El idioma de amor

De nuevo, ella sienta
la toca
de su Musa.
Viviendo sola,
en la ciudad
de historia y amor,
ella sienta.

Metaphor

She watches helplessly
as her life creeps
on without her,
without asking
her consent
to continue.
She can't help
but to tolerate
the blatant
disregard for
her authority.
It's not fair,
she thought as
she sat in the
backseat of
her metaphorical car.

Love's Philosophy

Telling you that I miss you
doesn't say anything at all.
Whispering that I love you
doesn't explain what I feel.
Every love poem ever written
is far less than insufficient,
and every love song ever sung
is nothing more than wind.
Every word ever used
to attempt to describe this--
a thing called "love"--
is nothing more than
a child's meandering babble.
Every piece of art created
to portray to the eye this "love"
tries to minimize something
which transcends all the senses
into only one.
Every prescious stone ever given
in "love's" sweet name is nothing,
only a biproduct of nature.
But every kiss that has followed
all of these in true, pure love,
these are those inexpressable,
inexhaustable truths
and unportrayable sensations.
And so, my love, it is nothing more
than a simple, honest kiss
that I give you.
And with it, my love.

This Rose

This rose was not trampled,
nor was it crushed, dropped, forgotten.
It has not lain here in abuse,
nor was it thrown here by force.
This rose has never been stepped on,
nor has any rough hand ever touched it.
Nay, this rose was ever so knowingly,
lovingly, and ever so gently
pulled apart.

Not really so amusing

A wedding is a funny thing,
intricate, happy, yet simple and sad.
The bride and groom happily kiss
and take each ring and vow,
but somehow tears also veil the bride.
A mother and father gayly spend,
yet cry when giving their child away.
But the funniest thing about a wedding
is those who came to witness it.
Some laugh and applaud, smile yet cry
at the wondrous beauty of it all.
But I do not laugh, nor do I smile,
I only cry inside, and mourn
for everything I shall never have.

Costly

Every teardrop I cry
crochets
another row of lace
on the wedding gown
I
will never wear
Each clear, pure tear
details
a delicate spiderweb
in the dazzling white
I
will never wear
Every bright diamond drop
weaves
an intricate snowflake
on the virgin gown
I
will never wear

Romance of Rain

Each round, perfect, crystalline drop,

Falling, racing, flying,

Wishes deep within itself to find

Another further down to join.

(c) Brianna Grantham 2005

Missive

Picking up the pen
and setting it down again;
the paper is mottled with tears.
Pressing on the pen
the ink bleeds blackened words
onto the wrinkled paper.
Picking up the paper
folding it over again;
the paper has some small tears.
Pressing on the paper
and sliding it into the envelope;
the paper catches and tears again.
Picking up the envelope
and licking the flap;
papercutting the tongue.
Pressing shut the envelope
and picking up a stamp;
the address is unimportant anymore.

Yeah, nice try...

smiles and wishes and kisses and dares
flowered pink bathingsuits and Disney towels
curls and sunscreen and visine and stares

...aw screw it...i can't write right about childhood right now...

Canal Street

She stood on the balcony over-looking Canal Street, her bathrobe wrapped carelessly around her lithe body. She leaned forward against the railing, oblivious of the slipping terry cloth revealing her pink-tipped breast, chin in her hand, watching.
The bed lay unmade behind her, the sheets rumpled and twisted around his body as he lay sleeping, unaware that the light saw his entire body, exposed. The fan whistled softly as the air caressed his skin gently under its whispered command.
The parade passing below was ignorant of her magnificent presence, of the perfection the horses and riders and trumpets and glorious little miniature men and women did not look up to appreciate. The sun’s golden rays did not even stop to kiss the face of this goddess, passing instead onto the balconies lining the west bank of the canal. Neither did the sour-sweet scent of the incense rising from the hand of the cloaked priest soar so high as to intoxicate her senses, dismally resigning itself to the less-preferred undeserving people lining the sidewalks.
A sigh escaped from her lips, its inaudible words sharing with the world the night of bliss in a moment. Negligent of the white folds of her robe, she leaned back and stretched to pull a bit of cotton from the clouds, the perfectly preserved Venus of days past on display for all who never knew she existed.
The sheets behind her rustled and she turned, a heavenly smile floating softly about her mouth. Moving away from the view into the microcosm that is Canal Street, she stepped back into the unbounded space of their world, the soft white pile of terry cloth on the carpet behind her the only evidence that she really had touched the clouds.

(c) Brianna Grantham 2005

Dulce de Leche

fresh-cut lilies lying
soft
against the pale white
soft
curve of her young
soft
rigor mortis small breast

(c) Brianna Grantham 2005