Then it was raining
frequent and changing
shapes and layered into tranquil.  
We are closed inside
Like two butterflies
In a jar of cocoons
Above 1110 feet of arching silence,
along the long roads,
Look for the distant meadows

a warm kiss in the neck shortened
a long paragraph of a longer book
into a word
The air is filled with
an old book’s smell
a long-dead memory
a toys broken head
a piece of cloth that you left
an old calendar with a marked date

We will arise from this cocoon
Trespass into those woods
flew away from here.
Somewhere beyond June
Like a pilgrimage unknown
There’s daylight and ardor
she is a winged angel perched on a tulip
A Season of Woe,
A Season of Merriment

Monday was the day of preparations
That were never made, the day of panicking,
Scrambling for a handhold when
The rocks are falling around your head.

Tuesday was the deep breath,
The calming mantra in your mind
That controls the panic from the previous day,
Steeling yourself for another week.

Wednesday was the day of realizations,
That all the things you planned to do
Are going swiftly going down the drain,
Evaporating into the recesses of your mind.

Thursday was the day of hanging on,
Struggling against a severe landslide
Of cares and worries, desperate to make it
To the top of the cliff.

Friday was the day of relief and triumph,
The relaxing of your brain muscles that
Signals the mountain peak, the end of the struggle,
The final step towards complete contentment.

The week was finally over, the war finally won,
And you realize that you must muster
Enough strength to do this again and again,
That the week is not for the weak.

In a year, three hundred and sixty-five days
Who came up with all of these things?
Now nobody asks but doing what it says
Following all the weird rituals it brings.

Christmas day falls on the twenty-fifth of December
How do we certainly know that this is accurate?
Nobody cares how this made its way to the calendar
Maybe we doubt, maybe not, all we care is to celebrate.


IB-Poetry©️
3/2/2018

A dashing horse
is always one step
ahead
of the rolling dust

In the Year of the Horse
one ought to make
365
hoofbeats

It’s been three years
But your birthday is still programmed into my calendar
And even now I have to fight back the urge
To text you and say
Happy Birthday
and
I hope you’ve been doing good
and
How are your family?
It’s been a while, are you still you?
- I wonder why you’ve been avoiding me for so long -
If there is a crime I could have committed that I forgot but you never will,
And I don’t want to be friends again:
We are both too far adrift from the familiar shore that had bonded us in the first place,
But it goes against my nature to leave this stone unturned,
and I have seen you turn your nose up, turn tail on sight of me,
Like I am a disease you could catch just by saying hello,
As if you have never been part of my life before,
And I am baffled every time just the same as I was the first day you decided we were both finished with the other,
But somehow,
through it all I have kept a reminder of you in my calendar,
Three years later, worlds apart,
Even now I type out the message,
Imagine pressing send,
Knowing full well that you wouldn’t respond - if you read it in the first place,
So I don’t.
I delete every word and send them out into the universe;
Tonight, this one is for you.
Happy Birthday, G, and many happy returns.

Here's the hint I've been asking for,
of a top secret event and more.
Speculations were all over the net.
Maybe some of people even bet
about all the possibilities
and how about the probability
of a calendar or video shooting.
The album cover would also be suiting.

But here comes the little hint,
of some photographic print.
Looking elegant in every tux,
like a model of Grand Deluxe.
The bomber jacket, coats and shirts.
Oh dear, not forgetting those two birds,
on a body smooth like a baby's ****.
Oh what did he do, our Captain of Pop?

who needs to learn
to wrap the tides
while the fisherman
cast the net of fire
from the darkest seabed
locked the doors of events
to keep an ancient calendar
still glowing on it's eyes
but within the time
the firts cry came
the lips of the ocean
became reluctant to return
for us to be afraid
to saw the wraith

of the fish