Tranquility
It's gazing at the reflection of strawberry skies in an untouched lake
making you feel like the child you once used to be
thinking about what your mom is making for dinner
It's a warm summery breeze
hugging you like that blanket your grandma gave you for Christmas
while you slowly fell asleep
It's chasing a butterfly in your garden
feeling the wind in your hair , not worrying about anything but that **** insect
yet now
as we grow older
why must we be frightened of being tranquil?

a certain tranquility had
washed over the place

once crowded and populous
now as if any event of the past
had never been present

you could call it the end of times
at the start of a new day

I'm glad
To know you
You got that warm smile
Understanding mind
Everything seems mild

Thank God
For that day
The day 1 I met you
It was awkward
But I didn't lose my words

I hope
This will be everlasting
The tranquility you gave
The comfort you hold
I wish it will last forever

The moon changes subtly
Whenever we gaze away,
As our worries evolve swiftly
And our joys stay the same.

Perhaps she is a beacon
Baring light for our souls,
Enticing us into her depths
With glimpses of the heart's gold.

Blessed enchantress,
Affixed in a gentle way,
Dragging all from ached misery
And harboring us in her supple bay.

Reject ye thy sun's beating rays
& dispel lightning's spiteful bright tase,
Look only to the night sky as it glistens
If you seek to bask in nature's grace.

Do not worry Doctor.
I have seen the machine.
I know what lies in wait.

Oh Lord may I be saved.
Our grace shall come in vain.
Alas, she must be slain.
Perhaps, she'll live again.

It’s not a place as much as it is a space,
What’s the difference?
A wise woman once asked.

It feels as though “place” is too much concerned
With the physical features.
Places have trees, structures, water.
Places offer food, drink, dust collectors.

To call it a place would emphasize the gross matter,
The sand, the salty water, the dunes.
The people, propped atop their colorful towels,
The chips to be munched, the ball to be thrown.

Places contain activity, interactions, things.  
You leave the place with sandy toes, burnt skin, salty hair.


To describe the beach as a space, rather than a place,
Acknowledges the whispers rippling through the dunes,
The whispers of three generations that’ve been coming to this beach,
The ebb and flow of conflicting feelings,

One moment feeling as distant from them as possible,
The next, reminded that they, too, have sat on this same sand, swam in this same water.

A space permits the existence of a spirit,
That brought smiles to the beach-goers, still propped atop their towels,
A space permits smiles in the wake of tears,
A space allows for memories, experiences, nostalgia.

A space allows you to throw the ball,
And feel that he is still sitting on his big, sagging beach chair,
Squinting to see the arm on his littlest one.

A space allows you to trek to the water,
Remembering all the times you’d fetch him a pail of it,
Pour it on him to cool off.

You leave a space with reverence, gratitude, tranquility.

A place is devoid of him. 
 A space keeps him alive.