It is a furiously humbling experience
to be helpless before the gale
and exposed without cover,
knowing that cotton takes roughly a millennia to fully dry.
Even though I know that skin is waterproof,
in the moment it is hard to envision a future
where water is not dripping salt and sweat
into my mouth,
even if I know that just such a future
lies just minutes over the horizon
beyond the rain haze that blurs the twinkling city lights.
My shirt clings to me ever tighter as the storm waxes wroth;
the heavy fibers seem to cower from the far-off flashes of lightning,
the thunder to which we never hear.
Freshwater tears course unbidden down my face
in forks and rivulets, washing away the sand and grit and anger
as I trudge through the blowing sheets of broken glass.
And then, the inconceivable future dawns,
and as quickly as it had spawned,
the downpour abates,
leaving behind a sodden figure plodding slowly
through the newly-dappled sand.
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 8:59 PM UTC
Come find me here
on this beach of dreams,
where the sand is black
in perpetual twilight,
cloaked in constant night.
Come join me here
'midst the salt and palms,
on a vast expanse
of twinkling shifting glitter,
that mirrors the sky.
Come seek me here
'neith the starry canopy,
where the sea breeze blows
and the air hints of brine
and age and memory.
Come to me here
in the soft moonlight,
where the shadows dance
and the wind whispers
"close your eyes and be still."
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 8:54 PM UTC
Tears fall
Thick and sad.
Body weak,
Wracked with grief.
It is all too much.
Too much.
Breath comes short,
Reason flees.
Sadness descends,
Iron grip tightening.
Empty heart,
Prayers unanswered.
All too much.
A motherly touch,
Strong embrace.
Warm shoulder
Absorbs my tears,
Supports my weakened frame.
Whispered words,
Audible strength.
A finger
Wipes away my trailing bitterness.
For a moment,
My tears swell anew.
Too much love.
Mother, your love is all too much.
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 8:51 PM UTC
Behind these hazel eyes
are deep pools of memory.
These wells of liquid glass
recall all too well
the tears these eyes have shed.
These eyes remember.
But look long and deep,
long...
and deep...
and you will find no tears for you.
No, the doubt and fear
you see are not your doing.
The tears of grief and sorrow
were not shed for you.
These eyes have wept
no bitterness on your behalf.
They remember frustration and disappointment,
but not because of you.
They have seen anger and regret,
but not by your hand.
There is pain in these eyes, yes.
But you did not plant it there.
These eyes have never cried for you.
Sep 29, 2012
Sep 29, 2012 at 11:51 PM UTC
I lie sprawled on the dead crusty grass of Winter,
breathing in the frigid night.
A passing car ambles by,
headed for destinations unknown,
a mystery on wheels at this hour,
its eyes ripping the velvety shroud of darkness.
I lie in the darkness
beyond the periphery of its piercing gaze,
until it rumbles by and on until it is gone,
and darkness settles once more.
The wicked wind whispers
soft lilting nightmare lullabies
that float through the frozen forest branches
into my numb ears.
I lie in the darkness,
entranced by the bitter breeze’s melodies,
until it blows by and on until it is gone,
and hushed stillness falls again.
My body shakes
with deep rustling tremors,
to defy Winter’s icy kiss or maybe just
to break the mesmeric silence of the night.
I lie in the darkness
as the cold steals the breath from me while I tremble,
until it gusts by and on until it is gone,
and a modicum of warmth returns to my bones
and I am still.
I stare up and away into the night
until my eyes water and freeze and blur
as I stare at one star and the rest disappear
into the folded shadows of the sky.
I lie in the darkness,
a creature of the frigid Winter night,
enfolded in its quiet embrace,
oddly soothed by its anesthetizing touch,
lost in its starry splendor.
Jan 4, 2012
Jan 4, 2012 at 3:56 PM UTC
A sharp bark wakes me.
Tears begin to fall.
Distant growls ring,
tinged with pain and laced with loss,
reminiscent of an all-too-distant past.
It roars and bellows anew
as though intent to bind me to this wakefulness
so I might be a witness to this spectacle of grief.
A fine stage night makes,
for in deepest darkness
the enunciations of anguish are all the more potent.
I lay and listen to the falling tears,
the rhythmic backdrop to this soundscape of sadness.
The fury ebbs as the night deepens,
but tears continue to water the earth
long after the thunderous voice has resigned itself to silence.
Aug 26, 2011
Aug 26, 2011 at 12:55 AM UTC
We commit one of our own
to the wind's embrace.
May the flames that we kindle
and the smoke thereof
carry their spirit up and away
above the flowing waters of the Bagmati,
above the monkey-coated walls and roofs of this place.
May they seek repose on the breeze.
May they find peace on the wind.
May they rest eternally in the sky.
And may we all remember
the fervor of that life
that burned as brightly
as the pyre we light
on these banks in the sun.
Aug 26, 2011
Aug 26, 2011 at 12:51 AM UTC
Light fingers
brush across a shoulder,
standing hairs on end.
A gentle caress
sends shivers
skittering down the spine.
A cool touch
sets the mind
racing.
But this touch,
so hollow,
so empty,
a vacant echo
of affection,
untrue, deceptive.
Counterfeits of love,
icy fingers trace
veins of sorrow.
An insincere embrace
stirs the mind,
inspiring false hope.
My own hand,
my own arm,
curled around me.
A vain attempt
to bring your love
to where I lie.
Aug 11, 2011
Aug 11, 2011 at 10:06 AM UTC
On silent wings it flies
across the jeweled midnight skies,
cloaked in darkness.
Flitting past hill and dale,
always hidden by Night's veil,
it is circling.
Patiently, I lie, wait
for its embrace in this hour late,
so I may rest.
Anon, it alights near,
bringing comfort, quenching fear.
sleep has found me.
I hear her Siren song
and, knowing now it won't be long,
I surrender.
Aug 11, 2011
Aug 11, 2011 at 9:47 AM UTC
Lonesome heart,
when the past is past, and the past lies dead,
let it lie.
Now is.
Then was. Tomorrow shall be.
But now is.
Too soon, what is becomes what was.
And what will be becomes what is.
But what was remains what was.
Before now lives, it is dreamt.
And after now expires, it is remembered.
Neither is substance.
But the now is the real.
Neither aspiration nor memory,
it is the vivid flame of certain present being.
The now is the turning point.
The cusp, the peak, the bleeding edge of now.
Dreams realized, memories recalled, the present.
Dream?
Certainly.
It gives now purpose.
Aspire?
Most definitely.
It gives now direction.
Remember?
But of course.
It shows now progress.
Reminisce?
Surely.
It shows now passion.
But you must be that now.
Always here, ever-present now.
Fiery, passionate, vivid now.
For the colors of now
outstrip the unformed hues of dreams
and the faded pale shades of the past.
The possibility of now,
more real than dream-shadows,
more potent than prospects left unrealized.
The only real time.
The only possibility.
The now.
Aug 11, 2011
Aug 11, 2011 at 9:45 AM UTC