'Who am I' she asks : A creative explosion of paradoxical remarks the student replied.





The name we call first,
warmth served to what I found
the most sincerely flawed abundance
that we could only ask for
no more but your unconditional love
in motherhood.



Letting go of your hand, I felt fear
In case you would forget me, long after I
Had already begun to move on.
“Why do you think we want to be
Remembered?” You asked once before.
I stopped making believe
Of our fake dialogues since
I can remember.



We said we would
Keep in touch
And not let the distance beat us.
“Talk to you tomorrow,” was meant
To be sincere, against the odds
Our last message expired
Since then,
And outlived our promises


Image result for hand touching lips

In words I can no longer repeat, she had said to me,
“Your hands are so rough to hold.” and proceeded to laugh,
So I didn’t take it too hard.
Did she say she liked it in fact? Or commented that it was rather
Odd; I can’t recall, hardly telling apart
This language folded into my memory, since then
Translated by lane-way dreams into another tongue, foreign escapism that bespoke
A single feeling, fleeting now




What is it that you see in older men
The quench of insatiable want, I find
For wanting the better half of a wise conscience
Better known for to humor you, my love
Redefine yourself through the security, between encased struggle
Drawn from the richness of their rudimentary reserves you’re to measure by
Burgeoning rouse towards your mature peak appearing small
You can’t help it, dearest, to not rush past
The comfort in your young
Swollen with compliments
To your smart pride, considering the swift current hidden behind
Cherub cheeks, the often unseen attribute given hindsight
Hopeless bandwidth of one’s age urging reach at most, to
Know what you only don’t know, granted enough wit to seek settlement
In kind,
Not yet enough to precede the draws of the earth, still
Too much so to be still
And we haven’t been made still at all

This Is My Wife


At first her voice drifted to me, somewhere from around the bend of the old cabinet
While I picked my way into another dead end of our derelict furniture store
“No, I know exactly what I gave him, I have a list. They were all high end furniture while I had them.”
It’s a slow prickling of a feeling I felt, this obstinate presence has been a slow process
Before you saw her go,
“my purse was placed on the table, she’s just being stupid.”
There she was, the love of my life for the past 40 years looking afar into the distance
Sitting atop another stressed dining chair that has since lost its ensemble
Perhaps forgetting its origin and name,
Where she’s been this whole time
It seems she has forgotten while I stood guard over her,
She rambles
Not to me, but directed at an audience she has since acquainted at the corner of the ceiling
So beside her I stand when you passed by to stare;
This is my wife.


The Future


He was all just skins and bones, crouching before me
The toughened elbows of a 12 year old boy propped on his knee
With eyes that glowered instead as a man, I thoroughly believed him when he said,
“You and I, we are the pioneers of the world.”
Though we were but children hiding in our dug out
When they ask me today where he has been since, I can’t answer
Without coming back to this image of our defiance
Almost the perfect way to summarize what I’ve been meaning to say
As a farewell eulogy for his entombment in my mind

La Femme


The perennial effects of a handsome woman
Lies in the decided attitude at once
Lithe, without remark
The fragile strength her shoulders rests upon
Startled by a muted cough
Equal in yearning her eyes
A young deer stalking into a field of dreams
Upon a leap of faith
Given the hand that feeds, she trusts
One can only speculate
She had loved once, jaded
Virgin bespeaks
Truncated love, the doe weeps
The butterfly effect
Changing seasons
Flushed in headlights, her surmise
Lost, in the set of her jawline
Safeguarded, a glance short
Of a broken hearted cry

A Lifelong Search


An embrace ought to be more than
The singing of our atoms pulling together
Vibrations in the air, often mistaken for a spark
A deep stare between dilated pupils suggests
Pivoting orbits whose axle chanced to align with yours,
With precision I cannot tell you true love apart from
A familiar anecdote you might have once heard,
You’ll know when you find it
Is what she said

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celeste lee cloud

writer & artist

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