Dear past me,
I found a suggestion to write to our future self.
And, after much thought and deliberation, I found myself unable to thinks of us further than today.
Although, the past you and present me converge today, we both understand, that even now, our future is uncertain. And, it's all down to present me.

So, dear possible future,
there's a few things I know:

I know the sky is blue; sometimes.
The day before today was yesterday and after will be tomorrow. But yesterday is now certain. Written down on a rock. It is now a fixed point of life.
But tomorrow may not come. The sun not rise nor the moon fall.

Tomorrow is the great perhaps.
Sleeping; waiting to be awaken.
We are Schrodinger's cat. Both alive and dead inside the box of tomorrow.

That even if I can't see myself further than today;
here's to the things written and unwritten,
to the you before and the me after.
Here's to the great perhaps and maybe of tomorrow,
To the us who know,
and the uncertainty of now.
That to whatever yesterday decided,
tomorrow might forgive us.
Here's to the fine line between the past and future,
that it might meet our present and if not-
that it will remember us even if just today.

Here's to us,
anywhere in time.

The stone was rough and cold
Stretching endlessly east and west
In the middle was a door
When opened it only revealed more stone
Dripping wet, as if under a waterfall
Yet no water was in sight
I sat a ways from the door
Pondering its mystery into the evening
As the sun fell low I was startled
When three figures emerged
From the great door in the stone
They looked at me strangely
As if expecting a certain response
I stood up to confront them
But as I did they vanished
Disappearing before my eyes
Behind where they had stood
The door lay open
The wet stone gone from behind it
And in its place
A yawning darkness
A void I found irresistible

Taking all those roads that go nowhere
Travelling but no destination in mind
Yes I am guilty if I have lured you with me
My only pleasure in a life so unkind

We shall meet at this station that is half way
Halfway is still better than nowhere
But a halfway goodbye seems no better
When you are watching your life on rewind

Look at me I said, Look in my eyes,
Can't you see that I am blind
And then I looked in her eyes and took a picture
Of that moment when she changed her mind

(M. N. R.)
30 Jan 2018

Although in it the universe folds,
Your little bubble is not the world
Just if in every atom, the Truth ye behold.
As you close your eyes in pain,
A girl in Zambia does the same,
As you relax and listen to the rain,
A homeless wishes his condition would change.
As you understand a concept, joy flowing
An old man to the same idea is glowing.
As you listen to the heart's song of your lover,
Billion other songs wait to be discovered.

Midnight!
Midnight!
Midnight!

The burning sensation of those word were hard to digest
Sorrow, Tear, How ugly can I be
Black is Beauty I say…to whom they say

Midnight! Midnight!.. you are as dark as Midnight
I'm haunted by those words, As they stuck to me like fresh sap from a tree..
I’m drowning, I’m drowning, I can’t get free, those words will forever trail me..

They trailed me; they jarred me, Blackie Tutu! Blackie Tutu!
How can kids be so cruel using skin color as a tool
I held my own and stayed cool for I knew has long I was in this school my fate was doom.

Pickey-Pickey head! was the melody of the song
I listened allowing the word to sink into my soul
The beat made me sick and I knew this one would also stick
I Looked up to the sky wondering why
No! No! No! Woman don’t cry
Be an African and hold your pride…

Hands by my side, I held my head up high
I found the fight within me, Stone faced Killer bee
I faced the music and it set me free
On the attack I had them flee…using word to conquer thee
I carried on knowing freedom wasn’t free and then
Like bolt of lightning it occurred me  
To defeat them I had to BELIEVE in ME

The birds went missing for some days
I did not fail to see them
For I can keep tabs on their commings
By the feed level in the silo

I wonder, have they departed?
Did the entire gathered multitude
All the species and varieties
At once get summoned by a grand poobah

Ah No.  They’re back
Voracious, suddenly.  Perhaps an appetite
Built up from long journeys South to heat
Returned as quickly to a stable staple supply

El viejo, baggy clothes and vaguely rancid
Arrives at the tickety tockety place
The pigeons dance head first, feet next
He knows each by his dull colour

At the trough they proceed in size order
Pleasing my delicate sense of propriety
Titmouse, cardinal, blue jay, woodpecker
A grub abides among the seed

I observe

A Russian girl’s farts smell just like her mother’s,
Old Hannah that gave birth
To seven kids back in the desert where her ancestors wandered
Bewildered by the hot sun—
Pharaoh’s men on their backs, riding camels into the hot wind—
Old Abe coming home to the tent where he had his way with everyone,
But that was then and now I’m sitting downwind
From young Hannah and her dreams of Anastasia—
I won’t forget her, not after laying that hot one
Like Jill on the hill she came tumbling down—
It’s almost enough to make me wish Mila Kunis were Japanese,
But she isn’t and neither is Bill Burroughs but the rest of the Beats were
Hip to sniffing Russian girl’s farts like cold borscht on a hot night, her feet in stockings, too drunk to remember her own name—
Sitting at her laptop farting the night away,
Graffiti on the walls saying Stalin is great and all must obey,
It’ll just take a minute, as she looks you in the eye
And tries to make you wear a Pushkin mask
I’ve lost track of the car alarms going off all night, I’ve lost track of everything, lost in the fog—
It doesn’t even matter how ugly the girl is, it looks and smells like Heaven
And all the signs point in her direction—
A perfect machine, every move a poem,
Crying out like Jesus on her sacrum’s cross,
Did I mention she was ugly and part Korean,
Not worthy to carry my sandals because she needs more tattoos,
Give or take seconds of eternity, **** as a bug-eyed Spaniard
Giving birth to a swarm of flies, no one noticing she’s wearing her head upside down—
Just like her soul—
It can’t be denied hers is an old soul, born on an island during an earthquake—
Performing miracles with her faith, Jews dying slowly in the gas chambers—
No one would want such a fate, it goes without saying, but it’s too late—
She drinks her milk thinking of her grandmother milking cows—
And all she has to do is go down to the corner store—
She shuffles the cards and blows another ****,
This one louder than the several that came before—
She puts on her glasses and answers the door leaving factories in her wake—
Whenever she speaks it’s always in her sleep,
The words Russian, the voice a low purr and Anastasia weeps
In so many ways she’s like her Arab ancestors in their chains,
In other ways she’s like cement, her farts loud you must admit
Everybody turns around when she cuts one
That brings to mind a legend of the rain forest—
Her ancestors wandering the desert until an oasis appears out of nowhere,
Old Hannah giving birth to the seven prophets, farting her way to immortality,
Accidentally beautiful to some small degree—
Crucifix in hand, a stake through the heart of a blonde—

It is in verse as is in dress
That beauty hides and needs caressed
Though true beauty only some possess
We look around and see less and less
Peer deep inside ones heart and chest
There must be beauty in all this mess
-A.F.