The Blue Jacaranda

I don't wish to make a home in you
or hold on to your heart
like a fragile Autumn leaf
but sit with you under
the blue Jacaranda
and breathe your lavender deep
recalling those dreams you did dwell.
A stranger but more familiar
from some other sphere.
Under the blue Jacaranda
hold my hands with no promises made.
For a while, let me believe
you're still not a dream.

The afternoon sun opens the day
wiping the morning mist from the sky.
A robin sits on a mossy wall
overlooking the glistening valley,
basking its little chest.
I speak to it,
words gentle, soft and kind.
It looks at me,
a gaze curious, yet knowing,
seeming quiet at its best.
Suddenly, with a song
it takes to the sky,
where old memories lie,
before its ancestors sang,
the caged bird's song.

Here's another chapter,
Something I've already read.

The sentences are strewn together,
And I'm in my head.

Give me a new perspective,
'Cause something inside me
is dead.

Didn't mean to upset you,
But sometimes,

I wish you'd f*ck off,
instead.

Always a new superstition,
Believing something
that doesn't exist.

Always a new problem,
I've never seen someone
so stressed.

Maybe you're delusional,
But it's not relatable.

Your words make no sense,
And always you're oh so
intense.

Instead of going on,
I'm closing this chapter
instead.

In distant silence, an ache lingers like a forgotten song,
a haunting melody that echoes through
the hollows of an empty home.

Each separation,
a poignant note in the music of longing.
The desire to convey the depth of absence becomes restrained vulnerability where a heart yearns for more than routine inquiries—
a connection that transcends the ordinary.

Yet, in the vast expanse,
the unspoken lingers as a melancholic language,
a narrative of desire and restraint.

Frustration emerges from unmet desires,
a delicate dance where the fear of vulnerability clashes
with the yearning for profound connection.

Silently, the heart navigates the surface,
resisting the urge to delve into the intricacies of emotions.

Now, a choice is made to reveal little,
to traverse the silence with a delicate grace,
as the unexpressed yearns to be heard in the still expanse.

I hear you
I hear you so well
Here I am having a full life
Yet dreading the day to be
Dreaming dreams not to be
Dancing at the will of the dread
Wishing wishes ought not to be
I want the set, reset
You so gracefully
Flipped
Yet again, wishing
Wistful

I want a poem
I so want a poem
May be not just want but need
The need to scratch the itch
That sears the soul
To feed the maga* fire
Burning since the birth
Of time

I want a poem that can absolve me
Of this perenniality

As pretty as she may be,
in this world there are many
who are equally just as lovely,
some may even have a distinct
characteristic as sweet as honey,
they're probably more distinguished
too with a charismatic aura so funny
people gobble up every word ever said
but none pulls me into the sacred entry,
where scrolls of pure devotion are read.

A whisper soft—across the vale,
Where Rona Mae Ronda treads—
Her footfall light, a breeze’s tale,
Through meadows gold—she spreads.

No need of day—her presence brings,
A twilight soft and kind—
With every step—a thousand springs,
Awake in heart and mind.

The daisy turns—her face to see,
As Rona Mae Ronda glides—
Through clover fields—so carelessly,
Where innocence—abides.

The robin pauses in his flight,
To hear her laughter’s sound—
For Rona Mae—by day or night,
Turns all to sacred ground.

She leaves no trace—yet all can tell,
Wherever she has been—
The very air—begins to swell,
With what the soul—has seen.

:: 08.12.2024 ::

The sound of fingers
The string of hearts
Pressed wood hallowed out
Digging, digging
Digging, digging
Breathe in breathe out.
It takes courage
Just to exist.
I've tied my heart to a steel string
And lost them around the cuticles
of your fingers.
Of all the cruel things in life
I am glad that you're not one of them.
I've tuned my lips
& Twisted my hips toward you.
You never once laughed
When I mentioned
I am still learning how to dance