(This poem appeared in the now-defunct journal Every Day Poets on February 6, 2013.)

Reaching up,
pulling down,
that ordinary,
leaves me,
like a long ago
Sunday afternoon.
Pomegranates fall
from the mountain.

That maiden
(we know her,
don’t we?)
sings of her crowns
and thrones, but we,
the peasants, can
see past her shimmery,
showy pretense.

Her unremarkable magic
swirls on like steam
out the kitchen window,
wafting with the mist
of the moor.

© Timothy Dailey-Valdés, 2013-2016

Fragment: Abel
(This poem appeared in the now defunct journal Every Day Poets on January 27, 2013.)

Cain turned from me, his back hunched
leopardlike, he walked toward our parents’ hut.
As darkness descended, I felt the brush of feathers.
I barely perceived the voice of my brother:
There’s been an accident.

© Timothy Dailey-Valdés, 2013-2016

I Shouldn’t Be Allowed to Have a Cell Phone
(This poem appeared as part of a ten-poem collection in Assaracus, Issue 09, January 2013.
To read more, you can buy the print issue here.)
Nature to each allots his proper sphere,
But, that forsaken, we, like meteors, err:
Toss’d through the void, by some rude shock we’re broke,
And all our boasted fire is lost in smoke.
— William Congreve, Semele
I’ll make every conceivable effort to ensure
that I don’t blurt out some hackneyed
three-word phrase, one of these hot nights
of July, fourth or fifth drink drunk,
I’m going to call you. You’re
going to sigh when you pick up
your phone, and my name will
sound like cod liver oil tastes
when you say it, because you’ve
been through this one or seven times
too many, and I’ll try to steer the
conversation (if I can safely refer to it
as such) toward Soviet cinema or something,
because I think you like it when I try too hard,
but I’ll end up telling you how the fact that
you’re never here is the reason I’m under
this influence tonight, and the reason
nights make me pine. I might not go
so far as to mention how warm my cheeks
get when I see you, or the wandering rush
that reverberates for a while through my
body when I hear someone say your name.
Prohibition. Now that was a good idea.
© Timothy Dailey-Valdés, 2013-2016

Stars, They Say, Aren’t Like Us

This poem appeared in the now-defunct Every Day Poets, December 13, 2012.

This one can’t live with the memories,
night in Paris, day in Rio, Christmas in Saint-Tropez.

His hand lovingly caresses
metal, fingers the trigger.
He thinks of the coming

Clasp releases,
something snaps,
a million sparks,
or are they stars?

© Timothy Dailey-Valdés, 2012-2016

I Dreamed You as Delilah

(This poem appeared in the now-defunct Every Day Poets, November 30, 2012.)

You came the way
you tend to, in a dream,
and took me down to a little
brook in the Hebron Hills
where the water whispered something,
and the faint smell of rotting meat
was tempered by the scent of honey.

I remember thinking that this was our first
moment, just you and me and peace.
I thought I saw in the distance
a temple, and from it issued chants
to a strange deity, and I started to ask,
but you invited me to sit, and I let it go.

We had a picnic there, and on the gentle bank,
you handed me a piece of fruit.
I didn’t taste it, but
pulled from the dream
by the blare of my alarm,
I thought I saw a pair of scissors gleam in the basket.
I took it as a sign never to confess to you,
and anyway, I don’t think I could ever say
that you’re my favorite of all His works and ways.

© Timothy Dailey-Valdés, 2013-2016