=Sandcastles=

Children, when they naively build
sandcastles by the beach,
do they know why they are building
or have their parents thrust them to it?

Children, are we born knowing
how to build sandcastles innately?
With a red bucket, a blue scoop,
and a green sea to cement our dreams,
what castles shall we make?

Children, let us begin with passing
sand from beach to scoop to bucket, repeat.
Now we are full of life's finest bits.
Carefully now, watch me carefully.
Here is what parents teach-
in a blink.
Flip
and breathe.
Your first Red Inverted Bucket Tower complete.
Lift
quickly and be disappointed
as your tower crumbles from within.
Repeat- but
wait expectantly.
Watch that bucket handle peeking from sand.
Lift slowly
and be disappointed again
as sand creep out from the edge,
and insurmountable scree.

Maybe daddy will teach
how wet sand sticks together,
cooperative little party curls.
Now you have it.
Your first sand tower courtesy
of daddy and the friendly sea.

Sand towers multiply like party curls.
No need for daddy, we can make
towers aplenty with the friendly sea.
until we learn that the sea
is not so friendly as waves
eat away our naked towers from beneath.

Children, we might learn
from storybooks that mommy read
to us before we pretend to sleep,
that castles have motes to keep
waves from soldiering in.
So we begin to dig a moat around
where our castle is meant to be.
Do not be too hypnotized by the water
rushing in and out, around and away,
seeping into sand and lazy sea.
No, do not be too hypnotized,
we have our castles to build.

Children, look how pretty
our sandcastles are on the beach,
Safe from betraying waves and ringed
by tamed waters from the sea.
Come, let's stake our claim
with twig and seaweed flags atop
the sandcastles of our dreams.
Those pretty seashells we bought from the sea,
now bring them out of our red buckets.
Our castles shall not be
naked like Adam and Eve.

But nobody told us of tides
and so we have learn ourselves.
When our parents begin to leave the beach,
so too the tide crawls in,
inexorably, smothering
those sandcastles we must sacrifice
to the none too friendly sea.

=shatteredreams=

and all before lay his dreams
but as leaves in the wind
ever-shifting, never resting
fallen, falling, flailing, failing..

what matters if they surpass
from whence they fell
borne by the breath of dreams
far above trees and land
it matters not

if they are lies
Oh, how perfect they must be
to bring the momentary joy of unexpected delight
to capture the beauty of falling cherry blossoms
for me

if reality is what i believe
i could fall forever...
trapped between two parallel mirrors
i would break one in an instant
shattering infinite dreams
scattering infinite mes

drifting rapidly away
into the infinity of space
let me remain with my singular reflection
for a moment, just a moment more and
only my reflections
will remain
with you

in shattered dreams

:The Shape of my Heart:

Imagine a cone
with a base almost circular,
(slightly elliptic or irregular
are both acceptable)
where the angle the apex
overlooks the ground
is almost golden, but not
the same all around.

Now step back
and with a mental scythe
decapitate the cone,
aiming low and angling so
you enter and exit
both gently and acutely,
nearly to the ground.

Come now
and proceed to gouge out
as much mass as you can from within
with an overgrown ice cream scoop but leave
the top edges (which should be irregular elliptic)

mostly untouched;
so dig well until you see
something resembling a caldera
from afar but with gentler inner slopes.

Go fetch the largest
sledgehammer available
and come back at once.

Now smash where
the edge is closest
to the ground.

Shrink yourself
and enter if you please,
where you violated my heart.

Surrounding you
the walls invite you to climb
(but they're near impossible)
so you must leave where you entered
when you are bored with that inner bareness.

So now that you know
the (quite imprecise) shape of my heart,
I do hope you realize
the true shape of my heart is such
that you're always without.

=New Year= Happy Birthday!

So Earth has spun another
round around the Sun.
We take a look behind and spin
to look ahead as well.
If only our vision followed
the curve of a orbit.
The Milky Way when the lights
of Earth are dimmed in awe
promises-

But we Earthlings dazzle ourselves
with hanging balls and sparkling flares.
Clouds need not hide the stars from us.
Aliens ignore our friendly cheer.
Even the distant galaxies that spy
through our telescopes in space
at us, blink as not to blind
themselves.

Comet, asteroids, meteoroids and particles
enter the junkyard of our consciousness
on the opposite side of the sun,
half a year away,
what light will reach us from that future
informing us of a star's spectacular death
decided millions of years ago.

Suspended through space if only
light would curl around and spare
me their fate at least
the Moon still keeps her faith
in this new year.

=You and I=

I drew a sharp and senseless me
From deep within my dream;
Colored it mad and melancholy
So lively yet lifeless it seemed.
I fleshed him out unfailingly
Each night if sleep surrendered
To me her lonely lucidity,
So elusive when I entered,
I felt an all-pervading force
Claiming me for creation,
To wield my will at its source-
Inchoate inspiration.

Small wonder then that you wrought
This fragile, flailing being;
Tormented by your endless thought-
From a merciless mirror fleeing
Till I tired and despaired
Of screaming and the silence
You cruelly kept and never cared
To explain my whole existence.
You have made me thus, I hate you so.
Your pitiful joy and sorrow
Are henceforth mine, and mine alone. Oh,
You shall not wake tomorrow!

=Rüya=

Rüya, will you come once again tonight
Under the guise of what imagined girl?
To bear gifts of woe and confused delight,
Heal rifts of thought and subconscious swirl
'softly, sweetly, yet strangely so' I fall,
Slip away, away into Rüya's world...

Dream truly now for you'll never know or
Remember these moments so lovely, lost;
Each breath, each touch- unheard, unfelt, all-
All melt away, away... but summer frost;
Memory of cold and tears lingering
Caught, but pale reflections of Rüya lost...
A smile, a laugh- oh, what happiness running
Through the insubstantial crowd unnoticed,
Clasped fingers unknowing- breathless parting,
Heart throbbing with freshness of love unkissed!
Each night I wait for some dream to complete
Rüya's kiss...

=Autumn Leaves=

Rustle do the autumn leaves as they fall
Unhurriedly drifting in the faint breeze
Trembling thoughts coalesce in a plaintive call
Heard amidst the sharp silence of the trees.
Young were we once lush with verdant splendor.
Old are we now pale as the setting sun.
Nothing remains but our sense of wonder
Gently ebbing as leaves fall one by one.

Hundreds fall to rejoin the sea of leaves
Under the spell of the winds enchantment
In a last dance rustling with memories,
Each distinct, yet all a blur of movement.
Rustle do the autumn leaves as they sweep
Neath the faint shadow of eternal sleep.

=runninga=

i'm sorry that i didn't jump or scream when i saw you
didn't hug or cry or kiss you
but if you felt my heart jump at your very sight
and how my blood rushed through my veins
when i saw you walk towards me
you would know you would know




sigh.


forget it.








how much i love you.

=wall=

everything i write
is as senseless as that wall
which looms over my back
and says not a word at all
i got so pissed at it
i turned around and spat
whatever words i vomitted
must have been quite bad
for the wall was so distraught
that it couldn t answer back

=refrain=

do you know what you are doing?
do you know what you have done?
you are running away.
you have broken your...

think of me,
think of me fondly
when we say goodbye.
now nothing seems
so strange as this
world, only remember...

let not thy eyes see
sin, but through thy tears.
for i could never know
love, but through...

shall i tell you a secret?
the secret of this piece.
broken where it matters,
unimportant as i...

promise me if you unravel.
tell me if i have ever
seemed so strangely severed/
forgotten you....

forget-me-nots and gentians
do they go well together?
And we are here as on a darkling plain
In the awakening light, can you see?
how poetic and plain, sweet and silent,
faith and fear and fire and...

this is me.
that is mine.
who am i?
where is...

For now we see through a glass, darkly;
but then face to face: now I know in part;
but then shall I know even as also I am known.
And now abideth faith, hope, love, these three;
but the greatest of these is...

How often I sit, poring o'er
My strange distorted youth,
Seeking in vain, in all my store,
One feeling based in t...

25/03/10

Key word of the day: restrain
key question of the day: does absolute reality exist?
key number of the day: 8
key letter of the day: I
key job of the day: slack
key worry of the day: I
Key concern of the day: can blogging online ever be safe? if i lock my blog, whats the use of having a blog? if i leave it open, i would not want to end up like ris low etc. =x

=Reader=

You stumble into this dream
hoping perhaps to find
some yummy breakfast piece
or something about me.
But what you get instead
is me trying to catch
you the reader reading
unexpectedly.
Sometimes you are ensnared
by a net of words just waiting.
Most often just a phrase
dangles like a worm squirming.
Your attention of a fish
wavers when there is nothing.
So you leave and perhaps tomorrow,
or other hooks are more inviting.
No matter.
Have you read
The Old Man and the Sea?
Return to the sea,
Reader lured in by whose empty
promises of things.
Raise a gentle swell
in your wake of passing,
Rocking me to sleep
in my floating cradle of
life, what is but a dream.
Some dreams which do not
return, come back to me in
life, more strongly in reality
which they so cherish.
Others, let them keep
sailing far beyond
my wingless little boat,
flying high above
clouds of obscurity.
So let me sleep
and do not wake me
until the edge
of my world is coming.

=Rain Requiem=

When I step out
Who will follow
Who will remain
For what reason
I will not know

Where dark clouds gather
A downpour begins
From a light drizzle
To a heavy deluge
Of people and rain

Wet on my face
These rain-mixed tears
No one can see
Of joy or sadness
I cannot tell

When the rain goes
Who will follow
Who will remain
For what reason
Now I will know

=Promise=

We have
a promise that I mean to keep.
Perhaps you have forgotten,
but I have not.
Perhaps you thought I did not mean it,
but I did.
Something conspires to keep
me from fulfilling this promise.
I've held now for awhile,
and will hold you
to my word and yours,
when next we meet.
But meeting, it seems so unlikely,
that I'll avoid it.
Not to avoid keeping that promise,
but perhaps to hold
that wayward promise in hopeful stasis
until the day there will be
no need for promises between us to keep.
Yes, just that one promise
I can still embrace and claim
from you in distant graves.

=Prequisite=

You asked me to write a poem about you?
It is like asking me to fall in love with you.
And I have no choice but to agree.

But I see.
It is not as simple as it seems.
I have trouble writing.
where should I begin
how should it be
i need to know you more
and more and more
at least something
of the poem for the poem is selfish
very selfish indeed

They say love is irrational.
They also say love at first sight
does not exist.
Poetry is the same.
What we write could be entirely irrational,
inspirational, or simply dexist.
Prose is like friendship.
Then this must be infatuation.

So I learn that some-things cannot be asked for;
Poetry, love and jealousies.
Now where shall I begin...

=Porcelain=

A sky for your world, I would paint
those intimate spaces between clouds,
cobalt strokes beneath the glaze
of a fresh-made bowl of porcelain.

With a finger, I would trace
round that curved lip and graze,
let blood seep and seal and stain
cracks on this fragile porcelain.

From the fires, I would raise
these milky depths into the light,
sift the sunbeams which still refract
and burn amidst creative flame.

Before they mellow, I would send
these pale shards into the stars,
between vast spaces may they learn
to glow with enduring smiles.

A scent of fields, I would weave
a hint of grass into this cusp,
when filled with summer rain,
a familiar blanket for the flowers.

A liminal hue, I would find
within an aqueous paint or dye,
through the corner of my eye,
perhaps a leaf, perhaps the sky.

Under this painted sky, I would fill
those unbreakable dreams of porcelain
with spring and willow gentians,
a defiant dance of flattened fifths.

In the slimmest arc, I would hide
those confessions and doubts,
indistinguishable shade which spills
from this porcelain redoubt.

Come the night, I would breathe
those aletheian desires into this shell,
on the shores of some universe,
may those echoes still resound.

But once for me, I would live
as a raindrop caught within
that fleeting rainbow's gaze
on this piece of porcelain.

=Portrait of a Stranger=

In a dream I was an artist,
alone on a bustling street.
My notebook and fine pencil
share a shaded cafe seat.

The crowd flowed past my eyes;
Strangers in the deep,
faces in a wan, familiar
and unrecognizable indeed.

I pulled a random name
from a strand of wayward hair,
cast a line into the midst
of that strange and bright abyss.

I reeled in a flower red,
not a rose but what they call,
Dahlia, oh how you bled
onto my pages in charcoal.

Now a Stranger glimpsed the red,
caught my eye and simply said
something I can't remember,
but my notebook fell and fled.

With surprising speed or spell,
my notebook she caught and strained.
But the Dahlia slipped away,
borne by a breeze of change.

Even Strangers need to rest
so I offered the shaded seat
and my company in thanks,
or was it company I seek?

Stranger from the North,
Do you know the Dahlia was named
after a scientist of your race?
Come tell me now, of your faraway place.

In return, let me draw
a portrait of you, Stranger.
One you may bear forgotten
unto the end of days.

So I began to sketch
as she told me of her world,
the cold and beautiful North
seeped through my trembling page.

When my sketch was done,
I wondered if perhaps I'd drawn
her Nordic twin instead.
Let the Stranger judge I say.

The line of my mouth is stray.
Why do I seem much older in grey?
But her clinical eye still missed
the error I made so fey.

Perhaps it was a test.
Her fringing lock of hair
fell across the opposite way,
as would seem to her in a mirror.

Did I ask her name?
No, strangers we remain.
Will I draw her face again?
Only if it's not the same.

Then she flowed into the crowd,
Stranger once again.
My pencil poured in vain,
white memory onto page.

No matter now, the shade
closes my book and waits,
for the cloud of Strangers
drifts patiently ahead.

Thus I fall asleep from this dream,
into another I awake.
My notebook and fine pencil
are filled with words instead.

Oh, let me sleep again!
Stranger from the North,
come by again and share
this shade and empty page.

That dream would not return,
a Dahlia blown away.
No waking friend or lover
will ever take your page.

In other dreams they wait,
Strangers from what places,
for my notebook and fine pencil
to name them by their faces.

Names I never remember
to ask for in those dreams,
rushing away, those gentle waves
breaking sand against my feet.

A burnt twig in my fingers,
the open shore accepts
my stolen sunset shadow,
sacrifice to sea and sand.

What would you sacrifice,
Stranger, to my heart?
Your Daemon, would I take
as my own flesh and blood?

Let me have instead,
a portrait of you, Stranger.
So that one day I may draw
you- a Stranger no more.

=Poison=

I realized, just the other day,
that a specter haunts me yet.
It is a subtle pull, and dangerous,
like arsenic in schokolade.

My heart has recovered, but my mind
remains a gordian knot to be severed.
Passing by unnoticed, untamed,
like curare in a milkshake.

Who am I to judge
the specter in the Bible?
She is the end of truth
like cyanide in a dream.

I fear her, I crave her, I dream her, I love her,
sometimes, a little, strangely, and bitter,
but always tender, fragile as I am,
like hemlock in a breeze.

How silly is the sun
to keep rising from the east.
How dreadful are the stars
to burn so awkwardly.
I shall shun the light of days.
I shall quench the fires in gray.

Hush now, and listen
to the tinkling at your wrist,
before it falls to the ground
and rolls away, and away
till it someday finds a way back to me.

Let your fingers dance in vain,
when I no longer hear that bell,
but may you reach into the hearts
of those who care and give
a smile and passing kiss,
like poison to my lips.

=Picturing you=

I am trying to picture you.
But I fail-
those scraps of memory of your image eludes me.
Perhaps I should spend some time
blindly memorizing what you look like,
the next time I see you;
burn those images of you onto my retina.
For what would I do if I lost
that one last photograph of you?
The pictures of you in my mind
are vanishing... somewhere, someday,
I should trace these lines again,
picturing you.

=Peoples Redux=

Peoples, I speak
of those who compel
and repel by their mere being
themselves to me.

They are those who
by night, keep me awake
with the mere thought
of their existence,
themselves and mine,
wandering so parallel
and anti-parallel in all
my crookedness of schemes,
their plainness of designs
meant to seduce and educe
arousal and revulsion in harmony of
themselves to me.

They are those whom
I darily wish by night
or dream I could compel
and repel like magnetic monopoles
themselves to me.

They are those who
shine so brightly at times,
a beacon to the blind
infatuous lustious loves
searing my eyes alive,
themselves and mine,
escaping unpetrified
from the mirrors of Medusa's
snaking locks redux,
only to freeze by empithy
reflecting off apotropaic minds
themselves to me.

Peoples, I speak
of you who compel
and repel by your mere being.
Let these words be what we cannot be,
yourself to me.

=Peoples=

Peoples, I speak
of those who compel
and repel by their mere being;
like ashes on the sidewalk
cunningly avoided or cursed
by trampling feet and heavy breaths
of a late morning demon wind.

Disgust hides in the viscid mucus,
behind salivating smiles and grim
lips mistaken as sneers and distaste
by the hypersensitive Peoples,
whose whites embellished reflect
their contrasting scorn
so efficiently, and sacrilegiously.

As if that were insufficient,
the hands of the Peoples slap
across the face of streets, begging
thinner limbs and spare eyes,
but never new scrubbed hands,
for those are easily replaced
by grubby tins, or cardboard prints.

Their gods are tucked away
behind 'oh mys' and dollar bills.
Their sidewalk priest's whoever tithes,
and their subway deacon blesses their sleep.
The gods of the Peoples, though fickle,
never betray their trust or punish
their sins, when worshiped daily.

Peoples, they speak
of those who compel,
and repel by their own doing;
prisoners on the sidewalk
cowardly escaping or hiding
from shadows and scrutiny cast
by mirrored windows on the streets.

=Pencil and Colour=

Just a pencil in gray
charcoal on paper sketching
how it was that day
in love with the way
your hands on the table dancing
while mine were smudged in grey

Everything that looks so good from here
drawing from a memory held so dear
drawing from a memory

Strange, this colorless hue
there's something that's missing
and I'm asking me and you
what can we do
we can sit in a circle
filling the spaces with colourful hues

So everything looks so good from here
colouring a memory held so dear
colouring a memory

I was sure I went to heaven
but the feeling didn't last
this portrait of affection's
but a picture of the past
I'd draw again this scene for you
but the colors fade so fast
I'll have nothing left to draw for you
but the futures I've cast

Each colour that you filled resembles a path
from the tenderness of blues to the reds of wrath
no matter where you go they'll follow you
follow you, follow you

=Pencil=

Remember the day you forgot to bring
your pencilcase, the small, soft, velvety one
Yoü loved so much. You asked me,
in your silky voice, for a pencil, for a day;
Your fingers deftly reached, before I even moved,
for my faded pencilcase, rummaging for-
And you chose- my favourite pencil.

"Thanks!" you smiled, twirling triumphantly,
between your graceful fingers, your flailing
Hair across my desk and my silent pencil;
and I wondered how you could do that all
An entire day, I watched you sitting beside me
from afar, heard my pencil scratching away
Near my arms, grasped comfortably by your
conscientious hand lost amidst your art-
Kid-like doodles and complicated sketches-
your compulsive handwriting, your compellingly
Serious expression and the shadows in your hair.

My heart could not bear, when the day was ending,
to part with my favourite pencil, or to separate
You from it. I dare not ask and feigned
forgetfulness, but you did not forget,
Lazily reaching for my pencilcase, for a moment
you looked at me for a while, pencil poised
Over the opening, fingers frantically tangled
with your silken hair, and asked me,
Very softly, so very softly, with your eyes,
if you could keep the pencil, but you did not,
Expertly twirling it away into my faded memory.

=Pen=

today i lost my fountain pen
tonight so sad i'll be
yesterday i wrote with my blue pen
tomorrow so sad i'll be

once i lost my mechanical pencil
then so sad i was
soon i got a new grey pencil
still so sad i was

past i lost a pencil dear
present i lose a pen so loved
future sees me a new pencil twirl
time beyond pen and pencil ever loved

=Past=Present=Future=

=Past=
Streams of fugilin emptiness
Marred by stereaks of argent haze
Recede swiftly into infinity
As distant memories
Converge to a
Singular
Past

=Present=
I stand upon the gift of Time
Exist only to destroy my self
Dissolve only to create anew
What I am
I am
Now

=Future=
Who am I in futures past
Where Death i slay and Tim outlast
What thoughts remain and memories lost
When darkness seems like bitter frost.
Why am I beyond the mist
Which shrouds all yet to exist
Will I ever complete my quest
Waiting for eternal rest.

=pashmina=

Perhaps I lay in some corner, forgotten
for so long, how long, lonelier than long;
so far away it seems, since I first met you.

Do you still remember me, a gift
from a friend who was touched
by your pure sincerity and warmth.

Perhaps you were as I, delighted
like your friend who was cheered
by your sweet vivacity and joy.

Did you then pause, curious
about the script so painstaking etched
upon me, whose secrets would not so easily reveal.

Perhaps now as you gaze unbidden
at these unfamiliar spirals swirling
memories coalesce of some broken past

Yet to be found, where meaning loses itself
amidst dark warmth and friendship mends
with time into wordless understanding.

Perhaps a wayward tear may fall, darkening
stain upon these fading curves, or a smile
may light your face, fleeting trace of beauty.

Yet it is enough that I may see the light
once more enfold you in my warm embrace
as you lift me away from this lonely place.

Perhaps now I lay across you, forgotten
for your world lies ahead, a path so long;
while my soul rests ever, in peace so far away.

=Painters=

Would you paint a picture of me,
whom you will never meet
but have read my words
and will hear my voice tell
and see my fate before you
in some obscure relic of my future?

Perhaps you might not understand
like the people of our times
did not either.
Maybe they do and maybe they did
but for now it only matters
that you do.

For I wish to commission this painting
from you, painter of your time.
Paint me as you will
and those around me if you will.
And while you paint me I will
tell you a story of myself
and of those like myself.

Paint them as you hear
my voice, my words, my world.
Your brush must never waver
even if I do you must remember
who we were.

And when my tale is over,
Paint in yourself
in that corner of the mirror
where what was unpainted
is reflected for you
must be within this painting.

Of my archaic letter,
I would have you write
another in your own time.

Of my voice and voices,
I would have you find
a new home to share with thee.

Of this painting of ours,
I would have you bind
your words and voice and fate
in some unknown relic of my future.

=Once More=

Because of this god-forsaken poem, i cried.
Perhaps none of you will ever understand.
Perhaps only one will ever understand
Besides me, never to come beside once more.

For this poem i shed some tears;
What a waste? Oh, what a desolate waste!
I shall remember it, if only to forget it
Everyday of my future existence
Until i see them beside- once more.

Let not tears fall once more,
But a smile to light my years.

Oh, the Places You’ll Go!

Congratulations!
Today is your day.
You’re off to Great Places!
You’re off and away!
You have brains in your head.
You have feet in your shoes
You can steer yourself
any direction you choose.
You’re on your own. And you know what you know.
And YOU are the guy who’ll decide where to go.
You’ll look up and down streets. Look ‘em over with care.
About some you will say, “I don’t choose to go there.”
With your head full of brains and your shoes full of feet,
you’re too smart to go down any not-so-good street.
And you may not find any
you’ll want to go down.
In that case, of course,
you’ll head straight out of town.
It’s opener there
in the wide open air.
Out there things can happen
and frequently do
to people as brainy
and footsy as you.
And when things start to happen,
don’t worry. Don’t stew.
Just go right along.
You’ll start happening too.
OH!
THE PLACES YOU’LL GO!
You’ll be on your way up!
You’ll be seeing great sights!
You’ll join the high fliers
who soar to high heights.
You won’t lag behind, because you’ll have the speed.
You’ll pass the whole gang and you’ll soon take the lead.
Wherever you fly, you’ll be the best of the best.
Wherever you go, you will top all the rest.
Except when you don’t
Because, sometimes, you won’t.
I’m sorry to say so
but, sadly, it’s true
and hang-ups
can happen to you.
You can get all hung up
in a prickle-ly perch.
And your gang will fly on.
You’ll be left in a Lurch.
You’ll come down from the Lurch
with an unpleasant bump.
And the chances are, then,
that you’ll be in a Slump.
And when you’re in a Slump,
you’re not in for much fun.
Un-slumping yourself
is not easily done.
You will come to a place where the streets are not marked.
Some windows are lighted. But mostly they’re darked.
A place you could sprain both you elbow and chin!
Do you dare to stay out? Do you dare to go in?
How much can you lose? How much can you win?
And IF you go in, should you turn left or right…
or right-and-three-quarters? Or, maybe, not quite?
Or go around back and sneak in from behind?
Simple it’s not, I’m afraid you will find,
for a mind-maker-upper to make up his mind.
You can get so confused
that you’ll start in to race
down long wiggled roads at a break-necking pace
and grind on for miles across weirdish wild space,
headed, I fear, toward a most useless place.
The Waiting Place…
…for people just waiting.
Waiting for a train to go
or a bus to come, or a plane to go
or the mail to come, or the rain to go
or the phone to ring, or the snow to snow
or waiting around for a Yes or a No
or waiting for their hair to grow.
Everyone is just waiting.
Waiting for the fish to bite
or waiting for wind to fly a kite
or waiting around for Friday night
or waiting, perhaps, for their Uncle Jake
or a pot to boil, or a Better Break
or a sting of pearls, or a pair of pants
or a wig with curls, or Another Chance.
Everyone is just waiting.
NO!
That’s not for you!
Somehow you’ll escape
all that waiting and staying.
You’ll find the bright places
where Boom Bands are playing.
With banner flip-flapping,
once more you’ll ride high!
Ready for anything under the sky.
Ready because you’re that kind of a guy!
Oh, the places you’ll go! There is fun to be done!
There are points to be scored. There are games to be won.
And the magical things you can do with that ball
will make you the winning-est winner of all.
Fame! You’ll be famous as famous can be,
with the whole wide world watching you win on TV.
Except when they don’t.
Because, sometimes, they won’t.
I’m afraid that some times
you’ll play lonely games too.
Games you can’t win
’cause you’ll play against you.
All Alone!
Whether you like it or not,
Alone will be something
you’ll be quite a lot.
And when you’re alone, there’s a very good chance
you’ll meet things that scare you right out of your pants.
There are some, down the road between hither and yon,
that can scare you so much you won’t want to go on.
But on you will go
though the weather be foul
On you will go
though your enemies prowl
On you will go
though the Hakken-Kraks howl
Onward up many
a frightening creek,
though your arms may get sore
and your sneakers may leak.
On and on you will hike
and I know you’ll hike far
and face up to your problems
whatever they are.
You’ll get mixed up, of course,
as you already know.
You’ll get mixed up

:ode to a pl girl:

for some reason when the night deepens
and half the world is asleep around you
the mind uncoils itself far and deep
into deep pathways of memory to retrieve
an old series of happenings
a collage of images burned within..

it begins with a girl in a pinafore
a pl one to be precise amidst many others
one that stood out and spoke to me
a voice which resonated with some latent part of me
and so it was a picture of a crowd
a picture of a girl among the crowd

a photograph on the bench i almost took
a girl in pl dress coming down from the stairs
three words and a dangerous smile
a picture of amelie's grin

next is the sound of a missing bell
an almost imperceptible flick of the wrist
followed by the sweet tinkling only imagined
two pl girls side by side and laugh
a picture of smiles and a missing bell

from afar high up under a cusp
stands a pl girl looking lost and far
going close i notice it is not her who is lost
but i who eyes have looked too close
the focus is lost and places exchanged
a picture from afar and the lost photographer

a medusa's eyes turns me into rigid stone
a gaze of forcing recognition held
until the spell is weakly broken with a wave
a nod and a restoring smile
as she boards the bus to infinity

how impossible to recognize the pl dress
from the approaching crowd
petrifies me to stone holding
a locked look of false unrecognition
returned by a gaze of forced recognition
a picture of deep infatuation

=no one told me what to do=

no one told me what to do
so i did it myself only to
find everyone mad at
me who went around
searching for someone
desperate for anyone
who could tell me what to do
and discovered instead
my self

=Nightingale Flown Away=

O Nightingale, will you sing me a song?
When the sun's rising from the seas ablaze
With streaks of orange and fuchsia among
The shimmering waters and rippling waves.

O Nightingale, will we sing together?
When the sun's shining on the lands below
With soft golden rays of warmth which gather
To light our paths and keep our hearts aglow.

O Nightingale, will you remember me?
When the sun is setting the skies aflame
With the pale light of its final glory,
I cry out again my beloved's name;

"Tinúviel! Nightingale flown away.
Lúthien vanimelda, namárië."

=Night in gale=

Quiet has the forest been
And silent too the night
The wind passes through inhibitedly
Like leaves that do not wake with light

Long has the Dark plagued
the spring which bubbled once
Longer still has discontent grew
festering in the shadow's gloom

twinkles faded from wrinkled eyes
weariness eased the smiles
Happiness left for better lands
Darkness toiled the harrowed ground

where once the nightingale sang
the song plays no more
where once wove chapters of magical tales
the wand waves no more

oh nightingale of my lustrous friend
why have you left his side
how would the tales then travel hence
if the night no more holds your songs

before the same plague conquers me
let me search for your graceful wings
to save from the ashes my fallen friend
whose heart must burn with thee

yet the hour grows dark as Death's gate tolls
mocking Spring's half desperate growth
but perhaps new roots can break the frost
if the seeds can flee the snow

I rouse the chilly flames of life
with my frosted breath on ice
rolling dice that the fires of hope
might resurrect the Fallen's soul

The last days of ending Hope
might see the Sun go down
but yet still must we close our eyes at dusk
giving up the rays of truth for blinded hope

Nightingale if you bring your light
show him where his path should lie
lead with song and fluttering wings
the verse that sings the rhyme

Lead him lost if else to me
tarry not his stumbling toes
swift wings fear not jagged rocks
nor icy river floes

Wake him if need be from the numbing cold
crush the latticed ice
let the pale lips blush with redness
and the fingers hold the quill

fly oh Nightingale fly to him
searching with heartbroken songs
bring the wizard his woven wand
let the necro's curse be born

New Horizons=

Precariously you sit at the very
Edge, where lay the beautiful world below.
Trace the horizon across land and sea,
Randomly patched together in a slow
Arc beneath the skies, until our eyes meet.

Ask me softly why we're here, but I know
Replying would not matter, so I sit,
Keeping silent beside you, waiting for
Answers to echo from beyond our feet.
Nothing returns but the wind, so I fall
Into this world for you, melancholy
As wings slowing my descent, so I soar
New horizons, which you will never see.

=Naïveté=

Now ask me why I have come to you
from so very far away
Away from what's been left behind
somewhere along the way
I did find
some love within this life
Vanishing again
and again into dreams alive

Endless salve and sufferings
rest with me tonight
Till morning breaks
with swift farewells
Ever gently
cast me far away