Funerals
What a tedious business, truly!
To be put on display, to let the world see
My battered face caked in blotches of white paint
“She’s beautiful”
They say, tears rolling down their faces
But just enough not to smear the meticulous liners
They spent the last hour adjusting
“I knew her. She was nice,” they say,
Thought they meant every word of it
And so the day goes
Goodbyes are said, picked out like cards from the dollar store
“I will always remember her”
Words said and forgotten on the same day
Funerals
What a tedious business, indeed!
Only another excuse for the living to party
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 2:30 AM UTC
We are but islands, drifting at sea
We fall in silence, unheard, unseen
Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 6:02 PM UTC
Let us leap across lily pads
And walk the pebble roads
When no one watches
Where to? Where to?
Past the bread houses
Hide under the tree stump
Quick! Catch that drifting log!
Where to? where to now?
Climb the mountain tops
I will show you wonders beyond the naked eye
Pleasures
Unable to dismount
Where to?
Crawl through the moist cave
I will show you the heart of men,
Beating black beneath velvet cloths
And the knife behind every smile
I will show you death
In the brimming of a glass
Where to? And where to now?
I will show you all
Jun 26, 2013
Jun 26, 2013 at 1:15 AM UTC
We shall celebrate in the name of the dead,
And we shall, in the name of those who died,
Celebrate victories of the dead,
And victories of those death had taken,
For we are alive, and their names shall stand—
And forever live on, as heroes should—
Until our names cease, and death, upon us.
We are the living and they are the dead
Yet, they lived on, while our lives have ceased.
The dead walks among the living, for we
Have been marked by the mark of death since birth.
We are the dead, rejoicing the living.
Death is, and shall be, upon us, and death
Shall be rejoiced thereafter. Long live death,
For celebration is upon the dead,
And your names live on,
For the living, the
Dying and the dead.
Jun 26, 2013
Jun 26, 2013 at 12:55 AM UTC
"Until death do you part, will you take her hand in marriage?"
"I do," he said
"And you?"
She stood on the red carpet in her white gown, holding his hand,
Thinking of another man.
Do you remember the day I stood atop the balcony
Waiting for you
And you
Appeared with a bouquet
Of balloons
Red orange yellow green blue indigo violet teal purple magenta peach ruby pink
lavender maroon amber navy burgundy charcoal marigold cream turquoise emerald
aqua olive sapphire lilac
—All the colours of the world
Why not white, I had wondered
But before I could ask
You smiled
And they
Soared as pigeons do
Blooming wild rainbows
As they dangled
Do you still remember?
marigold olive burgundy
yellow amber peach
lavender sapphire blue
indigo orange ruby
turquoise emerald aqua
violet magenta
cream lilac navy
purple red
maroon green
charcoal
pink
teal
indigo
but not white
"No, I will not!"
Gasps were exchanged between frantic looks.
But the bride was gone
Without her white shoes or white gown—
How she wished she could.
"Miss, your answer?"
Why not white, she had wondered
But she already knew,
There were never white balloons
And there never would,
She squeezed his fingers
Now white was all the colour she would have.
"I do."
Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 3:15 AM UTC
Someday, this exile will end
I told myself, as I go on
Mounting what is still undone
All this is but an illusion
A nightmare at its end!
Spread the bed by the corner
And the shelf by the closet...
Set the lamp on the glass
And the table by the door...
Yet winter never ceased
And I, basked under crooked shadows,
Stole what I could from the wavering flames
To keep my hands warm
But my feet were cold
Where the velvet wood prickled,
Refusing to summon the weaved tuft
That once outstretched beneath
And so I go on drowning
In the endless mounting...
Pin the painting by the window
And the frame on the wall
...Or was it the other way around?
Saline lingered on my tongue
I returned to a shriveled wreck upon parched lawn;
Where the uprooted flower bed lay,
The bathroom sink dug deep, torn in two;
The maple leaves, murky with grief;
Yet, the metal gates shut in silent scorn
This was my home
***
There once stood a small house
Squeezed between looming giants
Beige-taupe carpet against lavish brown;
Ashen shale next to dazzling gold...
The days under the skylight
Where the easel lay
And nights under blue-black sheets
With a book in hand, sometimes a pen...
The fights and the flights
When siblings were still young enough to run outside;
The path to the bath well remembered in the dark
On nights when raccoons came by....
***
This is my home
Forever fixed upon this spot—
Withered not by the moon nor the sun
A paradise that exists nowhere else
But in memory
Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 3:02 AM UTC
I dream of the man who stood beneath the maple tree
A handsome man with a wicked grin
Who held my hand and kissed my knees
When I fell from atop the maple tree
Who made me an easel, but discouraged me from art
Who drove me to school before the sun was up
And called me a liar, a petty little ****
His shadow lingers beneath the maple tree
A lie. A con. A mask. A blotch .
A man lost to memories I wish not to dust
I wonder why I cannot forget
Why it still hurts to think of him
Knowing he was the worst kind of man
Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 2:51 AM UTC
I live in a city of grey
Weaved from broken dreams
Nothing here stays
Except—
The rain
I can trust the rain
It has not stopped
For as long as I remember
As I look out the wet glass
I recall a childhood myth
When the rain clears,
It will bring with it a most precious,
Unearthly treasure
Rain—
"Rain—"
Yet I wonder
Why the legend still exists
When the rain never stops
And the Believers no longer remember
Its name
Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 2:27 AM UTC