#retrospection
Give me
A moment of Time
To pause
Not rewind
To process
To find
Who am I?
Inside
The clock quickens
Years pass by
Still no closer
Without reward
Give me
A moment of Time
To think
To remember
The joy, the hurt
The fall
Jan 29
Jan 29, 2026 at 10:17 AM UTC
I was not okay
in those days, now I see more --
happiness back then.
Jan 9
Jan 9, 2026 at 3:50 AM UTC
while trying to gather
the unravelled yarn
from the clenched teeth
of the mischievous puppy
hoping it remained
intact and unbroken
able to be wound up
into a ball or bullet
for future use
i realised it probably
wouldn't matter
even if it had
snagged and
snapped in two
as not all knitted items
are made of one
continuous strand
new and old can
be joined easily enough
overlapping or
weaving together
to finish any pattern
unnoticed by most
Nov 6, 2025
Nov 6, 2025 at 8:55 AM UTC
I ended up at the wrong time,
in the wrong place,
carrying a dead flashlight
that instead of shining,
offered me an elusive shape—
a spectacle of shadows.
What was a hand
became a dog barking on the wall,
or a ghost-rabbit
vanishing into nothingness.
My rational “I” still asks why,
and I have no answer.
I just smile with sadness:
that was the script,
that had to happen.
Bittersweet medicine,
already swallowed,
the side effects dissolved.
And I boarded another train.
Writing?
I only wanted an ordinary life,
with some humor
and a pinch of self-irony.
Saturn joined,
Saturn divided,
at 8:18 a.m.
Maybe we humans
don’t have the stillness
to break free from the pattern
of silver rings
made of dust and ice,
imposed by an ego.
Maybe we prefer
the safety of the shadow,
ice melts in daylight.
My story:
a new-old flat,
my imperfect poems…
Really?
For this, I was made?
I’m not a poet.
I’m a living voice,
taming incomprehension
convincing myself
that dawn is near,
and I’m strong enough to rise,
not looking anymore
for cold mirrors.
Jun 20, 2025
Jun 20, 2025 at 4:45 AM UTC
I am a tourist
where you still live, where I used --
to be family.
Dec 22, 2024
Dec 22, 2024 at 4:08 AM UTC
Unconsciously or not
it was still a ****** thing to do.
I realize now
how much I hurt you.
I know you´ve probably already forgiven me
and I am in the process of forgiving myself.
This used to be a way of coping with my demons.
The only way I knew.
But I know better now.
For what it´s worth
I am sorry.
Aug 21, 2024
Aug 21, 2024 at 8:24 AM UTC
I think about us sometimes.
But we don't get to me
like we used to.
Don't get me wrong—
I still feel the same as I did before.
But all those feelings are
distant now.
They're fading.
Whenever I try to remember us,
all the good and the bad
blend in my mind.
The individual memories can't be separated
because they're so far away from their inception.
I don't know you.
I barely know myself
anymore.
Jul 29, 2023
Jul 29, 2023 at 1:55 AM UTC
when I was younger
home was the best place ever.
whether it was birthdays
which now feels like
a long-lost dream. since we lived in a tiny
house. a family of six huddled up together
in a tiny room to celebrate. maybe times
were simpler or maybe we didn’t have much then.
or on days, mum cooks
which always was a rarity.
she never played an active role
but our younger selves made sure
at the end, we’d be grateful.
things began to shift
when we grew older.
the happy house felt like a dark
gloomy one. smiles began to
be replaced by shoutings.
birthdays began to be less common
and sooner like we all imagined
it would become something
attached with the past.
when i became older
i tried becoming friends with
my younger self. somedays were
a disappointment. somedays we faked it.
I’m still trying to.
Mar 6, 2019
Mar 6, 2019 at 9:03 PM UTC
At times
I think of myself
as an onlooker, an observer.
At times, I live my life
by witnessing it.
At such times
when I step aside from the midst
my anxiety ceases to exist.
Feb 20, 2019
Feb 20, 2019 at 11:55 PM UTC
My hand traces letters
that will build the scene
for hope.
It was you that installed
my ability for hope.
Learning was an endless
journey
to which I never grew tired
or weary.
Your hands held
the weight of my world
in their palms.
All of the joys in this world
were gifts
from you.
Smiles seen for miles
lighting the darkest
chasms.
Hope came from you.
A most precious
gift.
Jan 18, 2019
Jan 18, 2019 at 4:46 PM UTC
If colourlessness was a colour
Let the world be painted colourless
The world,
In which I can see through you.
The world,
In which you can see through me.
Jan 1, 2019
Jan 1, 2019 at 10:26 AM UTC
I sit on the counter, feet draped over the sink watching the sun rise over the trees through the open window
As I bring my coffee to my lips I feel the familiar chip
The one that my lips have felt every morning for years
This cup snuggles perfectly between my small hands, the warmth shielding them from the cool spring air
This cup has been through a lot
A few moves
More than a few lovers
The Alice in Wonderland decal has worn off and the seafoam enamel is cracked-- a mosaic of all the times I didn't care enough to hand wash it
The handle fell off once, I wanted to practice the Kintsugi, the Japanese art of repairing broken things with liquid gold
But I'm a college student, so glittery modge podge worked just fine
In many ways I am this cup
Used, well loved
Slightly broken, held together with glitter and good intentions
I don't mind the cracks
In the cup or in me
Cracks show that you are strong, can handle whatever is thrown at you, heartbreak or linoleum
They also allow light in
To brighten when darkness is all you can seem to find
As I reach the last sips of my coffee the sun is well up
My cats are hungry and I'm running late
Some days it's worth tardiness to reconnect to a part of you you thought was lost
Today is one of those days
Nov 29, 2018
Nov 29, 2018 at 7:42 AM UTC
O why, O why, O why was I born in this non-laternlit world?
No!
O why, O why, O why was I born in this non-torchlit world.
What woe!
And try, and try, and try I do, to fulfill myself, all others, too!
And try, and try, and try I do, to remind myself, all others, too:
That it is not man's devices that light the darkness,
but the sun's brightness…
Jul 5, 2018
Jul 5, 2018 at 1:54 PM UTC
Crumpled paper damp with ink,
Immortal words washed away in the running stream.
The paper breathes longer than I,
whats behind longer still,
for the same worries I carry
are etched in the walls of Pharaoh's grave.
When the candle of life is by saliva-wet
fingers extinguished,
Sighs resound and glances cast at the
vacant seat my voice used to occupy.
The present man soon dances for the prying eye of
Retrospection.
A picture printed on the page in many days,
full of laughing smiles and vacant gaze of youth gone
blank,
The Retrospect looks closely, trailing fingers softly
over the black white rendition.
An all too human fear creeps to mind,
and he quickly turns the page.
Feb 21, 2018
Feb 21, 2018 at 8:06 PM UTC
The wound
though old
and hence
looked closed,
the pain
it caused
was quite
obtrusive,
even after
all those
years, were
somehow
left behind,
oblivious of
the misery
it created.
Couldn't leave
it like that,
insistent pain
made to decide at last,
when it was
opened again
memories
sprayed out
copiously, like
dark, coagulated blood,
never before seen.
Then, fresh blood
started to ooze
as if reluctant
to close the wound,
unable to forget
emotions that are
made to sleep
anesthetized.
Dec 9, 2015
Dec 9, 2015 at 1:40 PM UTC
Heavy-hearted though warm I feel
The skies are high,painted in teal
I am weak, Tyro with spirits at peak
Time has come to leave the nest
Steal the sights...fly high my best!
Flap the wings,may the mood swings
Light up...cheer up...be alive!
Wind may oppose ,its my first flight.
Face the thunders..don't let it rain
Do hold the clouds till energy drains.
My wings are heavy, want a break
Perch of memories, I may fall prey
A moment to live,rest I don't care
Now I am tired,and I am sane
Soon I will fly my home again.
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 3:44 AM UTC
How alike--both born in Bergen County
among mansions and stone-lined yards,
but my childhood had been framed with lace,
yours a light bulb broken before tasting electricity.
My mother called me your “moral compass.”
My sister said I kept you from disappearing--
as if you were born from leftover ashes
smearing the stone hearth black
as the nights we’d lie awake and you’d
asked me what color to repaint your bedroom
and how to talk to that boy from your class.
You insisted I spend every night at your house.
Sometimes, we’d race our fourwheelers wild,
I always lost, far behind you--and further still
when you found that skin-and-bone crowd with
vomit-stained clothes, their teeth and eyes
yellow as their cigarette-tarred fingertips
and when they stumbled near, I smelled
breath foul as the stench of a mouse
dead in my car’s engine--slowly burning out.
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 3:54 PM UTC
As they say
Words fall short to describe experiences.
Photographs are still pixels away
From being a reflection
Of one's memory -
A refracted reflection,
Of the experience itself.
So what about hopes
To capture, treasure memories for this lifetime?
What about people
Who love to imagine,
And spend their lives
Living on memories
Of those imagined sights,
Scenes, smells and people?
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 11:08 PM UTC
There are Times
When I am
Groping at the vapours
Of nothingness
Hoping to churn out
Life and hope from it,
(With a desperation
That makes me feel
As though I were
strangling emptiness itself.)
There are Times
When I wish with all my might
(Believing for just that dead moment
that my thoughts are powerful indeed.)
That the concrete reality
Would crumble and melt
into nothingness.
There are Times
When I remember
That it's darkness
Staring at me in the eyes
[Threatening me or encouraging me,
I know not.]
And I shut my eyes
To crawl within
The cold comfort of familiarity
That I first meant to escape.
There are Times
When I seek to
Merge into a shadow
As the gust of Light,
Having shot out
From unseen corners and walls of impasse
Now straining its eyes at me
Sears and sieves through
The dust of opaque fear
Settled since long before I was born.
There are Times
When I realise, a truth
Shall not be uttered by me
Not the right time,
How do you set a time for truth?
There are Times
When I must not let
The truth run amok
Lest it wreaks havoc.
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 1:44 PM UTC
Sometimes I think the situation's wrong
To then severe the blame from myself
Almost as though it were a part of me,
Thinking absolving oneself is a crime in itself,
All the while.
I discover a retrospected, yet un-inspected wrong-doing
And tug the blanket of blame over me,
And that's when another blame game
Conspires to defeat me as it calculates
The next mortal embrace
I shall make at the count of fear.
Aug 4, 2014
Aug 4, 2014 at 11:04 PM UTC
I saw it coming
And
then it was right there;
in touching distance.
The
could've been
would've been
should've been
But
she faded
like a photograph
left to curl in the sun
The moment passed...
and then
she was gone
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 11:34 PM UTC
You're welcoming the future with open arms
As you shrink from your own reflection.
Lost in creating that Utopian vision
Of the future
Which you think is waiting to walk up to you,
When all you have done
Is to run to the past for solace,
And away from it when you were you realised
You'd bore enough.
Before you soar off on the flight of dreams,
Dreams you're afraid to call your own yet,
Watch where to your thoughts sway
Amidst the sands of time.
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 1:30 PM UTC
They, you and I.
Are?
Interpretations, opinions,
Fears and convictions,
Likes-dislikes,
History and anticipations,
Of life.
All, save the living of it, maybe?
A song heard months back in time
You mused over the major & minor,
I'd pondered over the rhyme.
Each of us
As convinced about its presence.
Winter tastes different in my memory.
Epilogue:
You must choose between
His bespectacled vision
And my retrospective conclusion
But you must know
Which you chose
And why.
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 6:27 PM UTC
*The Sound of delight as the truck tyre rolls on the silent gravel
The clamorous sound of a Child torrents, and marks the race to calls heard by the 'siren devil'
Dusty feet running with cries of others who can't afford that red ice drenched in syrup
Ouma stunning, as a child dampens her tunic with red eyes pressed to see them
Hand reaches in my pocket coined with the Old
Man, I'm missing those times with no dockets for stealing a coin from the Old.*
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 2:08 AM UTC