Little boys should be taught ー
That tears are okay
That girls are not toys.
Little girls should understand ー
That the world is not a doll's house
That boys are china vases too.
Never keep a jar of hearts
They can easily be used,
discarded as one would please.
But instead keep a bottle of stars,
you can have as many as you wish,
pluck them at anytime, and
watch them shine brighter than the sun.
Deep in the valley
Beyond the setting sun's reach ー
Mists of the unknown.
Where the living fear to tread
and the dead lives on and on.
A poem from my working anthology Erebus & Eros. Enjoy!
Again, I am paralyzed ー
Confined in my box of a room
as I am stricken with this strange fever, you see.
And now, here I lie - spread-eagle and stillー
to dawn on how thoughtd turn quickly
Like the crack of Dusk.
I am not sure if I'm lucid or not ー
Adrift in my dream-like Now
Because I am afraid to wake up
To the glint of Reality's stainless Blade.
I confess, it is a sight to see ー
The sought after Light at the end
Be swallowed by the Hole I'm in.
Where I find myself Falling ー
Away from the Light and down the Abyss.
Does it feel like geting lost in a foreign yet familiar place?
Or is it like a smile under the rain?
Is it like losing your lover's love?
Or does it feel like nothing at all?
I confess, words cannot express
This feeling ー
Of Falling without End ー
Of Falling without End...
This silent predator is neither Friend nor Foe,
because it attacks when one least knows.
Before you know it, when the calm follows the storm ー
It has covered you like Pinatubo's sable-colored ash.
My working poem from the Poetry class I took. It's a highly sonic poem.
are the least perfect gifts
for this heart-shaped day.
Flowers that live a lifetime,
for a puppy's affection
only to be left behind with hope
on closed open eyes.
Flowers molded for the sweet tooth,
expensive but delicious,
so easily consumed
in just a few bites.
Flowers fresh from the waking hour,
fragrant they may be,
wilt and are discarded easily.
Seek not for flowers for this day of days,
but for a flame rekindled in many ways.
Whenever I would wake
at the asscrack of sunrise,
I long to taste
the bitter mint in your mouth,
and rouged up lips
from last night
and every night before that.
Part of the AD set of poems
Spectrum of colors after a moment's shower.
The warm feeling 'round a fresh cup of cocoa.
Stolen and returned glances of the heart.
The feeling of relief on passing a test.
Chubby cheeks cooing from its cradle.
Brightly wrapped gifts under a tree.
Cheerful barking and wagging of tails.
Symphony of whistles and whispers of the day.
Three words, eight letters, three syllables.
Little things we take for granted.