Cris de Borja

First April

April 9, 2023 § Leave a comment

I would rather miss you
so much that I suddenly can’t
bear even the sound of my own voice
than to have you gone and
have it not change anything.
I don’t want to be carefree,
and I will feel this loss as a hollow,
the place in my heart where you
are, still, and will stay.
I want to be less because you
are beyond the reach of my
text messages
you can’t tell me you’re on the way
or suggest we get together Saturday
next.
It seems only right that
my whole being feels the stars
shedding light, the skies shifted,
and every falling petal misaligned
in the winds of April. Don’t
tell me that the beetles under the leaves
can’t feel my sorrow, that the
songs of the birds don’t include
a note for you.
I won’t believe it. I don’t want to. This is mine
to feel;
I know you would understand.

Happiness Does Not Keep

June 24, 2022 § Leave a comment

Sadness is shelf-safe.
It preserves forever, uncaring if the dust is thick;
It will be waiting, even if forgotten.
It never goes rancid.
Who could tell, anyway?
Even fresh, it makes one sick,
a bad odor, a terrible taste,
a texture to cause gagging.

But Happiness
must be newly picked
So that its juices are sweet and flowing.
It spoils so quickly
One must have a ready supply
always ripening
always growing
Happiness does not keep.
In its abundance, share it;
Happiness is not for hoarding.

08-03-2005

Poem 117: Mean Reds

July 22, 2021 § Leave a comment

Mean Reds

This is the hue of my Mean Reds.

This is cruel and wild and violent.

I want to bite something til it bleeds,

pin it down,

and mock its cries;

I want to bite something while it screams.

This sharp-clawed thing has a dragon’s wings.

I know what kind of meal it needs.

It wants to tear my heart

out of me;

It wants to taste the flavor of that meat.

I want to bite something and make it bleed.

I want to swallow blood and vomit fire.

I want to destroy

what I can’t acquire:

the balance of my spirit at peace.

I want to feel flesh cut under my teeth;

I want to rage until I am spent.

Blood and tears have the same salt taste;

This is the hue of my Mean Reds

a darker color than Holly meant.

…

10/22/2005

Untitled

May 10, 2021 § Leave a comment

Words, I thought, would tumble out

when I opened the door to them.

So I took a pen and readied paper

but there was breakfast with hot coffee

and so I talked, instead, for hours.

It’s fine. Isn’t the way to write a poem

through the experience of living my hours?

Whatever comes, no one is waiting

for me to hand over a poem.

Well, no one expects one, except my future self

I suppose.

But I think

I think she’ll understand

what happened on the way.

5-10-2020

Bird-in-Hand

June 15, 2020 § Leave a comment

They could be yours
because you have had them before
colorful feathers out of reach
and the bird in hand
understands the feeling.
There is room for more
but while you are chasing
what left you empty-handed
the one you have
feels unneeded.

The open sky offers her
a warmer hold.

October 2006

Even Angels

April 18, 2020 § Leave a comment

In the easement between
God’s will, and the plans of devils,
where the roots and leaves of time
mingle without season,
a girl can pass.
Girls belong neither to the apple
nor to the garden;
we are not made of clay,
that mud of Eden,
though we inherit the stride
of our mothers who answered betrayal
with a step that crushes serpent’s heads.
Even angels cannot walk with us
without bearing burdens,
not while we are only girls:
the blush of knowledge new in our cheeks,
the breath of creation in our chests.
The power of girls
passing between —
we lose it when we lose
pieces of ourselves
to the odd devils of changing age.

May 2016

In 2005

December 21, 2019 § Leave a comment

Do you remember what you came here for:
Green tea & Rock and Roll,
The convictions of a monkey’s mind,
Liberty for All?
What conspiracy theories?

Speak, I’m listening ~
the maddening musings of a misunderstood mind,
the babbling of a not very tortured soul,
Incoherent ramblings
Powered by paranoia,
Fluff, flowers, and verbosity;
Your life can be used as a bad example to others.

Where the rivers meet,
All the lights are blinding;
The trees are singing water.
Between a rock and a hard place
a Sanctuary of darkness;
Raw wonders
in this other corner of the web.

Let me tell you about my boat
Because for some reason, you want to know me

I’m innocent, by standards.
I am your Painted Whore.
If you let me… I will change your world
One day I’ll be famous… I hope
Sunglasses help.
Time to move on.

My assault on the world begins now
The reluctant nomad
on Journeys through writing
Making love to language
Sudden inspiration.
Scratched into the door,
a Chronicle of a life measured out in coffee spoons.
Peace found here ~
Sometimes you have it, sometimes you don’t
…
11-6-2005

Senbazuru

July 10, 2019 § Leave a comment

Instead of stone, I will be paper
Conscientiously, with simple folds
remembering what I have already learned
Several times over.
I am folding a thousand cranes.
I am seeking calm in valley and mountain
and traveling toward the understanding of
where patterns fall and rest,
the solace of geometry.
Restraint is not control, and control is not peace
In this exercise there is no place
For scissor cuts, for the force of blades
on something that will not take
the shape of my wishes.
I have stopped counting
the ones behind me and those ahead.
At my peril, I will be paper;
Within me, enfolded, the breath of my patience.