No Lifeguard On Duty (... or, haikus for the new year)

New year morning sun.

Weeds and driftwood wash ashore

with resolutions.

Tiny toes tickle

winter waters, rippling

in the great Pacific.

A sign's stern disclaimer:

"No Lifeguard on Duty."

Winter at the beach.

"Play it Safe," it warns

of changing conditions.

"Proceed at your own risk."

Caution is a bell

rung by those who forgot

about carpe diem.

Greatness hence,

a resolution in courage.

Making waves, making waves.

some new outrage

some new outrage this way slinks,
in nine-inch heels and tousled hair.
lips, a red-ripe apple, laced in sugared nothings.
shiny, shimmering she slithers wily
then she strikes.
with the crook of one adulterous finger,
he is snared.

Liminal

I am the in-between:
the waiting space
where overgrown vines push against the trellis,
reaching for the light;
where the sun slants before its repose
and the world, for a moment, is gold.
Not-here-nor-there,
a mythical rock rolling on Hades’ hill.

What is Love (or the Bar Brawl story)

If I had to think about my previous lovers, they seem to melt into each other like candle wax drippings congealed on an old bottle of chianti. There's the Muslim, the Italian and the German. What would happen if they all walked into a bar? Would they each buy me a drink and vie for my affection?

In the story I would write, they would all end up in a brawl. Each a fighting cock, ruffling feathers and one-upping each other. They would show me and, more importantly, each other, that one was indeed more worthy. Perhaps a Muslim jab, an Italian punch and then a German kick? Tables, chairs, and emotions, all askew. All this, because of me. Wouldn't that be grand? And me?--well, I'd feign indignity. How could you, I'd say. Then I'd most likely end up with the bartender. C'est la vie, mes cheris!

But this is a story already written. This is about love. Love that twists and wrenches after the proverbial honeymoon is over. There are no knights or distressed damsels. Nonetheless, if you do end up with Mr. Right, despite the rough spots and broken glass, there's always the promise of a happily ever after around the bend.

For those anchored attitudes

I cannot stay anchored on this dock
where barnacles stick and rot.
Floorboards, one by one, splinter
at the sun. And salt, for what it's
worth dries out my skin.
I think I've tarried long enough
and played my part with ease:
the dutiful shipmate, the captain's hand,
I scrubbed the deck to gleam.
The plank so tempts me like a lover with a
promise -- not yet broken --
and one day soon I'll walk it
with intention to pave my way complete.
The anchor has weighed heavy,
deceitful and mocking,
towards worlds beyond the horizon.
Yet degrees of latitude and longitude
remain untraveled.
We dilly and we dally and then
pretend to live out wishy-washy dreams.
How it happened, I do not know: we somehow meant
to sail away. So here we are, worn out
and brittle; tired of the sunset as we wait for it
to rise.

*title line taken from Sylvia Plath's "Touch-and-Go"*


©2011 b.cisek

Room for Doubt

We sit across--
apart--and it's more than space between us.
That space where several lifetimes were lived
like moving pictures on the silver screen.
Nostalgic-tragic-sentimental.

Arms crossed against your chest,
but even that couldn't stop the piercing words
flying out of my mouth like arrows dipped
in hate, or worse, bright white contempt.
Whatever happened to silent pictures?

There was a time when there was no space.
Just us.
Time, imperceptible, shifting,
like snow, heavy on a branch.
Snap! And something falls

Into something else.
You are no longer the you I knew.
And neither was I.

Buried in the snowdrift, chilled.
I am so cold.

And there you are.
Here we are--sitting
with that space.
In this room, where doubt has thrived.

(The Broken Spaces)

Where pigeons hunt for food in festering streets
Amid shantied bungalows where life lies low;
The once-bright houses now all faded, as if to blend with sky in shame.
The cracks, like wrinkles, worn out and gray.

Where pigeons build their nests in broken spaces,
Needles scatter like confetti from a long-forgotten birthday party.
The only fix is that one-time high, the momentary release (relief) of mind.
Denial is a tempest that lifts you up--

Where pigeons fly away from all the shambles,
Height smooths out the grungy faces.
And hope?
Well--hope was once a good idea. Like your last five bucks coursing through a vein.