle

Through this empty space 

Over this flaming kiss. 

Tonight We dance

She raised her glass
to a space of fragrance
gifts of perfumers and chefs
bees for our banquet.

"Tonight we dance." 

Her glass rose
and so did theirs.

"Outside this stained window
lose specs forced to shake
water flushed from the sky
as if migration made it light.

Zeus and Thor collude
against our dinner feast
abhorred by its stature
green isn't color that fits.

Nevertheless,
tonight we dance."

And her glass rose again
with them cheering it.

"Youth flee their lessons
burdened with pesky
and serious concerns
long past their tender.

For what of their guardian,
exhausted will she manage?
the pilling of warnings?
of crossroad endings?

Regardless,
tonight We dance."

And her glass rose again,
they're lost at her turn.

"Broken close their eyes
to their fate and its price
they planned for luck solely
but got struck instead.

Their doctors prescribed
but held was their fund
for useless is the mallet
to the insurance wallet.

Anyway,
tonight WE dance." 

And her glass rose again
but gone was their wit.

"Looking-in hands implore,
forsaken howl at our spoils
like wolfs without a den
or a pack to take them in.

They'll surrender to the rain
and recoil to any found dent
of this majestic construction
to remind'em where they stand.

All the more reason,
TONIGHT WE DANCE!
Because we can!"
And she gulps the wine.

Slowly the stunned room,
in its palpable gloom,
was silently emptied.
The extravagants gone.

"Good, only I remain,
let it linger just the same
in their spoiled brains.
For we alone hold the chains."

Betrayal of the working mom

I have worked through pregnancy
when my fist wouldn't clench,
when the nights were left unheld
and breathing was a torment.

I did so because I loved my job,
my colleagues and my boss.
Responsibilities fueled me
with intrinsic need to weather.

Safeguarding our health
I was set to rest prematurely,
fortunately able to insure
the most urgent affairs closure.

Haunting the house aimlessly,
anticipation consuming my energy
the day came glorying my pain
and handed was a world with a ribbon.

My baby, my joy and my focus alone,
for the months to come
was a gift, a miracle
and a brilliant leach of life.

She had my undivided attention
for as long as I could master,
but life caught up with us,
my body barely mine and brain drained.

Eager to resume my functions
got a review from my sympathetic employee,
surprised that I was not my dynamic
and cunning self while making life.

Burst the amazing illusion
of being professionally cherished,
the drive to hand my precious
to another's arms for my job hanged.

Garden Of Enlightenment Virtuosos 2019

Yesterday I got some wonderful news.

The 2019th anthology from Late Night Poets contest winners at All Poetry (The web's largest poetry writing group - from beginners to experts).
An amazing production of Jean Fitzpatrick with a pretty amazing selection of poets, including yours truly. ;-)

Yesterday @ AllPoetry

On shelves Now... (Amazon)

Poem 8 contributed with can be found in: https://chris-yellow-writes.blogspot.com/2019/09/she-has-back-bone-like-none.html?m=1

We take too much for granted

Greedy over the sun
a cloud cries silent down.
Into your cup it might
overflow overboard.

Into others not quench
the deserts of their thirst,
but remind'em of such
as the caress of rain.

Bless them all with showers,
the trees and the flowers
the birds and the lovers
as they bow together.

To the maker of life
we cheaply call water.

Love can suck the glee from marry

WE GET IT!
I get it...
You insufferable prik!

You HATE all of it!

You hate your job...

(and somehow... 

that is my fault.)

You hate me...

You hate my family...

But it is Christmas.
Let us inferior
Optimistic fools
Have some joy for the day
And for God's sake
Get your glee sucking frenzy
Out of this place

And take your bitter taste with it. 

I shall open my door
to you
Any other day.

Winterfalls

Winter falls upon you
Like the icy morning dew
That freezes in your surface
A shield of unimportance.

Your back hurts from the frost
Bitten you ignore the sense at last
Shed from strain of polite games
Under that cover that is your age.

But the white fluf speckles that walse
On their labirintic ways to the grounds
Will turn grey as your hair and melt
Before you feel their Christmas sound.

You are free but so alone
In this unforgiving tone.



ps - Full disclosure Winterfalls is not my word.

Forgiving gift

She bounces once back twice forward
stiff, her feet on a stretched high rope
that swings teasingly with her weight
at each turn of her feline waist.

She had paved her way into this,
with a small fist full of mistakes
and the other of bad chances,
vanished return in the distance.

The frost of her disposition,
the sharp tongue used for ascension,
I knew the sting of its incision,
also the stake in her motion.

If I draw hand across her back,
a net will shape under her sight
free to fog in a damp release
granting her a steadier path.

Hardest is forgiveness, and yet
it is sweetest to the giver.

Friend don't despair - version poem

I have been fighting for the words to say,
anything that could push you the right way.
And I am disappointed to state
no text could heal your widow grief
so I didn't get that far anyway.

Here goes:

This sucks!
This isn't fair,
nor is it reasonable
and you have the right to hate
everything!...
right now.

Life's a devious bitch!
When you get a little air to breathe
it punches you right in the nuts
and knocks you senseless down
to taste the dust from the ground!

Love hurts!
Love is as hurtful
as living is deadly!
We weren't build to be treated this way,
our fragile existence
is torn into pieces
with the whims
of this treacherous adventure!

Please, please...though
don't forget
how much yesterday felt
worth it all.
Sit on your fingers for just a while,
gorge on chocolates
and as many indulgences
as you can find...
but remember
life will still be here
waiting for your return.
You count many people on your corner,
holding the towel and wincing with the punch
I know you can count on me,
when you decide to fight back.

Remember,
for every present
there was a past
and there will be a future,
and the laws of physics thus dictate
(due to the continuity of state)
that better days will come.

Autumn wisdom

       Trees moult foliage
to withstand the pending wind
   but bloom stronger soon.

The poison of ignorance

Troubled with the news
of one scientific proof
  cited by deaf hopes.

God paradox

Here is what I cannot fathom:
If god is all and evermore
why would he follow
any treasured church?

Why would you
love a god to fear?
trust a god indifferent?
or be guided in his whispers?

If he is and has been
source and architect
why assume he means
a plan that is for us?

I conclude he either:
is bright and refuses the altar;
smites hence deserves no power;
or is not but our will to follow.

In any case, I am free
to be the best version of me
for the sole purpose
of earning my sleep.

She has a back bone like none

(Allpoetry image prompt) 

We have all been scarred by life.

Some wear these in plain sight,
they display them in soft sobs
feed them as spicy cookie crosses
and blame them for the tortuous
ways of the lines in their hands.

Some cover them with colorful tunics,
the playful patterns dwell over raw meet
skinned by this melodic charade
of gardens of puppies and kittens
and over sweetened honey teas.

Some stick hard to the bones,
like vines on the worked stone
of an abandoned Victorian house,
the body grows mapping its grooves,
a Gardner's Siamese surgery.

She?

Before the first air stole her cry
her mother shirked at her hold,
what demon had tricked her whom?
The mother drowned in apocalypse now
while her first step got her closer to the door.

Her words as she took to it:
"there is no space in tight shoes
for feet to grow."
And she planted them on her own
on the hardest ground she knew.

She wore now the tattoo on her back,
an uneven waterfall of lumps
that jumped rope her spine childish,
as a testimony to the sturdy scalpels
and the coaching overload of nerves.

The story it told as I traced her naked lines
made all other women shrink
to barbie dolls in dream houses
and her lips had to teach mine to breathe
just to keep me from crying.

Lion heart meets its match

Pussy here owns the place!
From the front window frames
to the corners of the garage,
the floors kiss his pillow paws
in his slick sleepy parades.

Between the gate and the ground
where little light squeezes down to
greet Lion-heart with the birth of day,
an intruder crawled in today.

Filled with the size of his name,
forward his shoulders rolled
like only a hunter may.
But as he closed the space
to face he who stole the sun,
slower got his steady pace
for light could breach again
hitting the slender silhouette.

His crown would not allow
a second guessing of his step,
the long curvy trespasser
should have to slither back.

The snake full bellied
by larger a mammal
blinked once and twice,
but it gave no surrender sign.
She had to analyze the insanity
that made it try tower over her.

And as the reptile's head
lifted in the magic of its ways
above the tall held cat
she could distinguish sweat
breaking behind its gaze,
so she kissed its tiny nose in truce
for she witnessed a lion's heart.

The balance is one to nurture.

The balance is one to nurture.
The inside compass tips the scale
towards our insignificant survival
but it is faced eyes locked,
with jets of heat exhaled,
and pointy horns ahead
digging our hooves on the sand.

As if we could overpower nature.

In its indifference it laughs.
Earth shaped by volcanoes,
and the drifting land and seas,
carved by the feet of dinosaurs,
embraced by the roots of trees,
are but a dot on the cosmos.
The secrets of their years in rings
are but a tick of the clock.

As if nature need us.

It will draw a new path
grow new pets and sleep
an infant's game.

We on the other hand,
need the measure of the grain,
can't breath with less oxygen,
would burn with one degree more
and freeze with a single less.
We are the center of this mess
but we also own its consequence.

"Stars cannot shine without darkness"
is romance of fiction,
and not the reason they parade
thousands light-years away.
We are the ones that cannot
gaze into their bright eyes
during our specific day
or point at when they shy behind
the shade of our burning sun.
Wonder, would they mind
if we were to be blind?
or would we alone complain
our starless turn of days?

We for ourselves must maintain
our advantage in the game,
listen to the rumors inside the brain
built in chips of evolutionary gain,
so we don't become the fossils
getting brushed off layers of soils
by historian pawns of a new board
making assumptions over today.

The goddess in each

Where her heels lift,
with the ground kiss,
there bloom wild daisies.

When her lips open,
birds ruffle bloatin'
and prepare to chorus.

What crossed her touch
left the larva to wings
and discovered its reach.

She carries a wand,
blossoms to give life,
to song birds and men.

Women are left to wonder
what makes her brighter
as if it were to see.

Men are left in wonder
over their own measure
and why that'd be.

She is but the owner
of her own breeze
design and rhythmic steps.

Will measure to none,
while nodding to praise,
and ignoring the knifes.

No contour is fairer
nor is it more than skin
we are all born with.

The goddess in each
howling to be unleashed
from the mirror we perceive.

Portuguese blog

I have been writing poems in Portuguese since I was 10. I have decided to start a new blog with my Portuguese poems.
If you can understand the language, please enjoy:
palavras ao vento. 

Vacuum of recognition 📜🖋️

I got published, hurray!

As soon as I knew I flew
these news
to all of those
I keep so close
in white doves
of slick wings
with confetti on their beaks.

I love you so
I had to, you know?      

And thus I could rejoice
in your breading pride.
I could celebrate
more than I meant
or tried
or the occasion required.

But what of the deed?
Dead in deaf ears!

Not even the stamp
of a honorable judge
could tickle your thirst
for fruits of my stand
for lilies of my gardens
for sketches of my pen
for words of mine.

Who am I?
I am a concept.

To you measures of glory
are as flighty 'n' abstract
as scores in a game
that we play
and I am but the sum
and I am but a name
on a digital scale.

Happiness leads
thus to dismay:
As I understand
how vulgar  the collection,
as I comprehend
how hollow the victories
and cheap the dances;

As I bare defeat:
how tiny I am,
no one cared to check?

Henceforward shall I:
let this uptight life flee,
embrace the time
needn't be mine
and walk proud
of my own rhyme.

Is that not the stride
of the poet?

🌷 Flower revolution

It has been 50 years
to this very day
that captains dressed
the streets of jungle green
to cluster other colors,
no asphalt to be seen.

Coordinated by a tune
passed on the radio
that sang of fraternity
and power of the people.

These peeked fearful
behind heavy curtains
left their caged houses
to fight for their homes.

An old lady brought
vivid red carnations
a wicker basked of those.
Like a plea for peace
she filled with one
the cold hollow tube
of a solders shotgun.


In this coast forgotten land,
bathed by sea, warmed by sun,
gentle a mood, sweeter a wine,
that saw world wars from afar,
soon all of the guns,
man, woman and child
waved the red-blood blooms:
Enough to death and fight!
Enough to fear and prison!
Were part of the demands.


By hand of a flower,
they took back their lives
their spirits and brothers
from preaching, ruling,
patronizing institution
that shadowed their lands.

Together we are
then, today and forever
to join in this tune.

"Grandola vila morena" - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4X0zLfq8Bbs