Part I
You don’t belong
here, ever,
and leaving
fingerprints
on the doorjamb. How
did you get
in? Who lifted the
latch? Look,
nobody wants you
here. You
weren’t invited.
Better hide
Illegitimate | Part I and II
Illegitimate | Part III
If Geppetto carved a daughter,
would I have seen it sooner?
myself, all wood and paint and strings
wobbly kneed, naïve
chasing vodka and bad boys, just to feel alive
Rock of My Disappointment
Choose a name for God, he said*,
borne of the struggle, the
wrestling. I have
contended, fought You until the
fingers of my soul bled,
scrabbling for
gold beginnings and fabled
endings. You have left
me wanting,
disappointed. A thin, flimsy word
for the crushing abyss of
silence. Unmoved,
this Rock of my salvation splinters
dreams like toy ships on a
stormy sea. Flint-faced
You refuse to be carved by
my desires. Only one of
us can change, and
neither wants to. The night drags
on though we both know
I have lost this
fight. I will hold fast for the
blessing. You will leave me
with a limp.
© Nichole Liza Q.
*A reference to Anthony Bloom and his book, Beginning to Pray.
Apocalypse
The battle is lost
has been
for a long time now
Did we even understand
what we were fighting for?
Darkness pervades
like fine dust of
a coal powered train
There is nothing it hasn’t touched
curtains, hair, the tea, his lungs
A flake of ash on white linen
taunts her
but she knows better
One brush of her thumb would
beget a smear, a blotch, a stain
She shakes her head as
the teacup meets
her lemon-rind smile
We can’t hold back evil
She swallows, licks her soot-stained lips
Darkness reigns
in this brokedown palace
where graveside songs are sung from
failing flesh and
blighted bones
Nobody gets out alive
not the defiant
not the hopeful
Nobody
Death is king
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Lay down, my friend, and rest
here beside me in the newborn grass
We’ll watch the clouds
move like a stormy sea
gray chasing white chasing gray
And every once in awhile
a shard of sapphire
If we’re lucky, like last night
the sky will spit in our faces
reminding us of sea spray
Stay with me
Pray if you like
or don’t
A quiet mind
grants sanctuary, too
The battle is lost
but the war isn’t over
and I could use a friend
to hold my hand
while we watch
The Fire burn, Wind blow, Wave wash
away the shadows
that gather at the edges
of our eyes, then
LIGHT
© Nichole Liza Q.
under water
it’s still
dark in here
and sometimes the darkness
still wins
i think
maybe this time
the darkness won’t
get me
won’t scare
me, won’t wear me
down, but this darkness is slick like oil
and spreads
on me
before i
know it, stinging my eyes
my throat
i jump
into the deep
end, to stop the burning, to
escape
it’s dark
here too, and
heavy, all this water
crushing
but i
remember i’ve
learned something new, i’ve
learned how
to breathe
without air, without
love, without hope, I’ve
learned how
to breathe
under
water
© Nichole Liza Q.
Reception
I will set a table
For my soul
Among the trees
Quiet, I will wait
Beneath a canopy of leaves
Let stillness be the table
Let silence be the cloth
Let sunlight be the service, gleaming
My seat a bed of moss
I will set a table
For my soul
Out in the wild
Calling her to come
And play, as if she were a child
Let soft winds be the music
Let flowers be the dance
Let butterflies be our hearts, weaving
Patterns out of chance
I will set a table
For my soul
In forest glade
Inviting her to rest
And feast, on Bread no hands have made
Let wonder be the blessing
Let laughter be the prayer
Let forgiveness be our cup, healing
And let Love be the fare
I will set a table
For my soul
Where woods are deep
And wide enough for two
Or more, so you can sit by me
© Nichole Liza Q. April 2021
Dragon
she breathes
fire
her eyes
wild
claws as long as my
arm
scratching at the
dirt
scrawling angry
scars
that arrange them-
selves
into letters
words
a plea, “love
me”
© Nichole Liza Q.
(Header image courtesy of: Laith Abushar https://unsplash.com/@prodigeon)
If It Was a Dream (A Cento Poem)
Begin at the beginning
She said
Little girl
In a cab with her father
Knit me together
In my mother’s womb
Lay your hand upon me
Hold me fast
Does the rain have a father?
A trust only found in the innocent
But she bent as the reed bends
Lies can be persuasive
Shattered worlds
Lost embryos
A whorl of red on the table
I had to kill something
Crows, blackbirds
Lying in wait for the pickings
If it was a dream it would be okay
What time is it?
I think I must have changed since then
To remember and to forget
Oak tree, riven by lightning
Dead on one side, living on the other
We’re all mad here
All the best people are
Does the rain have a father?
Knit me together
In my mother’s womb
One ship ploughing the grey bleak waters
Big waves rising around it
A cold lonely sea
Loneliness
I almost wish I hadn’t gone
Down the rabbit-hole
What time is it?
Does the rain have a father?
Knit me together
In my mother’s womb
Remember
You are wanted
Under his wings you will
Find refuge
Even the sparrow found a home
In a cab
With her father
Remember you are wanted
What time is it?
Does the rain have a father?
Knit me together
In my mother’s womb
Begin at the beginning
© Nichole Liza Q.
The above poem is a Cento (or “found poem”) from the Latin word for “patchwork” and is composed entirely of lines from works by other authors. The words and lines I used to create this poem are borrowed from:
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, by Lewis Carroll
A Little Princess, by Frances Hodgson Burnett:
The Little Red Chairs, by Edna O’Brien
The Book of Job, Psalm 91 & Psalm 139
Expectant Mother
Winter’s coming
I try, and fail, to outrun
His cold fingers
As they grab at my ankles
Like a rat, he nibbles
At the edges of the day
So slowly that, at first, I hardly notice
The dark encroaching
Until the dimming of the skies
Reaches the space behind my eyes
And I can feel my mind
Sundowning
Winter’s coming
Drifting through the garden
Settling scores, he moans
An elegy in minor key
I drift, too, among the naked branches
Their fallen raiment, now dull
And stained with mold,
Crunch beneath my boots
For a moment, this feels like drowning
So I breathe deep the icy
Mildewed tang of November
Close my eyes, open them again
Then – there, just there
On the sleepy rhododendron: a bud
Wrapped tight, all bundled up
Against the coming snows
Suspended, the silence expands
In my chest
Rich, glowing, like a hot air balloon
In a dusky sky
Packed away, inside this
Tiny idle embryo
There lies a flower
Purple, fragrant, larger than my hand
I see her, Oh I see her,
Or does she see me?
All I know is Winter’s coming
But Spring’s already here
©Nichole Liza Q, January 2020
Sacrifice of Thanksgiving
thank you
words that burn
an offering
bound in rope
pulled tight
laid upon the fire
like a lamb
or Isaac
costs me something
as if my flesh
were on the flame
a lonely leaf
scrapes down an empty street
where all the doors are
locked for winter
behind them
faces that I long to see
hands I cannot touch
clouds that shroud the stars
make a lousy blanket
I pull my scarf over my ears
and hurry home
home
glows like a box lantern
on the little hill
the door
this door
opens for me
air warm as
wind over hot sand
rushes out onto the stoop
throws its arms around my shoulders
pulls me inside
unwrap the scarf
take off the boots
set my bitter feet before the hearth
between chattering teeth
I breathe
words that burn
and turn my hardened heart
to weeping like wax
beneath a flame
I offer
thanks
© Nichole Liza Q.
Lightning Bug 