Hypnotizing Chickens

Hypnotizing Chickens

by Kamila More Cabisada

How astute you are, fair clucking creature
How hard for me to chase after
The family descends at midnight tonight
You’ll be queen of my kitchen counter

You will dance, you will romp
In the sand, in the hay
In flour, in grease
In salt, in spice

You’ll be dressed in the best
Your charm put to the test
As you sit on my table tonight

What? This is a Sunday?
You must be in church, you say?
[No, you may not!]
I beg your pardon, darling sweet
There are better, brighter, hotter things
Than steeples and pews and roosters that sing

So look at me
Stare into my eyes
And come to me.

What? You must say your prayers?
Repent of your sins?
Ugh, no! Utterly morbid, my sweet
The oil in my pan will wipe your slate clean
This comes with a sure guarantee

So look at me
Stare into my eyes
And come to me.

What? So who is this Friend of yours?
You cannot stand Him up, you say?
Not even for a night with me?

I have raised you, I have kept you
Protected you, fed you
And this is how you repay me?
With abandonment? Treachery?

Look at me, I say.
Stare into my eyes.
And come to me!

But now you run, why?
Because He says you must try?
I shall break your attempt
You’ll see.

Darling friend, lovely dove
What is happening? Where are you?
I can’t see you, I can’t feel you
I am burned by this horrid Light.

Please come out. Into the darkness.
This brightness dulls my senses
It blinds me, gags me, binds me inutile
You must show yourself once more

Come out…
Into the darkness…
Show yourself…
Stare into my eyes.

And return to me.

But you will not
Since you can not
I can’t stand it —
You are free.

Chicken_on_the_run_sm

“Chicken on the Run” painting by Gena LaCoste
http://genalacoste.blogspot.com/2011/03/chicken-on-run.html

One Piece at a Time

One Piece at a Time

by Kamila More Cabisada

Sort through
Piles of discarded
Memories, leftover pain
Emptied canisters of
Bubbling laughter

Sort through
Years of tiny
Running feet in
Over-sized shoes
Grimy hands raiding
An overused ref
Makeup kits used
For watercolor art
Empty red checkbooks
Tied up with a band

Sort through
Heaps of music box dreams
Sheets, staves, notations
Audible cats
Scratching lines on the wall

Sort through tears
And dried laundry stains
And doomed coffee acid
Shards of broken glass

Sort through bits
And pieces here and there
Crawl through time
And get yourself back.

one piece at a time -zeke edit

Deja Vu (I have been here before)

Deja Vu (I have been here before)

by Kamila More Cabisada

Leaves brown and curled
Fall on my backpack
Dusty summer roadside
I see you now, Footpath

Look once, twice, thrice
Up close and discerning
Cut-outs, forms, lines
On blank papyri, swirling

Wayward ink bottles
Jive wildly in the sun
In heaps they all fall
By the wayside they call
All spent and wasted and numb

Familiar quaintness
Transfixing glow
I see you now, Footpath
I have been here before

footpath wallpaper

What Makes You Beautiful

(Song for the Genteel Salesman Blocking My Path Each Time)

by Kamila More Cabisada
*********************

woman

If only you knew.

Beneath blonde, rebonded locks
Curled extroverted lashes
Cemented titanium dioxide
Plastered patient breathless pores

Lips-wine-red
Nose elongated,
Dark strokes  imprudent
Cleopatric windows to
Sadness of soul.

Maverick femininity in
Saccharine swan-like greeting

If only you knew.

Eden was perfect paradise
She who was crafted
Immaculately from your rib

She was your Soulmate
You were Beloved
Protector, keeper,
Nourisher of her being

If only you knew.

You are treasured by Him
Who fashioned you
Out of mud
Breathed life into your nostrils

From nothingness
You were imago dei.

You were anointed shepherd
Of all that lived
Moved; slid.

You were perfect
Majestic  in Truth

You were imago dei.

As you should have been
And can still be.

Drones

Drones

Every five minutes they come
whirring like copters for war
slashing through immaculate peace
you crave to blanket your day with

Those speeding three-wheeled
gadflies
are kings of small streets and
act like you must pay them to

Extricate you from a cluster of
doomed and dusty eggs and bacon
deliver all that racket

in your head
every time you think
about buzzing
drones

on your meatloaf
in your heart
in your dreams
on your hopes
on your thoughts

about how marriage
should be
a man and a woman
now one soul in
two bodies
living together
committed
fighting for stable
“everydays”

The roses look damp
bouquets of mums
on the kitchen table
you pouring hot coffee;
the mug you took two
hours to pick out
is punctiliously stained.