What is that we do,
after all these years.
Punched a hole in the wall
that now I look through.
Seeing the world through that shattered master piece.
How can it be, that after all these years
we are still the same.
Yet so very far from how we were.
Time is an adventure.
It carries us regardless of our willingness.
The past is memory,
present is memory.
I stopped, then continued,
The future is the untold story.
‘It is almost banal to say so yet it needs to be stressed continually: all is creation, all is change, all is flux, all is metamorphosis.’
- Henry Miller
the furious knock
your pain seeps through the wood
each thump restarting the rhythm of my heart
the carpet caressing the soles of my feet
glued in place, hesitant to follow
the light on your face
the cracking of voices, the water in eyes
pain is a present on my doorstep
How beautiful is the Present;
A gift of infinite choice!
Written 15 May 2020
When I try to hold on to a lovely present
its gift disappears.
Thanks to Andrew Crawford for the idea for this poem.
Don't long for the wilted flower
To stand tall again
It's time is spent
Turn your attentions to another bloom
stay in the present
i stay in the past
out of hatred for the present
and fear of the future
inside my mother's cocoon
as my father works day to day
tirelessly, puffing smoke out of chapped lips
and the cigarette boxes pile the hallways
i live in a dream inside my head
where i paint my walls a different shade each day
and flowers bloom between the cold metal frame of my bed
the cracks in the ceiling
and the dusty gaps in my window
as if i had not heard my sister cry in the night
and my brother slams the door from outside
i'd rather stay in the past.
Previous versions of me
are just another story
not my point of view
the vision is different
the words spoken on another rhythm
I hear those whispers
Naivety and innocence
combined with different aura
the photographic me don't know
what is in store.
Each age, terrible mistakes,
every step is a regret,
I learnt from few but have not
stop making some new.
And I know that old me
would never want to be me
and I don't want to meet my future,
I would disapprove of her
The lens of eyes are aging
the glimpse of back are just flashes
they are distorted pieces
You should see me differently now
if you knew me long time ago
the person you are looking for
is not me anymore.