poems by Rena J. Mosteirin

Blog Archive

Sunday, December 30, 2012

Happiness


Three surfing the winter
ocean wild and whales too close to shore
two of us on the beach watching
if one falls, you and I alone will know.

Ocean wild and whales too close to shore
purple and black sand pulled into rough patterns by the tide
if one falls, you and I alone will know
and I will go.

Purple and black sand pulled into rough patterns by the tide.
I can swim strong, translate bitter cold to breath, re-write death
and I will go
into the icy ocean. My blood is hot thinking about it.

Three surfing the winter
two of us on the beach watching.

Saturday, December 29, 2012

Eagle, Buzzard, Moose


Push the ice-milk sky, my black bald eagle
on wings longer than outstretched velvet, reach.               
I see her white head—that’s how I know she’s an eagle,
and then there’s the ghost, sitting on the green tractor, wearing a ski jacket.

On wings longer than outstretched velvet reach
the buzzards circle
and then there’s the ghost, sitting on the green tractor, wearing a ski jacket
by the moose carcass. Most likely mauled by a bear.

The buzzards circle:
“We have-it-all, have-it-all, have-it-all,” they scream at me
by the moose carcass. Most likely mauled by a bear.
“Give-it-back, give-it-back, give-it-back,” at the good dog who takes the spine.

Sunday, December 23, 2012

Quench


From the portrait you can’t tell he called it the red quench.
My heart is a blue plastic chum bucket, you can’t tell anyone.
The gold mat around the frame is red/ a sort of fire always all around him
clean like the ocean is clean. Hold me still, wooden arms.

My heart is a blue plastic chum bucket, you can’t tell anyone.
Collect the oldest books you can find, and that one portrait:
clean like the ocean is clean. Hold me still, wooden arms.
When I die, cut me up/ out on our boat/ where the sharks are.

Collect the oldest books you can find, and that one portrait:
Grandpa, he tells the sharks I am coming.
When I die, cut me up/ out on our boat/ where the sharks are.
I sit in his chair. His portrait will always be bigger than my body.

Grandpa, I am coming.
What sharks we are.

Saturday, December 15, 2012

Thanksgiving


Start at the end. If that doesn’t work then it’s possible you don’t understand the flow of all this towards the end and the power of termination. At the end we’re all wearing hats. If you suspect sadness is the problem remind yourself that it doesn’t go away sadness has nowhere to go (one of the turkeys actually attacked him) and the power of termination is really no power at all. Sadness can be neither created nor destroyed. (There’s just so much junk on TV.) It’s more that you’re in the loop of it and different positions of the loop feel differently right now I’m hanging, not ending, just suspended. Start at the end. If that doesn’t work then it’s possible you don’t understand the flow of all this towards the end and the power of termination. At the end we’re all wearing high collars. If you suspect God is the problem remind yourself that it doesn’t go away God has nowhere to go (male turkeys in the same brood fight for the females) and the power of termination is really no power at all. God can be neither created nor destroyed. (Now there’s high quality 100% viewer supported Free Speech TV.) It’s more that you’re in the loop of it and different positions of the loop feel differently right now I’m hanging, not ending, just suspended. Start at the end. If that doesn’t work then it’s possible you don’t understand the flow of all this towards the end and the power of termination. At the end we’re not wearing anything. If you suspect love is the problem remind yourself that it doesn’t go away love has nowhere to go (in the end most of the turkeys get killed by wild animals) and the power of termination is really no power at all. Love can be neither created nor destroyed. (You might feel more at home if you got yourself a TV.) It’s more that you’re in the loop of it and different positions of the loop feel differently right now I’m hanging, not ending, just suspended.  It just doesn’t feel impossible that the turkeys will take over. They’re never sad.

Wednesday, December 12, 2012

Free Mohammad al-Ajami


In the silent room
we wait. No poems but by
poets. Please pardon.




Submit a haiku through CODEPINK here and sign the petition to free poet Mohammad al-Ajami.