Fine porcelain litters the cloth,
yet a quick pull leaves it still.
An exchange of tails both
holding, careful to not spill.
Our plates remain intact,
despite accidents of gravity.
Clearing the surface momentarily
within arrangements of integrity.
Utensils quickly turning
our tensile accent; I uttered
Vowels to what was heard
repeatedly signed our yearning.
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 10:49 PM UTC
Difference meant crosses
connecting lines of diffusion.
Anak, there was a time
your last name - carried
but prejudice will follow.
Our immigration,
garnered tailored unsuited
ties to our beautiful pearls,
progress adapts singularity,
a strength for your identity.
Relief, from fastened shades
opens palms allowed to dry.
Soiled worth will blossom
your ancestry will procure
self-reflection, and will spread.
Speaking our language
turned to novelty stones.
But a divided tongue
will speak the same good
bringing you respect.
Wash your hands, pray before
eating with your hands.
Appreciate the feel of the rice
each grain has it’s worth,
the pull from our hull.
Mar 31, 2013
Mar 31, 2013 at 11:50 AM UTC
The minute handed the past
while seconds elapsed alarms.
Expectations lead to patience
- causations falling over charm.
Unrequited executed hanging
on holding all the rest.
Sincerity perpetuated,
unresolved swinging at last.
Barefoot without impression
you remembered this pair.
Unexpected crosswords
rising letters to share.
An exchange of auditions
retracting resigned conditions.
Nov 27, 2012
Nov 27, 2012 at 5:37 PM UTC
Reviewing has been the perpetual answer.
To the unclear inquisition
that befalls the people
I have not seen
or spoken to for some time.
But there’s a progress
to the studies
which have accompanied
my mind to see beyond even me.
Thorough repetition
of factual information
in a mundane fashion.
The passion for acquiring
the necessary knowledge
has found it’s self
incorporated
in the daily conversation.
In the morning
a discrete young woman
fashioned with a “salmon”
bandana, leaving the cafe
with green tea in hand.
Followed by the waddling
footing of a child holding
a mother’s hand.
In passing, an adult
repetitively cursing
on the undertones
of their words.
The following day
a man in a tailored suit
talking to himself
with an ear-piece
unseen to some.
A young man
holding his father’s hand
hauling an oxygen
tank behind him.
A young lady with
white complexion,
studying. As she faces
my way her cheeks appear
with patching tones of black.
Reminded daily,
I return to these books,
the flow charts of
pathologies and treatments.
Humbled,
that the view and discourse
of our conditions
are not all the same.
Sep 26, 2012
Sep 26, 2012 at 2:25 AM UTC
Looking back
is a turning point
to remembering,
almost glancing
past the light that already passed.
An internal discourse
that had it measures
harmoniusly in concert
of leads and follows.
These days require inspiration
for revelation to follow elation.
An adaptation solely for the
consciousness.
When you criticize
the recesses of your mind,
you come to realize
the limitations
that remind your fears.
Simple acceptance,
suppression
or worse a change
in direction
isnt the resolve
but rather continue.
Let hope adhere.
Sep 11, 2012
Sep 11, 2012 at 1:41 AM UTC
Keep looking back,
when I can’t move forward, I keep looking back.
The connection with how I speak
and how the words that follow
seem to not catch the dancing
and listeners that follow.
The crowd around this tribal
semi-circle hasn’t taken
the feathered trials
fitted on their fathers minds.
Whether they choose
not to embrace or to me disgrace
by forgetting their past
it familiarizes my identity.
But familiar curvatures
form complete circles,
overlapping or simply touching
we are all siblings of each other’s hold.
Whether the sun provides
more warmth here
or my skin appears pure, we still remain
within the same wars of existence.
I echo respect, you understand
because it simply translates.
Continue on, remember re-verse.
Keeping shades.
Positions block the light,
rather corner views of the night.
Keep looking back,
when I can’t move forward, I keep looking back.
Jul 16, 2012
Jul 16, 2012 at 3:27 AM UTC
Supine and enamored in cotton sheets.
Motionless, with vessels dilated at the time.
The filtered light makes it’s journey.
Warmed by the hour, warned by the noise.
A voiceless yawn, a reflex, and then stretch.
A conscious gasp followed by flaccidity.
Yet the day before, perpetuates
the morning after.
Evenings always seem to foretell
the prior hours of our working days.
If the day moves, without faults
we speak in a elated way.
When a hinderance appears
and untimely tragedy commits.
The liquid labor may be your vice
to secure then admit vulnerability.
Nothing more are the stumbles
that only gather footing
and stand against
the door opening
to traffic, streets garnered
with endless glows
within our restless minds
finding exits to resetting the past
and just returning home
Jul 16, 2012
Jul 16, 2012 at 3:26 AM UTC
Dreaming seems to be a cycled reality,
dueling matters of vague interpretation
almost holding on to a fugue
state of delieverance,
that returns to dreaming.
A wakefulness that pardons our stressors,
exploring how sureness of changing tides
have arrived to wash the shore’s footprints;
turning salutations to a once cumbersom
slumber to keeping these eyes closed.
The mind never rests,
it continues to timely act.
Despite the character of one’s gait
submissive to extrinsic. We dream the same.
A neutrality in recognition,
the deepest desire,
the social matter,
and the human acceptance.
We rise to sleep
to deeply wake
the harden reality we failed,
to accept throughout our day,
removing our knighly armor and face
our dragons which have their own vices,
yet our devices hinder. Our true dreams,
blur between eyes closed
changing to dreaming with eyes open.
Realizing all true negatives are true
positives differing only from accepting
that I can vertically add difference;
we can all equate to change
if you keep dreaming in mind.
Jul 16, 2012
Jul 16, 2012 at 3:24 AM UTC
Conscious how below self awareness motives can be.
Subconscious no matter the state.
The density remains linear; all drawn in pen
to attend to these feuding desciples
of being “super” and the instinctive relliance on idioms,
of actions portrayed further than words,
finding balance on this epicenter
of egocentric dreams coined all along the same metaphor.
Sides- to what ever shape of form of the matter ,
linear at point we all eventually
dive/urge finding another
point above or below
convergence in light
to change focus in volume/mass
equaling (1)ndividuality / decreasing the density of situations
Aug 22, 2011
Aug 22, 2011 at 10:54 AM UTC
All through the afternoon,
among these drinkers
to their tables to java cups
all from a bird’s-eye view.
Blended individuals,
of varying hues
too much sugar, no need to stir
hot, no ice - “a language of their own”
adding “cream to this crop”
like fraternity’s rushing thought
to seemingly **** out the weak.
Textbook before my face, coffee to my right
surrounded by chatter, and apparent debacles
behind the rearing of my ear lobes
set the seem from my shirt and cut
play the motion picture, film, pan out.
360 crossover,
these eyes wander, merely to ponder
conscious parenting to the mind; reminded
yes I did complete that -
atoning to what could be done,
view now from my eyes
around clouded peripherals
(zooming into this page)
trying to read to figure
a Venn diagram of the temporal lobe;
committing to memory ironically
it’s long-term function to maintain
the conception of this thought.
Distracted, back to this drink
re-calling coffee mythically impedes growth
or so they say to stray from focus -
the holder is the cup, to handle is abrupt
but we drink it, to straighten our view
so much as this morning vice stimulation
branded by a jaded graphic mermaid,
or possibly a siren, or to some a muse.
But, it’s the afternoon; no need to rush,
just here and there, casually taking sips
temporary jolts of caffeine
a temple of thought,
temporarily fading,
due to lacking the day-to-day rest.
Same perspective,
but this time curious, calm, and collected
like a child looking above an ant-farm - proud
gazing at moving points like synapses
of our coffee cups as opening our wakefulness.
Can we just remember to understand
that everyday is different.
Our mornings may start mundane
but we find joy in the day
for afternoon connections
no matter what they may be, just to remember,
so that we can have lasting memories,
and not the caffeinated ones.
Aug 22, 2011
Aug 22, 2011 at 10:51 AM UTC