Jewel E Forga , Poet

Jewel E Forga is a native Californian currently between residences in San Diego and Long Beach, where she helps care for her mother. Her poetry is published in several E-zines and periodicals. She's a member of the San Diego Writer's Cooperative; and while in Long Beach, transcribes personal video-taped interviews for a biographical project in the Long Beach Buddhist community. You may view her work at: The Air We Breathe Poems by Jewel E. Forga copyright©2003 Jewel E. Forga all rights reserved

Feather
Here, I ask outloud: Where are you?
Anxious, try to read, but wonder
why must my mind wander.
Neck and head bent to the source, close-in
and follow sound,
far as it can go —

There's no end to a voiceless call
silence — its entire being.

Impatient for the bell
hear the tap of nails on board
can't read, instead
talk through type.

Hear your voice engulf my mind
listen to the beat and hum, drag
as life drones quiet in disrupt,
quicken to daydream, pace—
See in you my day; my morning.

Meant to be, will holds taut
can't fall, faith is unlovable.
Bet you've searched every nook of time
evaluate energy; imagine hope
won't forget
we know better
we know pace
we know fidget
we know suffer.

Behind us, tolerant forgiving
grace, and warmth;
tears of grief
tears of lonely
tears of reunion
joy.

Arms can't hold distance, they reach —
chest heaves hard, catches a warm centigrade
floats in, eager to listen.
Full of fate tears glow
chatter mouths rapid noise
exquisite sigh feather alight.

Tongue liquid — hot silver
everpeace shares all; bound again
eager to hear about the prince and friend:
a bluebird who
befriends the Gold Statue.

Its fine gold-leaf
spread by wings;
a companion for the needy.

Now I remember the last conversation:
Remember?
Unable to contain sobs, you cried
last time,
as you told me
this exact story.

An Ocean

(don't want to forget)

I

Finite frailty, my Mother's laugh-
a delicate ribbon; an invisible waterfall.
I guide her up slick steps.
"You okay, Mom?"

Her pace slows, barely needing help.
I'm okay Babe.
We stop at the weathered rail.
Look at him, she points
at the bob and vie of surfers,

he must be cold.
Poor boy.
My sarcasm sounds good
spoken by her, I think.

Ahead, a daughter and her son.
You okay, Nana?
Her eyes shine; I'm okay, Sis.
You keep up with Will.

Will sidles next to us,
Nana, they wear winter suits.
Oh, yeah-it's cold but warmer than without.
Under breath to me:

Guy's freezing his balls off.
He laughs, helping her into my jacket.
Nana, what's that?
Looks like a jet ski or a toy boat.

We squint; It's a jet ski or a big boat,
I think. Illusion, Will.
Like the surface of the water, see?
Way out there it's hard like the street-

but here, it's clear. Fall through,
you'd sink. His head shot-swivels
when his mother speaks:
Mom, let's go. Nana can't walk to the end.

Voice of reason: No, she can't;
and I'm cold. Mom, let's go.
My mirror, my mother. Offspring
offspring. Grandson to first.

Son to me. Mirrors.
A surface illusion.
The hard sea. Close
and distant.

Silence touches
what reality touches, and both
meet here, at a horizon.
Comfy coat, Babe, thank you.

Kisses all around,
foreheads and cheeks, saying: Soon.
Blow-away kisses from the car;
everyone catches one. I go,

walk back to the seawall. Sun sets;
moon already risen.
I turn and head East; hands red-cold
slide deep into a pocket,

fingers close around an object;
a Daughter shivers. Reminder: Call Mom,
she forgot her sunglasses.
Facing the moon I'm warm inside,

eyes, once brown puddles,
turn steel, pinpoint the night.

Harvest Moon.


II


Sitting in an ambulance
the young man jokes with me about things
never to be remembered; an angel at work.
We drive past slow moving freight trains,

wait while the empty cars clatter along
and in back, the other, EMT
who transfered us to a larger,
busier hospital.

Where the only channel recieved has: C.O.P.S.
Shows 24 and 7. Agony screams
from mouths as shoulders are replaced,
the elderly rescusitated.

"Code blue," I hear, as suction pumps
a man's airway; and I simply can't take it,
I cry and can't stop.
Mom sleeps and the woman across the way worried;
"That must be her daughter, poor lady looks so frail.
I hope she makes it..." Pity. Hate it.

I bend down and beg with all I own and haven't shown:
Mama, please ... don't die.

She promised not to.
I promised not to stop her.

She'll be okay, everyone says
and now, I think it's so.

While they were rescusitating the Code Blue,
we, so sorry for the man, cried through all.
Even laughed a bit,

when we heard our mother snore.

Week in Focus; Old News


(inner dialogue)

Able to rig up the terrace,
set — paper, machine, window,
sunset, ink; somewhere, a man plays congas.
Yet, can I stretch devices, reach

the receiver. No. Wouldn't matter at all.
One can buy books by satellite, pay per view,
shop, receive the bill — modern modem;
dang. Need one thing; another satellite

to plug these words in. Irony
beckons like a long lost,
annoying friend. A siren wolf
whistles; "awoo," in his dreams.

It's Friday night and hair is so — done,
fragrant, bouncy. Francisco used the razor.
Cut here, fringed there, shortened 'round
edges; framed; "Lovely!

Fits your face." I grimace, blow
the wisp from creased forehead,
surprised I allowed him this.
Week in review: rowdy.

Life is good; a life single men ascribe to.
Longer days flee, take away ten pounds, hair
weight. "New 'do' takes fifteen years off."
Tell my brain, it's math-dead; and that would equal, how much?

Not enough; bored, should have gone to the Pacific
Palisades, meditation — mediocre me,
and she? " ... the woman who plays; you know?"
in movies. Be there, be seen, big deal, and why?

I think; later. Too cool, howl at the moon, laugh
at the past when drunken pool parties were never the . . .
"Hey, you married?" Me? No. I'm old enough to be your . . .
"That don't matter." Smiles, rides off, by skateboard.

Learn grammar then we'll talk, come back when you're
aged! Sheer irony, sheer outfits —Vercace what's-
in-a-name. Money. Well-dressed, time spent
fixing supper. Oh, the sunset?

Red tonight, tomorrow
as well; and it will go down.
Just not in this way, not with me
nor without. It will, I promise.

Lighthouse


Be strange and loom
cry a tear of fun, down a cheek of clay.
Not still, lopsided, grey boatsleep;
yet mirrored by deep teal waters.

Be one thing by moving
but more than a layer; pull lead.
My one grain of sand lodged in a vortex,
from darkness — beam our light mass.

Be you in the now, don't change.
So cool; walk above nails, pass
old desires in my flame.
Stay in heaven of our making, without grief.

Oh, pebble smooth, musk scent covered;
sleep my sweet, your palette is my frame.
Accept the rancid as well as the ambrosia.
Be all your best endeavours; keep at arms distance, ennui.

Accept all swells when down, below,
grow remorseless by one kiss —

hover over stars.

Holy Island


He knew Constance valued
seconds with him.
Her jewels set to Dali, bosc hued chairs,
clocks and pears, green
in basic harmony.

Cantata low

They vacation at Lindisfarne
coast ‰ a stretch of sand where cultivation
connects mainland, wide
as the berth they set upon,
in the chug of tug to surf.


Tourists snap film positive;
by a church, a monastery,
built by St. Aidan.
Bayberry colonies await light, candleberries,
fashioned by monks to know hours.

Can Tho

The plaiters,
monks who've named the company; Candlefish.
Sprouts six point sixty-three factories ‰
lights on in leisure hours, no drought, no draft

can survive without sea of rind
and wax, molded, lit;
life encases this island.

Rythm of the Tides


A long wavelike ridge of snow
formed by the windansea strom
into which one may fall and flow,
rhoos slow unhalted by rein.

A sailor; a tar of verbular trade
knots recurring alternations.
His workshop, three banks of oars:
One, full of tune; melodious.

Hyacinth Amber-Gray; the crosstree
raised on a topgallant. Humblejack
fiddles with duration on a galley
the stresses of long and shorts.

Wet by lash and blinding pour,
they flag-dance informal sequence.

O'selah


Sparks rise into the air
tiny fire-notes play in the breeze.
The music we made here, letters, kisses, hugs
our foreplay burns, destroyed.

Under the light of a full moon
we met and molded alchemy - of us.
Now, laser-like, the scorched words
are sent into thinnest air.

Mourning, I hum melodies;
O' selah, O'selah
head bent back watching a thousand
tiny love-bites fly away,
leaving blemishes on our bodies,

shape of a poem written by e. e.
Two nights ago, we fit so well,
you against me; O'selah, O'selah, I sing
without pain and send you off
wave Ta-Ta, miss yours against mine
but not too much.

Words have no place there,
where golden flames and scarlet nights
burn my cheeks and survive within my eyes.

O'selah

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