Core 4 Poems
– Caravaggio, The Fortune Teller, 1594 –
Draft #1
I was the aristocrat, you the fortune teller.
Naivety shown through my longing gaze,
for I craved an intimacy and understanding
so explicably intrinsic ,
Caravaggio fought in my creation
“you were easier to paint,” he said
the look in your eye memorable
of sightings untold by women,
reoccurring in their truths
ever since man began walking this earth.
I ignored their words.
“This one’s different,” I said.
then you had taken every last drop
of moisture — life
out of my side of our canvas:
my skin shriveled
eyes baggy
bones brittle
tongue white and cracked
my mind lost in a grievous error — dying
Caravaggio sighed
“I told you,” he said,
“deception.”
Draft #2
I was the aristocrat, you the fortune teller.
Naivety shown through my longing gaze,
for I craved an intimacy and understanding
so explicably intrinsic ,
Caravaggio fought in my creation.
“You were easier to paint,” he said
the look in your eye memorable
of sightings untold by women,
reoccurring in their truths
ever since man began walking this earth.
I ignored their words.
“This one’s different,” I said.
then you had taken every last drop
of moisture — life
out of my side of our canvas:
my skin shriveled
eyes baggy
bones brittle
tongue white and cracked
my mind lost in a grievous error — dying.
Caravaggio sighed,
“I told you,” he said,
“deception.”
NEW YORK, NEW YORK
Draft #1
Horseless carriages stampede through
a concrete jungle.
Their souls rumble and creak,
leaking darkened plumes
which rise from the blackened ground.
Radiating heat, they swirl together,
like a ballerina’s first recital,
trying to fill empty space.
The sun’s tendrils reach out
searching for the people
who silently live, heads bowed low.
For the ones who look up
past cemented limbs:
only haze
only grey.
New York, New York.
Draft #2
Horseless carriages stampede through
a concrete jungle.
Their souls rumble and creak,
leaking darkened plumes
which rise from the blackened ground.
Radiating heat, they swirl together,
like a ballerina’s first recital,
trying to fill empty space.
The sun’s tendrils reach out
searching for the people
who live silently, heads bowed low.
For the ones who look up
past cemented limbs:
only haze
only grey.
New York, New York.
House of Green
Draft #1
I found solace in vines that curled like whispers,
trees that pressed their shadows against the glass,
and leaves that shivered awake
in the soft breath of the morning breeze.
The walls of our house surrendered to the green–
ivy spilling from clay pots,
ferns spilling from shelves,
roots stretching into corners until
the beige faded beneath a living mural
of stems and veins.
Each morning I rose beneath a canopy,
light fractured by palms and orchids,
my footsteps softened by mossy rugs of leaves.
Windows yawning wide, the sliding door ajar,
where I shared breakfast with the bees,
the air sweetened by the garden that lived inside.
It is a wild sanctuary built not of brick and paint,
but of stems stretching, roots weaving,
petals softening the air into something holy.
My mother’s hands tended this place
as if she were coaxing the earth itself indoors,
and in her quiet rituals I learned my own:
patience, wonder, reverence.
Those walls became my first forest,
and in their shade I grew
toward the green,
toward the hum of bees and breath of leaves.
It is why, even now,
the sight of a single sprout
feels like home.
Draft #2
I found solace in vines that curled like whispers,
trees that pressed their shadows nagainst the glass,
and leaves that shivered awake
in the soft breath of the morning breeze.
The walls of our house surrendered to the green–
ivy spilling from clay pots,
ferns spilling from shelves,
roots stretching into corners until
the beige faded beneath a living mural
of stems and veins.
Each morning I rose beneath a canopy,
light fractured by palms and orchids,
my footsteps softened by mossy rugs of leaves.
Windows yawning wide, the sliding door ajar,
where I shared breakfast with the bees,
the air sweetened by the garden that lived inside.
It is a wild sanctuary built not of brick and paint,
but of stems stretching, roots weaving,
petals softening the air into something holy.
My mother’s hands tended this place
as if she were coaxing the earth itself indoors,
and in her quiet rituals I learned my own:
patience, wonder, reverence.
Those walls became my first forest,
and in their shade I grew
toward the green,
toward the hum of bees and breath of leaves.
It is why, even now,
the sight of a single sprout
feels like home.
Aurora of Memory
Draft #1
Beneath a sky of violet fire,
where stars hum like ancient drums,
the earth stretches wide and still,
a kingdom hushed below its crown.
He steps into a world of
souls: a son, a king,
drawn toward a father
whose voice still echoes,
whose gaze steadies,
as acacias rise in silhouette–
guardians of the horizon.
The child within my chest
sings with the spirits’ chorus,
her curious eyes scanning my room
for that familiar warmth,
that whisper behind the curtain–
her grandmother’s voice breaking through:
love does not end when breath does
And when he kneels,
beneath the aurora’s blazing veil,
she stands with him
threads of fire binding past and present,
child and ancestor
mortal to eternal
For beauty is not
only in the sky’s spectacle,
but in the truth that lingers:
we are never alone.
Draft #2
I sit in the dark, eyes fixed to a screen,
watching as he stands
beneath a sky of violet fire,
where stars hum like ancient drums,
the earth stretches wide and still,
a kingdom hushed below its crown.
He steps into a world of
souls: a son, a king,
drawn toward a father
whose voice still echoes,
whose gaze steadies,
as acacias rise in silhouette–
guardians of the horizon.
And in that bow, that quiet reverence,
I feel the pull of generations—
my childhood self stirring
in the corner of my room,
seeking that familiar warmth;
a whisper behind the curtain—
her grandmother’s voice breaking through:
love does not end when breath does
And when he kneels,
beneath the aurora’s blazing veil,
she stands with him
threads of fire binding past and present,
child and ancestor
mortal to eternal
For beauty is not
only in the sky’s spectacle,
but in the truth that lingers:
we are never alone.
