33

If recollecting were forgetting,
Then I remember not.
And if forgetting, recollecting,
How near I had forgot.
And if to miss, were merry,
And to mourn, were gay,
How very blithe the fingers
That gathered this, Today!

I

In eras weird with old mythology,
As if asleep the fabled country lay:
Her wave-like hills and faerie forests dense,
Her thorny brambles budding curling claws,
And ivy circling all the woodsey way --
The far swan's cry came soft and woke them not.
Forlorn, that selfsame call upon the gates
Did break; those gates of Britain's long-lost keep.
She too slept fast, the weary weathered stones
Of fairest Caerleon. O pulsing stream,
Thou vein of life in woods a-slumber, Usk!
Alone are you in knowing castle's face,
From years of timeless burbling at her feet.
What tales are told by water over stone?
What lark or wren can sing of sadness come?
Aye, answers are the beach-wet sand, yet hark!
Rejoicings spilled, proud hails, from Caerleon:
They cheered the ****-frost's melting with the Spring;
The holy Gwyl Fair y Canhwyllau
Had come at last, in foliage of dawn.

Within, their goblets sailed, wassailed, and crashed
Like growling Jove, their boasts and toasts like wine --
They drank it spiced and over-strong. Indeed,
Some stretched exaggerations: 'twas Sir Bors,
That spotless sheet, who tried to contradict.
He quoted purifying texts and spurned
The wine that nature raised and crafted sweet.
Yet "Loosen up!" uproared the host to him.
"The time has come to celebrate," said Kay,
Beloved knight, step-brother to the King,
"Aloft thy wine, below thy gills! Drink! Laugh!
Your stomach is a falsehood-spewing fool,
It must be drowned for you to feel a lord.
I speak a sooth, you need wine's fleeting bliss!
Know thee that man's tomorrows bleed him dry:
A wade through death and depths as sure as pain
That shall tomorrow light your brow. Laugh! Drink!"
Bold cheering spread with Kay's advice, though yet
To no surprise Bors turned aside the drink,
Unblemished bore, so celebrates alone.
Weep not for him, for soon he'll find a cup
More suited to his strange of chaste and grace.
And none to waste: his share was drunk by all.

Engaged in feast Owain ap Urien,
Engaged in tale now Bedwyr and Kay,
And Lancelot made eyes at Gwenevere.
It was a feast of great success and joy
As fitting of the season's robust gleam,
Yet two there were with shallow-rooted smiles.
Prince Mordred one, though ever-somber he:
Accursed spawn with bone in place of heart
And dreaded incantations for his blood;
His brooding perched like crow on him. Alas:
The other joy-bled man had beard aflame,
A bear-skin drape, and crystal eyes, the Lord
He was of Caerleon and Mordred both.
'Twas not the gleam in lover's gaze that vexed
Though it was seen; he had no heart in him
To chain his Queen as if in dungeon steel,
For Arthur lived believing to be fair
Was paramount, to even paramour.
It wreaked its toll, yet caused small grief this day.
Not even serpent son gave cause to mourn
That greater was than missing nephew's spot
Among the feast. His chair was naked bare
Returned though he should be from faerie quest.
At Calan Gaeaf they expected him
When winter storms had racked their shoddy hall,
Yet since, the months had rolled to Gwyl Fair
The milder season come, but not his kin.
The image of his maiméd corpse did taunt
And haunt the agéd mind of Arthur, King,
His phantom nephew slain anon by knight
That of no flesh was made. In year that died
This green-mailed knight arrived a guest and called
Infernal challenge. Trick it seemed to them
And trick it was, for subsequent the blow,
This seaweed knight did lift his severed head
And from dead lips he cried "Well struck! Now come,
Fulfill me of my game. The year to come
Shall see thee in my home, and as agreed
My turn 'twil be to answer with my axe."

So rapt in recollecting, Arthur missed
The growing clamor that beset his hall.
His ******* cleared the grief from him with taunt,
To bring him into grief. "What say thee, Dad,"
Dripped venom from his mouth, "No love for us?
Your hail we called, but disapprove your eyes.
Methinks that far away thou seest a dream
That visits oft the elderly: a place
Thou knewst when in thy prime, with love
Now filled to burst. Yet fear us not, away!
To land of youth far more beloved than we
Whose happiness with thine own heart is twined."
"My fellow, soft!" the King began, distressed,
Yet Lancelot rose to his feet and spake
"Blackguard is he who mocks our Lord to face!
Thou palest hide, thou Mordred, sit thee down!
This sniveling craven knight should be replaced."
A sounding of the table met his speech,
Again was hailed his toast, and Arthur glad,
Though burdened to his breaking point, and sad.

"Blackguard is he who mocks our Lord to face,"
Had spake his bravest champion and friend
With no regard to Blackguard wrapped in stealth.
See how his roughspun fingers coil in hers
And how some sweetened whisper 'scapes her lips?
The beams of color-stainéd light slip down
To play upon their blissful sin almost
As if King Arthur's King approved on high.
Sovereignty is ruthless, Arthur thought,
Well-wishings of my God grow ever-faint.
I must believe in good though I am ill,
Just as I find my countrymen displeased
Though I did calculate my every breath
To see that it did stand with God's own will
To help my common people from their murk.
I fear I am not what I wished to be,
And now my only solace peaceful death.
If up to me, I'd wish it in my bed.

What horn's blare? Hark! King Arthur roused from thought.
Court gatekeeper Glewlwyd Gafaelfawr,
Dressed plain in brown, took down the horn from lips
And loud as elk called to the hall "Have cheer!
Sirs, drink another beer and wreath your brow
With springtime blooms, for lost knight fair is found!"
Old Arthur trusted not his feeble ears,
But came a hush and Lancelot confirmed:
"What **," he boomed, "our brother has returned!
'Tis grey Gawaine, aye, Gwalchmai! Drink his hail!"
The uproar was enourmous: "Gwalchmai! Cheers!"
Was like to wake the sleeping wilderness
That hung suspended in the myth and mist.

II

Astonishment had come like breaking wave
Upon the thirsty sands of monarch's face
So long consigned to reap the low-tide's grief.
When Arthur's ursine hand clenched round his cup
And hailed his nephew's presence with a roar
Long lost to hibernation's hoary spell,
The hearts that beat in armor under him
Did swell to find their lord with cheer at last;
The toast they drank so hearty as to give
Sweet Dionysus pause against excess.
Though only two there were who did not drink,
And one of these were Bors, a sadness fell
Once more as tangible as any wrong
That chose to haunt a hall. 'Twas Gwalchmai grey,
The conqueror now home from quest to rest
Who would not lift his eyes to meet the King's.

"Has cheer so fled from you? Your life remains!
What black has inked you in?" the King did ask,
And silence overtook the hall to hear.
How strongly then did Gwalchmai wish to leave,
To blend once more his form to root or branch
Or soaring river. Wind, the songbird's muse,
Had been his fast companion on the road,
For known to him were many things. He was,
They say, some god that stalked the minds of man
In young enchanted places of the world
Though all his magic helped him not at court:
His shyness was a leaf obscured by rain.
Yet even gods of silence know to speak
When words of pain encircle heavy hearts.
He let them fly, birds in the sky, he said
"I failed. My quest was long and arduous,
The seasons changed while I in heather lost,
The moon its phases shed as fen-frogs called,
I floated through the endless cloying mist
That flows, a ghostly sea wrapped round our isle.
The path had nearly drowned me when I found
The chapel green enough to spell my doom.
When entered I, methought "It cannot be!"
So kind and courteous a host met me
That would have been disgrace to call him green.
He feasted me, and warmed my wounded bones,
Yet I betrayed him in the end; I failed.
I stayed his guest, and friend, and swore to him
That for his hospitality I'd share
Each thing I won while underneath his roof.
And all was well -- I'd rest, he'd hunt -- until
His wife played hearts with me. I did refuse,
But by her final trick was tempted and --
So lost all knightly honor and renoun.
Her lusts I spurned three times, but on the third
She offered me that which my heart desired,
Instead of love she begged me take her boon:
A silken girdle sewn with charms, and green,
Deceit I should have seen. She said the spells
Would keep me safe from harm and spare my life...
When on my rugged journey all I'd feared
Was twisting face of death that loomed so near.
I could not help myself, it seemed so tame,
Yet when the time had come I could not share
That gift, or else expose the husband's wife.
Beneath my armor tied when left that place,
My secret wore me down upon the bog.
It seemed the mist grew thicker, wind grew swift,
I now know under spell was I, but then
It seemed some vengence coming to a head.
My tale grows long, and past the point am I.
The Green Knight and my host were one in fraud:
An airy insect's dream. His "wife," a witch,
Had formed him out of acrid moorland soil:
Homunculus to carry out her scheme.
The blow he owed me carried little force,
Though still this scratch is plain upon my nape.
And so you see my folly plain as oak:
For though I kept the life I feared to lose
My lie grows in me like a cancer bloom
That in the span of time shall **** me sure.
I failed; I'm gone; to revelry return."
The silence, vast again, gripped all the knights
And king too dry to cry, who drowned his heart.

III

"Is there some madness come to roost herein?
Thy folly is ridiculous," said Kay.
"I valued mine own life past honor's flame,
A sin of selfishness, and blame, and wrong.
What of the world, if all would act as such?"
A weeping noise he made, but choked it back
And turned to leave in shame, and might have done
Had not the stout Sir Kay gripped Gwalchmai's arm.
He raised it in the air and shouted thus:
"Percieve our stunning champion stands nigh!
Though of a frail ennobled heart, we know
Thou art absolved. This trinket given free
To aid in quest I wager was for thee.
And as for sacred broken vows, this man --
You said yourself -- was conjured from a bug.
You owe him no alleigance Gwalchmai, sit!
This serious you need to be for wine:
Come sit with brothers now! We drink to thee!"
"Dispel the failure all you can, it stays
As weighty on my brain. It was a sign
To signify the kind of soul I am,
To me it showed my grimy ills and plain
Did tell my shaping, shape, and shape-to-be."
King Arthur to this nephew spake: "My child,
Is there no antidote to questing's woes?
What has become of jousts and silver swords?"
The anguish in the old man's eyes so keen
To those who knew him. Gwalchmai did reply
"Your majesty, there's not a grief can ****
My bird-like love of questing through the trees,
For only questing can redeem my shape."
"Then let us have this quest!" cried Kay beside
Him at the table, deep in drink he swore.
"Come with me, brother-knight, to clear thy mood!
You do you wrong blaspheming at yourself."
The wine was quaffed by Gwalchmai, yet he said
"I first shall stay, I need to rest my ills."
"Your ills are that which keep you ill, good knight.
I bid you come and we shall quest as birds
Who savor springtime berries in the mist."
"I shall not go, I seek my quietude."
"In sunlight you and I must bask. Comply,
Or else I challenge you by burnished blade."
All eyes on Gwalchmai, under pressure cracked
Into a grin and downed his kykeon.
"In stubborness persisting, Kay, you've won,
A river such as I could not keep stead
Against a boulder. When shall we away?
When come the summer blossoms, fair and red?
Or else not til the saps have lost their leaves?
Departure yours to choose, my brother-knight."
Kay beat upon the table and their ears
When called triumphantly "This very day,
This very hour! To help those who need aid
On holy days shall surely fix your heart.
No time to wallow in the swamp that's gone,
We now away, to break our swords with day!"
"You mock me or you heard me not, Sir Kay,
I wish not to away, I wish to rest!"
The fairest Guenevere, like silver bells,
Chimed in "You must forgive your heart's despair,
Or emanations of its guilt will plague
Your mind. I have a lunar garden if
You wish to sit in soothing calm and think."
"My queen is holy," Gwalchmai spoke in grace,
But Kay had cut him off with "Hear her not!
She will ensorce your mind to not explore,
To sit and think and mold with lunacy;
Beneath the sun we'll tred. It's known on quests
I favor Bedwyr, 'tis true, yet you
My fairest Gwalchmai, keep your wits -- and arms --
Two things in need of we shall be.
I mean you no offense, dear Bedwyr,
But I and Gwalchmai share a severed soul
And shall succeed; two sides of selfsame coin.
So come my cousin grey, to right our wrongs
We must away, to break our swords and say
'My heart is glad I did not stay at home!'
Consume your drink! We go," he trumpet-called.
Thus Gwalchmai was convinced, and so was forced
To nod politely to his Queen and stand,
Declaring to the court "I shall away,
This gloomy mood is dried beneath the sun
Though dearly do I wish some lunar grace
To lose myself in mysteries anew.
To bear this flesh is weighty, yet I've found
The strain to be rewarding in its way.
Think nothing of my former woes, they've passed
Like summer storm or wisp of misty cloud."
The hall at large did drink his hail, and then
Did thrice more drink for quest to which they went.
And Mordred scowled and drank the foulest wine
For his monsoon and fog would last his life.

So summoned then Glewlwyd Gafaelfawr
To hearken unto birds, as was his gift.
He said to all, "I shall now call my friends
And see what worthy tales of quests they bring!"
"There may be naught on Gwyl Fair," said Bors,
"A holy day, all wove with peace. Nor Gods
Nor men would stir their strife this day of days."
"We all shall see," the gatekeeper replied.
Beside his King upon the dais came
And played a serenade upon his horn
That rang throughout the keep and lands beyond.
A time did pass with no response recieved --
Slain silent was the raptness of the court --
But then through open pain in stainéd glass
A thrush did bob and weave in melody,
On finger of the Queen he briefly perched
Before he flit away upon the air.
His song so sweet, but then - what fright! No more!
A hawk had entered, just the same, and swooped,
And now the thrush was silent in his claws.
The cabinet of augers all took note
And sketched their calculations into books,
Though none, in this, more wise than Gafaelfawr
To whom the hawk said "Hail, you man of rank
Who speaks the tongue of wing-in-air. Now hark!
'Twas not in hunger slew this thrush, but fear
That what I have to tell might go unheard.
My family, we roost near Cornwall's sea
And late, the noises off the coast grew strange
As if some evil kraken raged at love.
My chicks; my wife and I; we're simple hawks.
We eat and some of us are eaten, yet
Beware the thing that slouched from out the waves.
His shape is something like a boar, but huge,
He dwarfs his kin, and hill, and oak,
This hall is large, yet he'd be stuck inside.
He does not eat what he has killed, instead
He smears the bloodied flesh on stones and trees,
What man could face a fear that bears this face?
If you could hear the rutting squeals he makes!
I swear this sooth by wind and waving plumes:
You men who craft with metal, hark!
Destroy the beast!" And then he flew away
Still calling after him "Destroy the beast!"

The court at large had heard the warbling hawk
But did not know the tongue, so only watched
Glewlwyd's unease upon his face
Until with stiff and rasping voice relayed
The content of the predatory news.
Unease began to show among the knights,
For many there recalled a beast so shaped
And all the blood and guile he took to drown
The first time. Arthur, grim, forbade Sir Kay
And Gwalchmai face these perils by themselves,
But recommended regiment of steel
To bolster ranks against the fearsome boar.
"I know this foe from days of old," he said,
His years of rule etched rough across his face,
"And so do most of you, though many gone
And this monstrosity not even slain."
But Gwalchmai said "'Twas hard indeed to win
Those relics that he bore. Remember I
That Trwyth was the name he chose, and we
Shall best him fair. Though not for trinkets now,
But with the zeal of mother guarding young:
This foe, Twrch Trwyth shall not raze the land
Nor wage a war against some peaceful ilk
While rounded table can beco

Recollecting the past
Can cause brief and subtle emotions
It can cause hardships to arise
There are also victories and surprise

Recollecting the past
Brings you back to present
Helps you respect what you have
And gives hope for what's left to explore

21

We lose—because we win—
Gamblers—recollecting which
Toss their dice again!

Unreality: Thanksgiving Miami Style

It is 70 degrees, afternoon,
sunny Miami winter style.
Nike shorts, flip flops,
polo shirt white,
music, pandora, and
no place he
needs to be.

the collected works and
worries, left behind,
the boy, and he is taking
it to the limit,
wanting a day of no cares,
one more time.

yet, recollecting, writing
impertent, dissatisfied,
no reason, none that I can
irrationally explain.

previous night,
my eyes have
seen the
second-coming.

everybody smiles
happy, looking fit,
tight black dresses
the law of the land.
food flows like wine,
wine flows like water.

lose track of the numbers,
glasses of Cortese di Gavi,
cold and white refilled
in the Miami heat,
exactly, how old am I,
and where
my eyes should
not be staring,
bodies intended
to maim,
after they
**** you.

it is a long-short tale,
how it came to be,
that I am living thanksgiving
in the unreality of Miami style.

was supposed be at the
head of the table carving,
giving secret tastes to
numerous grandchildren,
multiple dogs,
defrosting after the
Macy's Day Parade.
my children, their
kith and kin.
that was supposed to be
my New York reality,
at the head of the table.

divorce, monkey wrench,
I am in a different state,
a different table, a
welcome bystander,
but her love,
my love,
has brought me,
to unseasonal places,
higher and higher,
where I am welcomed
as her man.

not a bad unreality,
but still someone has torn
off a piece of me,
a tasty combo of
sad and guilt,
that I ******* up,
which is why this
writing is my re-righting
the ship of perspective.

maybe I am dreaming
of what was never,
could have been,
should of been,
kidding myself, with an idyll,
the unreality of an idol,
though I vague recollect,
there were meals like that.

think this is my fourth trip here,
sort of, almost a tradition.
BobbyDylan, he reminds
what that woman,
done for me,
been doing to me.

"I was in another lifetime
one of toil and blood,
when blackness was a virtue
and the road was full of mud
I came in from the wilderness
a creature void of form.

"Come in" she said
"I'll give you shelter
from the storm".

so she did,
a new reality born.
so semi-sad poem, but
happy thanks to give,
for this day,
new family
embracing, and I am
recollecting,
read somewhere,
you cannot be thankful
for having,
only for giving.

Thanksgiving

Not
Thanks-having
Thanks-receiving

New Reality: Thanksgiving Miami Style.

966

All forgot for recollecting
Just a paltry One—
All forsook, for just a Stranger’s
New Accompanying—

Grace of Wealth, and Grace of Station
Less accounted than
An unknown Esteem possessing—
Estimate—Who can—

Home effaced—Her faces dwindled—
Nature—altered small—
Sun—if shone—or Storm—if shattered—
Overlooked I all—

Dropped—my fate—a timid Pebble—
In thy bolder Sea—
Prove—me—Sweet—if I regret it—
Prove Myself—of Thee—

I fell for that basic human endeavor,
To find me a place where I made sense,
Living that sleepless dream of unreal desire,
Listening for songs where I belong,
On this tiny speck adrift in space I call home,
Quantifying the distances and spaces between us,
Past the horizon from me in all directions,
I found a way around the earth that led me back to you,
When I looked at you I was thinking, if only,
Then you looked into me and your eyes acknowledged,
I pointed to that future,
I said, let us get to us,
You said to wake me from my dream,
Indulging with me was a variability involving risk you were not willing to take,
For memory of a confused yes,
With lack of pictures with stories,
An unnamed story of yours, entangled with mine,
You became that forgotten part of my life that I can’t stop recollecting,
So I do what I did promise,
Till death, I will live my life.

I Am Waiting**

I am waiting for my case to come up  
and I am waiting
for a rebirth of wonder
and I am waiting for someone
to really discover America
and wail
and I am waiting  
for the discovery
of a new symbolic western frontier  
and I am waiting  
for the American Eagle
to really spread its wings
and straighten up and fly right
and I am waiting
for the Age of Anxiety
to drop dead
and I am waiting
for the war to be fought
which will make the world safe
for anarchy
and I am waiting
for the final withering away
of all governments
and I am perpetually awaiting
a rebirth of wonder

I am waiting for the Second Coming  
and I am waiting
for a religious revival
to sweep thru the state of Arizona  
and I am waiting
for the Grapes of Wrath to be stored  
and I am waiting
for them to prove
that God is really American
and I am waiting
to see God on television
piped onto church altars
if only they can find  
the right channel  
to tune in on
and I am waiting
for the Last Supper to be served again
with a strange new appetizer
and I am perpetually awaiting
a rebirth of wonder

I am waiting for my number to be called
and I am waiting
for the Salvation Army to take over
and I am waiting
for the meek to be blessed
and inherit the earth  
without taxes
and I am waiting
for forests and animals
to reclaim the earth as theirs
and I am waiting
for a way to be devised
to destroy all nationalisms
without killing anybody
and I am waiting
for linnets and planets to fall like rain
and I am waiting for lovers and weepers
to lie down together again
in a new rebirth of wonder

I am waiting for the Great Divide to be crossed  
and I am anxiously waiting
for the secret of eternal life to be discovered  
by an obscure general practitioner
and I am waiting
for the storms of life
to be over
and I am waiting
to set sail for happiness
and I am waiting
for a reconstructed Mayflower
to reach America
with its picture story and tv rights
sold in advance to the natives
and I am waiting
for the lost music to sound again
in the Lost Continent
in a new rebirth of wonder

I am waiting for the day
that maketh all things clear
and I am awaiting retribution
for what America did  
to Tom Sawyer  
and I am waiting
for Alice in Wonderland
to retransmit to me
her total dream of innocence
and I am waiting
for Childe Roland to come
to the final darkest tower
and I am waiting  
for Aphrodite
to grow live arms
at a final disarmament conference
in a new rebirth of wonder

I am waiting
to get some intimations
of immortality
by recollecting my early childhood
and I am waiting
for the green mornings to come again  
youth’s dumb green fields come back again
and I am waiting
for some strains of unpremeditated art
to shake my typewriter
and I am waiting to write
the great indelible poem
and I am waiting
for the last long careless rapture
and I am perpetually waiting
for the fleeing lovers on the Grecian Urn  
to catch each other up at last
and embrace
and I am awaiting  
perpetually and forever
a renaissance of wonder

It was made of cement and lime,
And expected no praise or any rhyme.
It was placed in the park,
Amidst few trees and growing leaves.

He used to come on every twenty seventh,
On dot from 6 to 8 in this heaven.
He was punctual even in rain,
Determined to reach the bench in pain.

It was the bench who was the witness,
The only witness after God’s inference.
It is the bench who can answer,
The repeated questions he used to repeat.

He was so soft on that hard seat,
And waited for that long meet.
He used to be quite in his thoughts,
Recollecting the moments just passed.

He could speak only to his soul,
Sometimes to the bench in whole.
He cried inner in and outer out,
On that bench his heart out.

No matter what, he was always there,
Be it rain, a fever, omen happening,
Infected, dejected or rejected signing.
He was there , yes he was there on the bench.

The bench wished to speak,
For it could bare no more weight,
The weight of his heavy heart,
And his cry for the constant try.

He was told by many for its of no use,
To wait for the gone and the wrong.
But he was adamant to protect his chaste love,
And to defend his chaste vow.

After a year and after lockdown,
Now the bench is empty,
With no weight of him,
Nor the wait of her.

The bench seems to be happy for knowing,
That he has learned lessons from his love.
Though the bench could never speak,
Yet he always heard the voice beneath.

He no longer waits on the bench,
Nor has any tears to shed.
But he misses the bench,
More than her and less than her love.

Dedicated to the bench in that waiting park.

Thala Abhimanyu Kumar

Dated: 27/06/2020

How I feel for you is like trying to remember your dreams or recollecting where you left your phone,
Because I don't know where it started from,
Just like how I don't remember the exact moment when my head hits my pillow for the first time,
Or when I took my first phone call or replied to the first text that came through.
I can't retrace my steps to where it all began.
Because it was so slow,
And I don't ever intend to recognise the position I am in at 2:36am while trying to get some beauty sleep or the angle of my phone on the coffee table next to a tea stained coaster,
Just like how I didn't intend to realise the beauty of your face, the outline of your jaw or the mannerism of your voice as you say my name for the first time,
And how I feel for you is like a tonne of ******* bricks,
Because I can't even breathe when you're around,
And one by one each brick of insecurities that I have collapses onto me because I can't hold myself up to push away the bricks,
And say how I feel and it's concrete, set in stone that I am not for you.
I don't think that by finding my phone I can figure you out
Or buy myself some time to remove the aspect of sleeping from my life
So I never have to dream again just to live in the only constant of reality
In order to realise that I am naive and young and free minded but I am the world if I want to be.
Tell me, if I remember my dreams like I remember the solar system or the quadratic formula does that make me unworthy?
Because only astronomers can recall the solar system in a flash and only mathematicians use the quadratic formula day by day,
But we are not all astronomers or mathematicians but I know that one plus one equals two, me and you
And I know that as long as there are stars in the sky that you are important to me.
So believe me,
That when I say I need you I need you to need me too,
To need me in the sense that I probably can live without you but the fact of the matter is I don't want to
Because that wouldn't be as far as interesting as the two of us being crazy at 3am by throwing cookie dough at the wall.
Not to need me in the sense that I need you to be next to me every minute of every single ******* day
Because you don't.
You just need someone,
Someone to care or not to care but someone, anyone because then you won't feel even as half as alone as you did the night before
And I know you did as we all did but I want you to want me as in you want me to ride Saw with you at Thorpe Park
And I want you to want to walk me to the bus stop not because it's on your route home.
I can't remember where I've been
Or the dream that I had last night
Or where I left my phone,
But I know that I've been to the moon and back thinking about you
I know that last night's dream was about you stomping on a spider
I know that I put my phone on the breakfast bar of the kitchen.
I know fractions.
I will never know the full story to anything besides from my own stories and histories
Just like dreams and places I've been and where my phone has gone
I know fractions of you like how one third of the time you are sleeping
Three times out of eight you are at the bookies
Half the time you are on my mind.
The next time you remember your dream back to back and recite it like a subtitled drama,
Or the next time you find your phone once you realise you left it on the table on your morning train,
I hope that you recognise that nobody loves like that or lives like that in a constant perfection
I hope you realise how some people don't want to remember their dreams when they wake up because not all of them are good ones,
That sometimes it's best to leave our phones where they are to disconnect from a world of social media for a couple of hours
That maybe it's okay to not remember wherever we wish because bad things might have happened at those points in our pasts
And that's how I fell for you, in little bits.

898

How happy I was if I could forget
To remember how sad I am
Would be an easy adversity
But the recollecting of Bloom

Keeps making November difficult
Till I who was almost bold
Lose my way like a little Child
And perish of the cold.

Kashmir  

Known but uncertain.
A macabre aura in her lush green valley
Swirls along the lanes and the by lanes,
Humming the death songs, and
Mocking the mother's lullaby;
Inundates the spring of love
Reeling under the gales of remorse !

I- Pulwama

Pulsating pain,
Unbeknown to the servants of chair,
Leaches out the marrow of tolerance,
Wobbles the calmness of quiet sea,
And reduces the sane to stupors;
Mayhem clouds the canvas of peace
And ruins the crop of pride!

II- Shopian

Singing the songs of hope, but-
Hearth of ignominy blazes its zenith
Over the apple-bough bedecked contours.
Perforated is every bud that dares to live
In the middle of the 'dance of death'
Akin to the blind devastating tornado,
Nay, a fair of cherishing right to cease life!

III- Kulgam

Kind enough to lit the candle of austerity,
Unknown but to decipher abysmal cause of
Long lacuna in a journey called life;
Gog and Magog they name them
Arraying the apostles of deceit;
Machiavellianism it is, do they know!

IV- Anantnag

Amplified agony of terrorized souls
Nibble at the crumbs of shattered dreams
Along the periphery of devastated 'Lal-Chowk';
Nomadic but still the images find abode
Tethered with mournful sand of 'Sangam',
Nay, undulating terrain stands it firm
All denizens are but a reflection of
Galeanthropy!

V- Srinagar

Schizophrenic- An epithet
Round the clock they wear;
Illusionary clouds all around
Neap the momentum of ship
And strangulate everything in a fit of despair
Gushing out the marrow of patience
And leaving behind infertile soil
Regretting what it had?!

VI- Budgam

Beseeching to blossoms of almond-
Unlearn to rely on the artifacts
Destruction with their only aim;
Gabel otherwise bound to pay we are  
Along with the honour and digity,
Mundane- a certificate to be killed?!

VII- Bandipora

Beside the 'Wular Lake'
Antiquarian lot with over burdened brows-
Nothing to do but recollecting the days:
'Demons when were worshipped, and
Idols of falsity followed';
Pine high dreams kissing the ground
Over and above that can be documented;
Rolling is the agonising arid pain
Aching all the wasteland of wounds!

VIII- Ganderbal

Gloss of undulating terrain
Anguish in the paroxysms of swindle
Notches of which still bleed
Darkness of dark demegogues;
Eating up of the grey matter follows
Relying on the spoon feed, and
Blackout of the nursery of the intellect
Among the denizens,
Lost in sighs and sobs!

IX- Baramullah

Black and blue still explicit over
Amicable land of dreamers-
Roasted they are from decades;
Along the banks of Jhelum
Mutilated memories are hung
Under the hovering black clouds-
'Lost for words' is the expression,
Living souls visiting this garrison;
Alas! Caught we are between the deep sea and the devil
Heros we need in a land of sheepskin prophets!



X- Kupwara

'Kiss of death' is for the democracy
Unabsolved case of 'Kunun Poshpora';
Pacified unmarked mass graves
Welcome you to the countryside
Amidst the loaves of corpse, and
Roar of egos
Asking the citizens to prove their identity!

Dear Madam Sabrina,

The lonely beach shores, I walk
Tossing seashells of affection in remebrance of you
A pursued love interest that is overwhelm
Overflowed by tears I attempted to hold back
Slithering ghostly as we never embrace
A tender kiss, ponders across the bay
Given a mysterious essence
We are lost
In an oceanview desire
Recollecting inner thoughts about another
A woman I found,but an achor
Abreast from you
Rejection is a raging wave that conquerors
My ability to forget you
A stranger to calm sea
Can float away
From peaceful shores
Of love

Yours truly,
A man without dignity

The ******'s Lesson

They sought it with thimbles, they sought it with care;
They pursued it with forks and hope;
They threatened its life with a railway-share;
They charmed it with smiles and soap.

Then the Butcher contrived an ingenious plan
For making a separate sally;
And fixed on a spot unfrequented by man,
A dismal and desolate valley.

But the very same plan to the ****** occurred:
It had chosen the very same place:
Yet neither betrayed, by a sign or a word,
The disgust that appeared in his face.

Each thought he was thinking of nothing but "Snark"
And the glorious work of the day;
And each tried to pretend that he did not remark
That the other was going that way.

But the valley grew narrow and narrower still,
And the evening got darker and colder,
Till (merely from nervousness, not from goodwill)
They marched along shoulder to shoulder.

Then a scream, shrill and high, rent the shuddering sky,
And they knew that some danger was near:
The ****** turned pale to the tip of its tail,
And even the Butcher felt queer.

He thought of his childhood, left far far behind--
That blissful and innocent state--
The sound so exactly recalled to his mind
A pencil that squeaks on a slate!

"'Tis the voice of the Jubjub!" he suddenly cried.
(This man, that they used to call "Dunce.")
"As the Bellman would tell you," he added with pride,
"I have uttered that sentiment once.

"'Tis the note of the Jubjub! Keep count, I entreat;
You will find I have told it you twice.
'Tis the song of the Jubjub! The proof is complete,
If only I've stated it thrice."

The ****** had counted with scrupulous care,
Attending to every word:
But it fairly lost heart, and outgrabe in despair,
When the third repetition occurred.

It felt that, in spite of all possible pains,
It had somehow contrived to lose count,
And the only thing now was to rack its poor brains
By reckoning up the amount.

"Two added to one--if that could but be done,"
It said, "with one's fingers and thumbs!"
Recollecting with tears how, in earlier years,
It had taken no pains with its sums.

"The thing can be done," said the Butcher, "I think.
The thing must be done, I am sure.
The thing shall be done! Bring me paper and ink,
The best there is time to procure."

The ****** brought paper,portfolio, pens,
And ink in unfailing supplies:
While strange creepy creatures came out of their dens,
And watched them with wondering eyes.

So engrossed was the Butcher, he heeded them not,
As he wrote with a pen in each hand,
And explained all the while in a popular style
Which the ****** could well understand.

"Taking Three as the subject to reason about--
A convenient number to state--
We add Seven, and Ten, and then multiply out
By One Thousand diminished by Eight.

"The result we proceed to divide, as you see,
By Nine Hundred and Ninety Two:
Then subtract Seventeen, and the answer must be
Exactly and perfectly true.

"The method employed I would gladly explain,
While I have it so clear in my head,
If I had but the time and you had but the brain--
But much yet remains to be said.

"In one moment I've seen what has hitherto been
Enveloped in absolute mystery,
And without extra charge I will give you at large
A Lesson in Natural History."

In his genial way he proceeded to say
(Forgetting all laws of propriety,
And that giving instruction, without introduction,
Would have caused quite a thrill in Society),

"As to temper the Jubjub's a desperate bird,
Since it lives in perpetual passion:
Its taste in costume is entirely absurd--
It is ages ahead of the fashion:

"But it knows any friend it has met once before:
It never will look at a bride:
And in charity-meetings it stands at the door,
And collects--though it does not subscribe.

" Its flavor when cooked is more exquisite far
Than mutton, or oysters, or eggs:
(Some think it keeps best in an ivory jar,
And some, in mahogany kegs)

"You boil it in sawdust: you salt it in glue:
You condense it with locusts and tape:
Still keeping one principal object in view--
To preserve its symmetrical shape."

The Butcher would gladly have talked till next day,
But he felt that the lesson must end,
And he wept with delight in attempting to say
He considered the ****** his friend.

While the ****** confessed, with affectionate looks
More eloquent even than tears,
It had learned in ten minutes far more than all books
Would have taught it in seventy years.

They returned hand-in-hand, and the Bellman, unmanned
(For a moment) with noble emotion,
Said "This amply repays all the wearisome days
We have spent on the billowy ocean!"

Such friends, as the ****** and Butcher became,
Have seldom if ever been known;
In winter or summer, 'twas always the same--
You could never meet either alone.

And when quarrels arose--as one frequently finds
Quarrels will, spite of every endeavor--
The song of the Jubjub recurred to their minds,
And cemented their friendship for ever!

An answer is seldom as long as the day,
vaguer than a whistle stop
we gathered pace
recalling that question
we thought as clever,
those fledgling time lags
have since prolonged
the prodigal quest.

"Do you want to talk about it?"
You ask, seeing my impassive face.
It's been a while, and though I could
Remembering feels out of place.
Recollecting just makes it hurt.
Forming the words again is hard-
They're overused; now they sound curt.
In too many I've confided
To too many people I've told
All my sorry, deep, dark 'secrets'
Some warmed me when I was too cold.
I wish I could say more to you,
Explain why it's not escaping
Sometimes it's nice to not talk,
Than to break what I'm now shaping.

The woman of power, of the final hour,
Stood upon the gaping edge of death,
Savoring her final due breath,
Recollecting her spent time, as the demons beneath, did climb.

The woman, once unknown, many must atone,
With a simple display, she tore the lights that held the night at bay,
For nothing as powerful as she, should anyone but agree,
Resting upon her belt, the stars forever dwelt.

The woman, demur of the end, a challenge to death, she had penned,
A game, we shall partake, with eternal lives at stake,
For if I do not wish to die, your purpose, you must defy,
With a stolen piece, her years did increase.

The woman of blackened markings, her mind of ever-workings,
Stood tall upon her mare, chased with twisting white hair,
Upon her belt, rested pouched treasures, glittering fondly with pleasure,
For her company never to shake, as her pale eyes did forever take.

She was the woman of Cree, far beyond The Black Ink Sea,
The taker of stars, leaving naught but empty scars,
She was the winning player of Death's Game, her rewards, to gain,
With the twisting marks of power, deep to the pit, she did glower.

For nothing of its sort,
Shall ever hold her short,
From any a task within her aim,
A woman such as I, victory shall I claim.

And with that thought dancing across her mind,
She leapt, and left the mortal world behind.

.but i wasn't obviously going to go far down this "worrisome" route for too long, maybe like ten minutes... i had to think of something relaxing to do... i looked in the mirror: ****! the wild-man of Essex! beard, shaggy, the neck barely visible... hair like Mozart composing, or as the Poles say: hair like a wkuriony Chopin (******* Chopin)... ****... better do something about it... ah... there's only one thing that can lighten my mood and this whole, tirade... a visit to the local traditional Turkish barbers... so i ****** off... in went the wild-man of Essex... out came well-groomed human being, not a sign of his werewolf past to be seen on him... ah... this is the 4th time, proper, that i visited the barbers (prior to? long hair... after? a shaved head like a Buddhist monk)... god... just sitting there with closed eyes... i'm starting to think that going to the barbers is better than ***.

i was never into blocking someone,
esp. if someone is liking your stuff,
but it happened to me with
that poetess on here,
       i wanted to know how it feels,
to just randomly block someone
who really enjoys your stuff...
             and then... ****! gone, never
to be seen again...
   Wattpad is basically a fascistic website
to boot this thread of thought...
who the hell gets booted off a platform
for starting a cordial conversation?
- but i really did wake up with
a moral hangover...
   excuses?
             irritability...
           there's just a certain level of
conversation i can take,
                              i can't get the pedant
out of me... i really can't...
i tried and i tried,
  notably because when speaking
to natives, i see them lazily doing this
or that, while i come with an acquisitive
perspective, hence the furthered
acquisitive impetus to further this
acquired language... while the natives
are like: blah... it has been given to them
from birth...
     and conversations,
after having completed a...
    well for me it was an exhausting poem,
the desire to finish it before off
the rails with the bourbon instigated
a thirst, matched with irritability...
               ****, i hope i can unblock the guy
and apologize...
spare of the moment thing...
            well... if i can't...
i know what it feels like:
           not being on the receiving end...
so... that's one plus from all of this.

p.s. that sort of direct messaging language,
aged... 40?
             how can i talk to someone
who's older than me, on that level...
(looks up his profile page)...
huh?
             so i didn't block him?

Dennis Willis's profile is not
visible because they have blocked you.

and i still have the block option
handy...

mind you... i didn't wake up today
recollecting some pretty
   trippy *******).

. and today's prime concern of the day? i can't access the recipe site for Australia's master-chef... maybe it's Australia, and their restrictions, or it's the ******* E.U... but... come to mind... last year i could access Eliza's triple-fried tamarind chicken... my god! they're going after restricting access to food recipes!

could i ever think any woman as being, "ugly",
neglected, yes,
  but... "ugly"?

              please...

  all manner of things become beautiful
around the mandible zenith upon
the grinding wheel of the big           O...

nothing quiet like deathly screaming
in the hollow of the night,
but some drunkard loser -
    speaking in tongues and recollecting
a myth of a patriarch
akin to Abraham...

'it's just the moon, you ****-face!'
   'yeah, and my grandmother sees
a Herr Tvardovsky in it from
time to time, riding a ******* cockerel!'

which equates to a banality of
two things (well, three):
  1. she shouldn't have been given
opiates during WWII to shut
the **** up, as a baby, so my great-grandparents
could hide in the Polish countryside,
i.e war zone....
2. i shouldn't be drinking and reading
religious text /
listening to Finnish folk songs...
3. about that Hollywood thing...
how movies are getting ******* and
******* by the day...
see... in philosophy there's this point,
not a Hegelian dialectic crap,
a Kantian coordinate,
a starting point,
   zee: res per se...
   a thing in itself...
          blah blah... noumenon...
i hardly think t.v. shows will reach this
level of "self-consciousness"...
i.e. will be making t.v. shows about
making t.v. shows...
English soap opera tide barrier...
but movies have certainly turned
to focus on this, "vantage" point...
the disaster artist for starters...
    birdman?
        eh...
               and like any cascade of falling
down from an airplane akin
to the opening image from
    Salman Rushdie's the satanic verse...
mighty fine looking up
and cackling while flapping your hands
in imitation of a Canadian goose.
ha ha ha... ah... **** never gets old.

Go to sleep
pretend to sleep
stare at a wall and call it sleep
Turn on the ipod
and turn out the light
look at the curtains:
a sliver of night.
The street light's glow
on the week-old ice sheet
looks orange and lurid,
a sun with no heat.
Bang on a pillow
scream at the pillow
wishing for the release of crying in said pillow
Be still
it is late
phantoms glare from the ceiling
demons: memories, sadness, hate.
Close the curtains
and sail away from here
the floorboards are icebergs
on an ocean of fear.
The figures are back
the misery is back
the desire to run very far and very fast
                                                                  is back

Heartfelt confessions
With jovial  eyes
of sincerity
Blossoming affection
With pure and
Delicate  mutuality
It was sunrise.
It started blooming
Like redolent flowers
in springtime.

Sensible to meaningless
Talks in daytime
Secrets unraveled
Under the ineffable beauty
Of the cloudy sky
Unblemished hearts
Had grown to love
As innocent as
The newborn child.

Nearly twilight
Lovers in paradise
Exchanging thoughts
Priceless stories
Hands intertwined
Creating future
Dreams, plans.
Thinking, forever
Is in their hands.

The night of moonless sky
Was the time to bid goodbye
Forever is over now
Castle of promises somehow
Turned ashen gray
Dust and sand
All blinding the eyes
As one heart escaped
And the other remained
All shattered and pulverized

A quiet midnight
Nothing but a silent cry
Resonates the room
Recollecting
Ephemeral  moments
Indelible memories
Both ravaging
The soul and heart
Hopeful for
A kind of dementia
To erase all
The wounds and scars

It's clear dawn now
A curve in the lips
Hiding , enduring
The pang of
boundless ache
Wishful of the
Forthcoming sunrise
To bring about
The celestial fate
A Better tomorrow,
A beautiful aftermath
Of the twisted
Playful life

recollecting collections projecting selections injecting protection infection dejection
dyslexic narcoleptic rejecting dejections ******* complexion complicating interjections
perplexed inspectors intercept pterodactyls relaxing in backpacks extracting disillusion
contortionist philanthropist dejected transgression implementing eradications of moss buying patrons
eclectic perfectionist rests limp-wristed whispering disparaging remarks to the wait staff
trombone percussionist impressed and impoverished gravelling wistfully mimicking Rickles
I sit half disheveled grinding my wisdom teeth feeling the fleeting muse sitting in disbelief –

wake up, feel terrible
for all the right reason
   it is all too easy
          this augmentation
                        this grandeur of emptiness

                                     it is silent

     a car traverses
  another road
humans are out there
alive and breathing and asleep
                                  still asleep
                                  eyes open
                 the humans are just
                          as empty

   in seventeen years
they will be as empty
      in paris
  or new york
  or moscow

their eyes will still speak
  as their mouths curl
and their children cry from
   their cultured gardens
the unfixed faucets dripping
     in their marble slate bathrooms

in the shower
they still wonder
what happened to their lives
          their dreams
and how they'd changed
with every pivotal moment
         they'd passed up
              for comfort
                or a new dream
     conveniently forgetting the rest

   they'll think back
to the faces of lovers
they lost to the road
   or to chance
     or to themselves
       and cry
           in the shower

            if they haven't
     forgotten how to

               recollecting
         how once
       long ago
   in a dream
       they had learnt
dreams don't mean anything.

I remember when it first started.

You kept the Wild Turkey under the sink, and I'm sure you knew I'd see it. You left all the time. "It's Date Night, we'll be back soon." you'd say, the case of beer already slurring the quiet words you spit at me.

And so I nodded, and turned away, and you walked out the door with your trophy girl connected to your waist. and I like to tell myself she was a much better woman than Mom will ever be.

It would usually be about 12 then, who knows where a couple needs to go at midnight. but I did not care. as long as you were gone.

I would slide the glass door open and step onto the porch, letting the air chill me to the bone. I savored the shaking and chills that the twenty degree air gave me. It was much better than the shivers I got hearing you take hundreds of pulls from hundreds of bottles.

When I walk back inside, your absence reminds me of when you would first disappear. I remember how it started then, too. First the bars, but you got bored of that real fast. So you locked yourself in the basement with a new bottle every night. Then the hospital bed.

But now, in the new apartment, you were perfectly fine with pretending none of that ever happened. but I knew that Jack and I, your only children, were just disgusting reminders of the life you tried to build with an insane woman.

And so I'd reach for the Wild Turkey, chasing away the thought of you, the sickness, the percosets, the new girlfriend, and the new feeling I'd just discovered. The worthless feeling that once I walked into the room, I was not wanted. I was now a burden.

And I've stayed a burden ever since then.

Wild Turkey and cheap white wine ran through my veins for the first time that winter. since then, we are best friends. I remember the first nights I would lose myself, invite my real "friends" over too, just in case.

They laughed, but I was drowning.

That's all I can use to describe it now. The Drowning. it is simply that. an inescapable emptiness and weight that pulls you into what you might call Hell.

But at first, I was completely happy with it. you, her, him...none of you were on my mind. only the flow of sweet music or the begging calls of lovely sleep.

And then, things changed.

The drinking became a need and not a release. I would do anything to feel the fuzz and the effect it gave me. I would drink most of the bottle and desperately fill it with water, hoping you wouldn't notice. (Did you? you never said a word.)

Wild Turkey, Cheap Red Wine, ****** White Wine, and bottles with labels I don't dare to read are my only friends now.

In two years time, the once lovely drag the ethanol gave me turns into nights filled with heavy rain, chain smoking, and puking all over my friends floor without recollecting a single moment.

Waking up in other people's clothes and feeling my body stay drained becomes a strange reality, and I wonder how things may have been different if I never touched the heavy bottles in the first place.

I am sixteen, and I feel as if I've lived a thousand years. and maybe the scariest thing is knowing that eventually I will have access to any bottle on the shelves.

And I don't know if I'll be able to resist grabbing every single one.

I have been recollecting our shards
Shattered glass of incandescent past
And I do not care if it cuts
My porcelain hands do not feel
For you have drained my blood
I have nothing left to bleed
But somehow I'm glad that
If you are reading this by any chance
Know that I didn't love you just once
From the first meeting until the last
And all the days in between
My love will stay unthawed
Frozen and locked here



-Petrified Heart, Margaret Austin Go

Are "things I'll always remember"
same as "things I shall never forget"?
what's the difference, or matter,
to each and the same
I haven't forgotten them yet.

I recall with vivid intensity
the taste of salt on your skin
through the membrane of years
and the veil of distance
such thoughts are absolved of their sin.

I shall never forget, nor abstain from
recollecting the shape you once made
as you moved through my world
in effortless sweetness
and next to me quietly laid.

I shall never forget hearing my name said
by your fathomless, deepening tone
but, I shall always remember
an embrace that felt something like home.

I remember the weight of your kisses
roses burdened with raindrops, and then
a release of all meaningful reason
****, I wish I could kiss you again.

Recollecting the recent years past.
After the unwritten fulfilled;
I still believe that I was a phoenix.
Even then.

Perhaps one not filled with imperishable flame,
For some beautiful creatures have greeted darkness,
Darkness that haunts the capable slain,
Into a horror far from bliss.

I know this figure was far from divine bliss,
For when eyes gazed upon the dusky feathers from years past,
The blackened twilight feathers were difficult to dismiss,
A clustered reminder of what these wings flew from, fast.

Though of late, those tufts of feathers have begun to transform.
Molting away this figure, marred with memories scarred,
Unveiling inner embers with lavish crimson and gold flame; a reform.
But why stop with wisps of the past merely charred?

For the time has now arrived to greet gracious death with a destructive goodbye,
An opportunity for this phoenix to endure a radiant rebirth,
Now, time is nigh;
For this phoenix to rise from the ashes of her own self worth.

Copyright March 3, 2013.

The air is warmer
at the river’s edge.

The insects cloud
around your head,

and the white cottage,
the one your wife’s
father built by hand,

seems to be burning
in the afternoon sun.

The hammock strung
between two dogwood
trees twists in the wind.

There should be no shame
in recollecting the songs
she sang when the children

were young and unpredictable,
how they splashed in shallow
water, catching minnows.

Why not close your eyes
and imagine you hear her
calling from the other side?

The slap of a fish jumping
is like a palm to your cheek.

Out there, in the middle of it all,
silver scales flash in clear water—

a contorted shadow swims below,
hooked to impossible brightness.

Exploring hands encounter no defence;
Recollecting endeavours drives her to a dry pain
Throbbing, throbbing
Hamlet's hamartia discards her to *the lowest of the dead

His vanity requires no response;
Her life on the line and he's got nothing to lose.
  So much more the eye can see
Caressing, caressing

Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass;
  Leave me, carbuncle:
Words she has never been able to utter . . .
Loudly, she thinks it
It doesn't translate
Shivering, quivering

Brittle monster bestows one final patronising kiss
  I must exercise some form of self control

Hardly aware of her departed lover,
She lays in a yellow blanket;
Phosphenes in the emerging light of day.

living off
of apologies and time
spent in desperation
recollecting and reflecting
on where
all of the good vibes went
then
I may have smoked them.

underestimating my
control
of the situation
like I'm not
educated in protecting
my Peace
and healing my whole
mind, body
and Spirit

deflecting questions of
my integrity
all
because I prefer
complexity -
it takes me
three lefts
to make it right.

also some
times
I have to remind
myself
that it's okay
to cry
boiling hot emotions
got this little black kettle
singing high

currently
I'm choking
on the
hard pill
of a broken home
..heartache
worse than a broken bone
this is admitting to myself
that
I could be traumatized.
True.

I need a
get away
like Lenny says
quick break
with Mary, Garcia
and Vega
the only chance I ever get
to take flight.

in all Honesty
I am really
tired
of people
pushing me
and pulling me.
college drop-outs
they think
they schooling me
they are
tools to me.
Shorty,
swing my way
with that hammer
No
I'm not
driving for that *****.

some say real
Love is
Black
some say it's
blue..
I say it's both
you know
the winners
always leave with
a little
bruise .
or two . .
or3 . . .

there probably may come
a time of day
where
you have to choose
whether
to lose
yourself
in this matrix
or
to fight
by your own rules
and well

Here

is to you,
my Little Light
your presence is proof
that some
times
choosing
True
Love is
the right thing to do.

I stare into the picture frame of life one year ago and I cannot see any truth in what once was, and what now is. The contents of the frame perpetually baffle me as I sense his frozen eyes seeping into my skin and devouring my soul. The naivety I once possessed is long gone along with the nightly tears and daily concerns. All I can think about is my last words to him, "Good. Get some sleep." Is that what people call closure? His heart no longer lingers inside mine, but it does haunt me every now and then. My scarce amount of trust was dumped into his intangible arms without a second thought. Many would find discontent in my scuffling around the past when all is already said and done, but I cannot help my mind from wandering off to the promises he made, the pain I endured, and the lessons I never learned. Trust, became distrust with him. Yet I always made excuses for his inexcusable behavior, and the words he daggered me with. I'm slowly recollecting all of the mistakes I made in falling in love with an disembodied, pain-stricken young man who could only be there in spirit. It was almost as if I loved a ghost. And what exactly brings me to recount every lost promise and every fallen out wish? His ubiquitous presence in my thoughts, the anger he provokes in my emotions. He's still hurting me and he isn't even here to see it, or care. He's moved on to his next victim, most likely telling her everything he told me and the girl before me. He does not tend to vary in his confessions of love. He'll stay on the phone with her all night and tell her that she's the most beautiful, amazing, best girlfriend ever. He will tell her that he cannot live without her, for she is the star in his black sky (yes he told me that). When will they learn that distance is the greatest weakness, not strength? When will he learn to leave the girls alone and be alone as he deserves to be? So stubborn he was. I am not sure what exactly I am searching for with this. Maybe I can't accept the "closure" I thought I had. I do not care what he is doing now, though I feel most of it is out of spite for me leaving him. One million questions lay beside me at night, cramming my brain with endless possibilities, but no concrete answers to ever satisfy my seemingly fixated mind. I am not bitter, nor am I jealous. I do not miss him and I do not miss us. As I stare into the picture frame of one year ago, I'm remorsefully regretted by the decisions I made with him. I will never obtain the answers I desire, but as the tears envelop my cheeks, I wish for all of the memories to flake off of the scrapbook and into oblivion, as if they never existed.

With shaking hands and an unsure pen, she writes her definition of "I'm fine" as syllables in lines, repeated rhymes, with titles.
Someday when somebody finally asked her, "If that's what fine is, what is broken?"
She said, "Broken is the laughter at jokes that all your friends think are hilarious but you don't quite understand what's funny. Broken is dressing for November in the middle of June because you're afraid someone will see that you're not as perfect as everybody thinks. Broken is the brightest smile."
Despite the deluge of encouragement from a loving fiancé, the mirror still screams "ugly" when she looks at it. Her wrists whisper things like, "give up" and "you're not strong enough." She tells herself not to entertain these thoughts like guests in a welcoming home, because if she does, they might stay.

Well, she did. And so they did.

Like an overwhelming wave, a tsunami of pain. It crashed into her like the faltering smile that stung straight to the core. A selfish menace craving more and more. She couldn't quite place her finger on the map to point out where she had gone wrong but she knew she must have because the nights were so long; oh, how cold and unforgiving they were. She was alone. And lonely she felt. When the searing heartache became too much to bear, still she screamed but of course, no one was around to hear her. So she traced her paths with unsteady fingertips, recollecting the familiarity of stolen kisses from chapped lips.

She's tried to forget.

But closed eyes can't disguise the disgust she feels at the memory of her thighs under your palms. I was the puppet in your theatrical games, taking orders. Enter stage right, the light descending as I feel I might fall. I am not your doll. Pink cheeks of blush the shade of the roses you crushed in your selfish, malicious hands. I won't memorize your demands, highlighting them and reading them to myself over and
over
and over

again.

Center stage, I clear my throat to speak my monologue.

My eyes graze the script I carefully printed on paper with as many wrinkles and rips that you left on my heart the night you told me I wasn't good enough. I counted the times you've said that you couldn't love and it took a long time to decifer that what you really meant, was that you couldn't love me.

87 times.

87 times I said I was sorry. Maybe I meant it or maybe I was desperate for some kind of sign that I wasn't as worthless as you implied. Maybe I was hopeful that when you said you would leave, you lied. I thought of all the nights I layed awake and cried for you. With so much at stake I risked my dignity to lay down my pride. I braved the storm when I had the option to hide. And although I can't recall who was to blame for that fight, I remember I was the one who said "I love you" and you were the one who took flight.

Left me for dead with two broken wings, singing the words that you said until they became a melody of all the terrible things with a harmony to sugarcoat them and make it sound sweet. They say don't play with fire but I was intrigued by the spark, until the heat burned my soul out and left me cold in the dark. A tragedy not three pages long, now ends on the bitter refrain of the song.

She's tried to forget.

Her jaw creaks as it tightens in remorse. With silence as her monologue; the recoil from the dialogue of two lovers then friends, this story ends in act one scene one.
The beginning, the finale, she exits stage left and you'll see the crowd gasp in awe.
And where there should be an epilogue, the curtains will draw.

-k.d.