I fret torpidly in my lair;
Your scent is around, but I've seen nobody.
'Tis sordid about me, with rolls of dutiful smoke—
and unleashed winds growling about unseen.
Beside me here stands a perfect mirror, a perfect glass,
But nothing seems imperative, nor talkative, nor patient;
Everything is just silent—what a robust fear—foolish impediment.
Ah, if only can I fast **** this petulant temperament—
do you think I shall feel better, or magnified?
I feel that myself is like a wind:
Thin, fragile, and constantly diving and swelling upwards.
Even my narrative is about to betray me;
Vehemently indeed—should this happen,
I might be able no more to write any poetry—
As my chest above there hysterically bellowed, I shall be pushed upwards—
Upwards, upwards, I am curling upwards—like we all naturally are,
Over the earth, along the oceans, and their sample images of Paradise;
Every single day, at noon, and against this midnight sky.
 
My darling has left, and thus I have but Him in my shabby hands;
With skin marred and scratched and dried by the rude winter;
Ah, say, but who says that winter is clever and polite?
Like my love perhaps is, she is but a relic—or even statue, of blunt disgrace—
She is neither merry nor cordial; she never is aromatic, and flaws us with its brutal haze.
 
I am alone, alone, alone, and totally alone—
O my love, my love, my love, where can I peruse
your felicity just once more?
I have but loved thee all along;
I love thee as magnificently and preciously
as I loved thee one year back and yesterday.
You are my purplish, reddish, greenish, but incompatible moon,
You are comparable still, to the joyous soul of this stained poem;
by whom my love has thrived, by whom I can always replenish.
I shall rise you again within my dreams;
I shall face myself within your sour vapour—but never let you fade.
I shall let you halt my paint, and brush dirt upon it;
I shall let you scatter your grossness over me, and acquire even your sins;
But as long as you are there, over me, I am not scared but keen;
I shall not be mesmerised, nor even heart be broken and pained.
May my heart break, so long as it has its consolation floating by.
 
Ah, and who, beside this breakable moon—can claim my erupt forth;
To comfort my sleep and give solace to my shrieking doors;
And throw unheeded calm into my quiet walkways;
While looking me in the eyes as we step sideways.
Who can ambush my chest along this hairy path;
With a charm far stronger than yon behind the grass;
Who can heal me, and who can heal me not,
Ah, have I but still the courage to make this right?
I shall look for you again amongst the city roars and rumblings;
I shall look for you again in the mornings—and amongst the bleakness of evenings.
 
Look, my love, how the rainbows have a turquoise face today;
So beautifully crafted and charted like the skies of yesterday;
I should fall asleep now, but still—I don't want to be lulled alone without you;
Even though you are faraway, I can still feel your breath and air.
Your absence, as I hope then, shall fast perish;
For I want to grow old not by the countenance of miseries.
I want to be injected into your space now—as maelstroms of sleeps greet me again,
And as the clouds of heaven start to feed on me;
I shall feel light again, and thereby not turn grey;
I shall feel that you have welcomed me back;
I shall feel your breath tingling by the sides of cheeks;
I shall feel my hairs anew—as they raise against the corners of my neck.
 
And there we shall play together against the sky;
Against its pedal who anew blooms in wan suspicion;
Ah, my love, I shall entangle you then—in my varied, and multiplied visions;
I shall tell you the funniest of one thousand lies.
I shall give you only the finest of kisses, and jokes;
I shall startle you by my poem and my beautiful black locks.
Ah, thee, to you whom I have written this poem, and shall always do;
To you whom I have loved, and have to this day admired;
To you for whom a forest of grace and salutations has been dreamed;
To you for whom my heartbeat grows, and fastens and slows,
To you for whom I woke up today, and open my eyes tomorrow;
 
To you whom I have loved in the name of Him;
To you for whom I lit the glitters of the sky;
To you for whom my heart was startled and passed justly by;
To you for whom my palms sweated and eyes started to cry;
 
To you for whom griefs disperse into brighter saturations;
To you for whom life continues, and gives birth to more immediate sparkles;
To you for whom I have celebrated my soul; and made one true promise;
To you by whom I have halved my heart, and without whom shall never 'come the same anew;
 
To you for whom all favours are spelled, and words dedicated;
To you for whose grins I shall wait again forever;
To you whose eyes are darker than the midnight river;
To you by whom my belief shall stay strong, and consciously devoted;
 
Ah, you, my love, so this remorse shall fall over me and back again,
With creases I curse, and remarks that my ruined chest censures;
Abhorred by the moon, and its very own celestial abode—
Which shakes and stretches along the crimson universe,
I have thrown my life into your horizontal, and longitudinal spectrums—
In both superficial and artificial ways, you have haunted me.
Ah, but still—cannot I erase your name from the fruit of every essentiality;
You are the sweet tyranny of my soul, and the leaves of my very gay sensibility;
You are the throne of my love; you are the specified satire—
though but funny and not—you are my destiny.
 
Like a vinyl birch tree that howls when stabbed, I have become your prey;
I shall wait for you at dawn and give my whole self to you at dusk.
I shall wait for you to claim my destined—and prescribed heart;
I shall wait for you to finish your abominable task,
As long as you can emerge for me—and listen to my poems and follow what I say.
 
And like a scar that stays for long in one's fair skin;
You are stubborn though things not go well;
Ah, let's now confess that your heart needs me;
But still—you are too proud, and far too docile, to admit your sin.
The question now is: how should we ever eradicate love?
Love is a prison, I know, and it is the most unforgiving jail;
It is merciless and painted by colours of abomination;
And nothing in it is plentiful—like Him in the shivering sky;
It is where tears crowd and gather—as I have perused;
It is where insolence and crudeness unite—even when not provoked.
 
Ah, my love, but have I fallen into this snare of love—whether or not I want it;
And your gaze is still the sole sweetness I hope to meet;
Never is my love sweeter—or petite, than a grain of wheat;
You are the foreverness for whom I shall sweat;
 
And in the loss of you lies my venomous assassination;
And I am wary now—and afraid of facing this everlasting trepidation;
Your shadows shall never go away, and for this I can be wronged;
For when I am dying—shall my mouth be falling asleep and recite your song.
 
My art has torn; it has been filthily murdered.
Its fervour was lost in, as you saw, just one wave of scenic mortality—
But still, the true essence might still be there, as it was once fertilised—
As by you, my Imagist, my Wilde, I was terrifically astonished by you.
You are my painting, my picture, and even the shared portrait of my self.
You share my veins, as how I supposedly hold some share of your blood.
Ah, and I remember now, how your warm blood did once touch my wrists—
So engagingly, so thrillingly, so brilliantly.
My heart, my head, my mind—all were brutally consumed by thee.
 
I want to die by thee, but you pierced my heart—
and in brief, made my spine grow dead tears;
Everything grew worse and I was manifested into your bitter triangle;
I was your lonesome moon who got forgotten soon;
Ah, it seems that yon French lady is better than I am—
With her curly hair and tittering oceanic eyes,
She was the filter of your noons, the storms
And devilish desires of your nights.
She was as gusty and spooky as the windblown thorn;
poisonous were her words, but still, you carried yourself to her.
I fretted and screamed and my blood gurgled—
but I guess I was fortunate still;
for I had the chance to keep myself pure and chaste
while you unstoppably sinned and defiled yourself.
So you were disgraced.
 
And you were enduringly consumed by your own fires;
The fires to which you confined yourself;
Not the calming, sooting, leafy bonfires we use in winter;
but ones you will also greet in the earth after.
Ah, thee, I felt but disgust towards your molested heart and deeds;
You grew for yourself, instead good ones—sick, avoidable seeds.
At that time, I swore to never ever share any more of my blood with you;
I would looked for one more honest, playful; one decorated with more virtues.
 
But still—as I said before,
I have again decided to sit and pray for you.
While my love for the other is not true;
It has faded and you are irreplaceable still;
You are congested, invalid, and not new;
But should you come back again to me;
I shall receive you with open hands
And one seal of heartfelt goodwill.
Ah, my love, look at the smiling heavens above—
As night deepens and snowfalls come low,
I shall think and think again about our postponed love—
Which, perhaps—though happens not amongst the jumble of this juvenile night,
Shall come again when dusk is cleared, and the first bud of spring leaps into sight.

In some crazy way
like  being loved
Poetry  gives me
Strength and
Motivation
at times it’s
all I  have
It’s where
I escaped
It’s Where I
feel right at home  
my happy
state of mind
Where I take
my mental
Essence to
a higher plateau
Where words
becomes Arts
Never ceased
to amazed
Let the ink
dance  with
my mind  
Tango enlightenment
Impossible to avoid
ink splattered
all over
my thoughts
It’s like swimming
In the  Black Sea
with full consent
into a black hole
Impossible to
let go
Orientation put
me into a dazed
But not for long
anticipating
memory fades
Ruined  expressions
like mind on fire
seeking for the  river
Put words together
analyzed all
the dance strides
my ink had taken
Scrutinized  
what It all means
and make sense
      of it all
Nevertheless
keep my insanity
Is The duel
being  fought
Enduringly
into the abyss of
The poetic  mind

Then I was sealed, and like the wintering tree
I stood me locked upon a summer core;
Living, had died a death, and asked no more.
And I lived then, but as enduringly,
And my heart beat, but only as to be.
Ill weathers well, hail, gust and cold I bore,
I held my life as hid, at root, in store:
Thus I lived then, till this air breathed on me.
Till this kind air breathed kindness everywhere,
There where my times had left me I would stay.
Then I was staunch, I knew nor yes nor no;
But now the wishful leaves have thronged the air.
My every leaf leans forth upon the day;
Alas, kind element! which comes to go.

for a beverage i find so conventionally unattractive,
your whole milk movements
make my insides cream in the way that elicits a sleepy,
satisfied smile from your furrow.

see, that's a joke that might make you smile.
enduringly grateful for a companionship
overrun by giggles in such variance.

you see, my darling, you are such a unique
You i am eager to reconsider the habits of my I.

loving you has fallen into my lap much like
a sticky, nap-seeking toddler,
and all i want to do is wipe sweet cranberry juice from your cheeks.

let me work the expectations and necessities
from your bones in the hum of my bedroom.
jersey knit and dust and candles.
you never mind my mess in the same way I cannot
mind the delectable tang of your sweat,
and i know how you like to taste mine.
all the ways one person should love another: simply and humanely
are strung between your fingertips.
let me untie you.
you write me on graph paper,
crooked teeth and vivid nightmares scrawled
between the rigid blue hue.
you write me in cursive, poorly, and i am shivering
imagining the ways your l's loop between the squares.

since our convergence, i drink less.
no inhalants burning my lungs, less meat on my plate.
cosmetics sit and gather dust because
really, who has time for such things and
i just might be bursting with the tender way
your lips brush against my cheeks. such a
warmth.

i despise to give you any credit, my love,
but assurance in my person only grows
by your guidance, patience and example.
nauseating, perhaps.
but luck has graced me, and i am oh so very sure
i will never forget the shape of my face between your hands
because truly, and quietly, i am learning.
that's all i can ask.

your hands are always on my neck,
cradling my cranium like a moonstone,
instinctively sometimes, like your brain
hasn't quite caught up with the fingers rhythmically
kneading the tender flesh like my muscles are a problem
that your hands already know how to solve.

my head is held surprisingly high next to you,
you unorthodox preponderance,
and for the first time i am deeply touched by how
little a Them can scratch the surface of such a
transcendent and radiant Us.

you are fluent in languages i am sure
i will never wrap my fingers around,
yet every phrase slipping out
between your swollen lips
seems just for me.

we make love like music and i would sing so softly
to the hush and grunt and ache of your body when it meets mine.
your rhythm is so nice beside my melody
and i want to keep hearing all your renditions.

i am only a little bit ashamed of how these words sing for you,
a collection of vowels in a way i find distasteful.
a language that is simple,
begs no extensive vocabulary and simile to express
how tender your eyes are, like my favorite moon,
and that i never get tired of talking to you,
or hydrating you.

i hope you never read this poem, or consider it.
i hope all this brilliance fades upon your departure.
i hope we lose touch.

if not i'll have to face the unbelievably unbearable uncertainty that
your You might be just as good for me as my I you.  

that i might want to be quiet with you,
for long drives and difficult times and
even nights that i don't want to be anyone at all.

that perhaps you hope for the same.

that we just might be the same kind.

“Legacies come and go,
Material items are not an  egalitarian legacy,
For they will dissipate and be relinquished,
The Legacy that never will go away,
Are those that in helping another person?
Help that makes him or her continue,
To fulfill their GOALS in life’s legacy,
Those are the legacies that are afore,
Perennially valiantly present for all times,
These are TRUE Legacies well an enduring”
By Andrew Guzaldo 10/8/2018 ©

Dear literary journals:

I'm a millennial American male
who came of age in the aughts.
Do you have ANY idea how much
RAP MUSIC I GREW UP ON?!?!?!?!

And now you want me to write some
sort of rhyme devoid, metrically impoverished
modernist dross which is REALLY

just prose that's written in line
and stanza break, in order for you
to publish me? Please do clarify:

HOW THE HELL DO I DO THAT?!?!?!?!

I have SOOOOO much more in common
with Mos Def, Talib Kweli, and MF DOOM
than I do with any of that ridiculous nonsense
that your stuffy Imagist deity Ezra Pound
(who was also an ardent FASCIST, might I add)
churned out page after page. I mean, look

William Carlos Williams:

"I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold"

Now, look at Kweli:

"Yo, I activism, attackin' the system
The Blacks and Latins in prison
Numbers have risen, they're victims lackin' the vision
****, and all they got is rappin' to listen to
I let them know we missin' you, the love is unconditional
Even when the condition is critical, when the livin' is miserable
Your position is pivotal, I ain't bullshittin' you
Now, why would I lie? Just to get by? "

and please explain to me, just exactly how the former
is SUCH a higher form of art than the latter?

It's beginning to seem to me that
The REAL issue here is that rhyme and meter
were co-opted by a group of writers
who evolved
the usage of
said literary devices
to such an advanced degree,
that many of the older styles
paled in comparison, and
ESPECIALLY in terms of technical prowess

It just so happened,
that to the great misfortune of those
brilliant auteurs
they just so happened to be
not only POOR,
but also BLACK,
thereby barring their innovations
from serious consideration
by those in the ivory tower
of so called "HIGH ART"

As if to say:
"Oh, RHYMES?"
You mean those old artifacts
of the outdated formalists, and
favored staples of the lowly rappers?

In a way that as if by magic, makes Williams'
Inane single sentence about eating plums
written in line and stanza break, somehow
better, more enduringly creative, and
of greater importance, than
Kweli's incisive social commentary.

But, you know. I'm always open to being wrong.
Since, I usually am wrong about most things.
But, it seems that every time I pick up a lit journal,
it's the same type of broken narratives, with
the occasional token verse or rhyme
thrown in for good measure.
Maybe I just don't read enough lit journals,

but I can just about GUARANTEE that in 100 years,
people will have a much more distinct memory of Nas's
"Illmatic" than they will Ezra Pound's "Cantos"
And in point of fact, most people with whom I speak these days,
do not even know who Ezra Pound WAS, but they SURE know Kendrick's verses from "Alright"

So what gives, lit journals? It seems obvious at this point
that rappers are now creating the most successful and
widely disseminated forms of oral poetry currently in existence
So why is it that your publications seem so averse to
styles which bear a written resemblance?

Just a touch of
CLASSISM, perhaps?
Or am I just being ignorant?
Paranoid?

If the world is an oyster, you're my luminous pearl
If the world is a stage, you're the Juliet in my enscribed destiny
so as long as the world spins, life's mysteries unfurl,
for forever, evermore, as you bring out the absolute best in me.


If time is an illusion, I'm the cunning illusionist,
If there is no Heaven, your presence proves angels divine,
and your love clothes me; I wear it on my wrist,
a beautiful circle, as I am eternally yours and you become mine.


If the world is a Garden, free of all woes,
you're the one royally red rose,
and I smell your passion,
so cloying and so ****,
through my soul, enduringly perfuming my heart

Void of emotion,
fake smiles ever so slowly become my nature.
Bones to pick, pick and pick away
leaving my wall nothing more than a pile of rubble.
tick
Conflicting thoughts
flicker and flutter searching for a way out.
Anger , hurt and melancholy
merge in the pit of my stomach and out comes anxiety.
tick
Laughter?
Who’s that?
Happiness?
A headstone to mark its existence.
tick
Enduringly awaiting
  the ...
   final ...
                  tick.

Initially when you caught my eye
not ever i deduced it would be the foundation  
The trifling chattels you did,
seems to have hitched  
enduringly with zest
Still can’t accredit it has concluded
and i am situated
heeding  to your best loved hymn
hoping i could fabricate,
but within i know can’t orignate.
The deterioration is
worse than the estimation.  
Carrying  you in the consoled  memories
dear companion here i’ll say goodbye.

crowded markets
empty streets
faded hopes
blissful dreams.

there is one little place
where i belong
at a enduringly beautiful
time like this.

quiet mornings
noisy afternoons
filled with relatives
and long lost friends.

confused rituals
followed through the week
obliviously but with intent
to make it a happy new year.

don't sweep the floor
you'll sweep away the luck
don't wash your hair
or you'll lose the luck.

don't buy new shoes
on the very first week
or you'll be cursed
with many years of tragedy.

bring beautiful flowers
when visiting houses
because it symbolises
growth in life.

open the windows
wide and deep
allow in the wind
and also fortune.

4 word phrases
muttered everywhere
with intent of
receiving many 'ang paus'


"GONG XI FA CHAI
MAN XI YU YI
SAN TAI  KING HONG
DAI GA DAI LEI"

they will shout
as they enter the room
the phrases of happiness
and prosperity

cheery faces
loud voices
anything to stop
the demons inside

early mornings
waiting for relatives
to sit and eat
grandma's breakfast

'zhai' with rice
on the very first day
and porridge with
'lo bak gou' the very next day

reunion dinners
interesting stories
positive enthusiasm
and blessed happiness.

chinese new year
isn't about the money
or the entire year ahead
that would be filled with luck

i finally realized
it is about
being all together
in a crowded room
just for one day.

The silent wind whispers a prayer,
so imagination moves me.
And in stride I creep away;
not wanting to serve the role of a thinker:
not silent, yet really, not quite there.

Not an option to fly freely away,
so in the world of questions and suppositions
the imagination, as itself, enduringly remains.

To speak of the source or the fool
settles as the final question,
for in either case they move as one;
not quite to absolution,
but to that comfort in knowing;
that lie, be it the truth.

Poem, The old wheelbarrow

"She felt forgotten, antiquated, awkward
Ill-fitted, incapable, unsuitable, worthless, barren, meaningless, mediocre, unessential and trivial.
AND A BIG FAT INCONVENIENCE.........

Her capacity for anything and everything dwindling as an over ripened apple loses its juice, any strength drained, sapped, starved and strained each time a new **** began it's desperate life, each flower that bloomed before her, somehow rendered her invisible.

Held together by the rust that life eventually bestows upon us all.
Tyres deflated, wheels that no longer held hunger for new adventures.
Nuts and bolts that had long since argued and permanently fallen out with one another, the rust settled between them enduringly as the woodworm to its dinner.

She was a sorry excuse for a once beautiful, strong and hard working wheelbarrow and she had almost given up................

✨️Ahhhhhhhh, but her wisdom!!!! All those years.......What of that?????✨️

She'd always listened,
absorbed,
but never knowingly spoke of this
What she had yet to learn,
Was that she had housed each tiny living organism.
She'd provided honey for the bees, and in doing so, life for the world.
She hadn't set any world records,
(No)

She hadn't knowingly saved any lives,
(Yes)
but she'd protected,
given out her wisdom freely
and all with so much love.

Absorbed carbon dioxide and fizzed out oxygen.
Given love in abundance and rarely asked for any in return
She had given a safe space for the thoughts, secrets and words of her sapling flowers

She'd been self sufficient, self reliable, independent, indestructible, valuable, knowledgeable, needed, wanted, desired, capable.... Oh. So. Capable.

The rust, the flat tires, the weakness of strength both in body and in mind, is just a part of being the best version that you can be.
To carry on regardless for yourself and for your flowers."

***It's taken me all **** day, but I no longer see a worn out and batteted wheelbarrow.
I see a vessel of immense strength, determination and an abundance of love ❤️

Women are forever tyrants
who are lovers
and wanting to be professionals.
Women are animals
In the Wall Street Jungle,
In the bed
In their minds.
So many things leak out,
my mouth, and lungs leak fear and breath.
Usually I am so controlled
that when all control ceases,
fear drips in, anxiety flames and tears flood.
Where, oh where, did this come from?
The answer I keep stumbling upon,
is simply... self hate, and no confidence.
Someone who seems on the surface:
    Strong, independent, loving
is really an active volcano of doubt beneath.
And how to feel to express that,
but with no remorse, and cursing feed back.
My mind is complete,
     completely untrained.
Running and painting wildly through this life.
With in my is emptiness,
    but deeply I know,
with out me is empty space.
within is mayhem and confusion.
Stored into boxes of odd shapes and sizes,
swirls of color and thoughts swarm here and there
Love for all who are whole and broken fills enduringly.
However my praise and hope is centered and always full.
Messy, lovely, and fearfully I go forth and live.
I don't nor won't fall for all the blame,
I won't rely on the applause.
Then!
Realization strikes recklessly
that even though control is scary,
Really I needed something,
    something grounded and ready to take on the life.

An embrace as no other
A child, rarely demonstrative, but blue, blue eyes of oceanic depth
Most frequently silent, yet the sharpest observer
Secrets internalised, never betrayed
A woman, love cascading
Regret potent
Unaware of life’s unfolding promise
Both yet to reconcile the future with this aching emotion
Child clinging, woman enduringly embracing
Suppressed emotions ease and pure love flows
Hearts fuse, soothing, affirming, eternally bonding
Poignancy so forceful, onlookers stilled
An embrace as no other

I have come a long way from the past
Walking with you, for you, steering life like a mast;

The road was jerky, the travel was bumpy
But I stood stalwart beside you, tolerating all your grumpy;

You challenged my beliefs
you questioned my practices
But I choose to ignore your critique
As I loved you once..to speak;  

But as time passed by and as we aged,
life's hurdles increased
The support that I needed from you dwindled;

Mornings turned in to evenings and days into nights
enduringly waiting to be in your limelight;

My feeling of loneliness only grew with me
My depression and sorrow only aged with me

But without questioning my destiny
I dragged my feet all along, that were bonded by our matrimony;
Without blaming you, my acquainted
I worked hard to keep the life with you untainted

But everything changed with the warmth of the sun that the new hope brought along
Everything changed with the beautiful rainbow that the untimely shower has brought along;

First time in a decade I smiled my cheeks out
First time in a decade my skin glowed a hundred fireflies;
First time in a decade I was wishful for the future
First time in a decade I could see the end of the tunnel brighter;

I questioned myself on the new hope a thousand times
And debated myself as to why this was never felt with you anytime earlier;

I was more torn now than ever
Because my whole life with you seemed like a false endeavour;

But the hope awakened me, the new wind guided me
The showers purged me, the fresh bright rainbows uplifted me;

And
Without me knowing myself, I fell for him
Without me knowing myself, I started liking him;

Believe me when I say it was not an easy decision
trust me when I say I don't recognize myself when I am with you.

But...
Now I chose to ignore the sorrow and set forward on a hopeful mission
Take a step forward and give me a chance to find the purpose of life with new hope.

Please let me  go and leave the sorrow behind
Please let me experience the joy that I forgot that it ever existed
Please unchain me from your *******
Please allow me to dream and let the hope salvage...

"The aches have grown within my body and veins,
I feel my heart pumping enduringly immutably,
Ever with invincible strength returning into my heart,
I continue to write as my heart is still filled with passion,

Destiny nay in my favor everything has diminished,
She cajoled me to maligned covenant of deception,
As the attainment of misery of solitude alights,
I aspire thee nothing more to delineate from,      

Most inculpable I am I feel exacerbated of this adieu,
Memory fulfilling thoughts of her cognizance,
It may be we shall one light reach elated enclaves,
The equal temper of annexed noble hearts,

How many more lonely years am I to meander,
When I will risible that one vivacious love,
I do not know how to love without her,
In end I must learn to live void of her,
I must propagate the silt of the ennui”

“By Andrew Guzaldo © 07/04/2020 Posted HP #193

Forever patient
In and out
Like the breathe of the ocean
On a winters day
Creating an artistic scene
Though perhaps one from a horror

Perhaps like the scenic sunset
Lurking behind the cloud
Stealthily hiding itself
From gaze of passers by
Lost in the endless cycle of
Day and Night
Life and Death
Enduringly present

Tormented eternally by the inner monsters
Never rid of the voices
Perhaps, one can never truly be afraid of the external entities
Perpetually cognizant of the inescapable company within
And yet...

And yet never in control
Unquestionably
Bit by bit taking over
Never surpassable
Never suppressible
Never surmountable
Constantly, patiently
Eternally Yours

you called me to explain
you weren't sure you
wanted to talk through
still I knew enduringly well
you shouldn't stand a change
not yet, not now, or
just not
without a kiss and a house
without some things worth
remembering together for a longer  
time, for which you drew closer
yet I just relentlessly estranged
away, for which you given't me
that much space as we needed
It is never what you want
so much to dream about,
this
better be devastatingly excellent
yet I knew it was the one about
the man I shouldn't have dreamt 
about the example I set years
before then, so it became indeed
confounding to make this decision
myself, unexpected and curiously
misleading to have taken anything
you love away from you whilst 
being part of your own decision,
for which
I’ll never love you as much as I loved you 
then.

Building – an interesting undertaking.
Breathtaking architectural creations like the Sydney Opera House or the enduringly magical Taj Mahal don’t just happen at the snap of one’s fingers.
Such wonders are meticulously wrought brick by brick, chunk by chunk and rung by rung until their glorious completed form.
Exhilarating and meaningful romantic entanglements don’t just happen on that oft first fumbling and awkward first date.
If there are sparks, these will need time and maturity to fly in full riotous glory.
Yes, building – an interesting, ages-old undertaking.

The END.

Formed his own style
Fighting and for living
Philosophy through seeking
Answers expressed through feeling

A great Philosopher
Who said be water
Using no way as way
Having no limitation as limitation
The slogan from his self exploration

Greatest Martial Artist
Of all time
Founded Jeet kune do
Never lost a fight
In exhibitions showed his might
The One inch punch
An example of his uniqueness
Could close your eyelids for you
Non telegraphic movements help him do

Bridge between various cultures
East and West both he nurtured
Oneness of human beings
Was the core of his teaching

Made Martial Arts global
Single handedly due to his mettle
Spread it far and wide
In it took a lot of pride

Many roles he played
Integrity in all displayed
Nothing ever half baked
In every aspect carved his name

Acted in movies
As a newborn till his late teens
Twenty films in 2 decades
The  camera loved his face
A child artist before evolving into a martial artist

Was a celebrated dancer
Cha cha dancing Champion
Of Hongkong in 1957
Showcased his phenomenon

Statues across continents
As a sign of peace and contentment
All cultures embrace him
For he was simply him

Learnt from the Grandmaster
Who thought him everything he had to offer
Went with an empty cup
Filled it up with all he could


Ip man his teacher
Wing Chun practitioner
5 years his tutor
The Master's Master

Worlds fittest man
Another jewel on his crown
Worlds quickest man
No more place in his crown

Shined as a lead actor
Was also a fine script writer
Trendsetting fight choreographed
Sensible Movie Producer
And performed duties as a director

Died at age 32
Completed all that he was sent to do
Led life as an example
His life was his message

Many facets in a person
A very rare occurrence
Defenitely the chosen
Cannot measure his contribution

100 most influential
People of the century
Time Magazine's list
He naturally fit

An inspiration to many
Worshipped by as many
Day to day life made easy
If you follow his philosophy

Enduringly popular people
Includes gods and religious heads
Finds a place besides
In every heart he resides

Child actor in the movies
Something I never got to be
Number of   films 20
Happy that I could just see
Part of gang wars
Get beaten till the body hit the floor
Was too timid that I looked for the door
Learning Martial Arts to counter the attacker
Was not even an option for me to consider

Learnt  Foshan Wing Chun
I was keen on only having fun
With an aim to master
Something I never could gather
From IP Man the grandmaster
Didn't know of him till the 4 part movie released 4 decades later
Studied with integrity and hours didn't matter
Lacked the discipline life was in tatters

Enrolled to study philosophy
I lacked the basic curiosity
Started teaching his art
I didn't know anything to impart
Fell in love and married
I got married and divoced

Worked as a stuntman
Farthest from that I remained
Acting in television and doing karate exhibitions
Couple of things in life I never came in contact

Back to Hong Kong
To revive a film career gone wrong
I didn't know right from wrong
Was just floating along
Became a global icon
I'm still figuring out mobile phone icons

Born a seeker
Created his own method
Fighting and realising
Looking for a mentor
I was a day dreamer

Martial Artist Actor Philosopher
Stunt Coordinator Director Writer
Producer Teacher and Father
I am none of the above
Except that am his keen follower

Died at 32
In the hearts forever
5 th most enduringly popular of all time
Nothing more to conquer
I am 52 and alive
I'm the 4th most popular in a house
Where there are 5
Still trying to get that drive
Following nade me feel
Its ok just to be

Jeet Kune do s founder and master
Jeet Kune do s follower and learner
I am not Bruce Lee
But am trying to be