today i admired the moon once again
on my way home. it was a cloudless night,
just as years ago, the same steps, the
same path, the same old thing. however,
that same luminous glow of the moon was
much gentler, much more loving and soothing
as compared to back then, its light no longer
glaringly icy as if it could cut steel; but it was
as warm as if it could melt the frost around
my heart, encasing me in a past never forgotten,
its unloving grasp pulling me in, sinking in, drowning.
my hands finally unravelling the red threads
binding me to fears, insecurities, delusions, regret,
guilt; as i raise my hand up one last time
and remember,
the same scenery, the same path,
Music can change
My mood
So quickly
Because
I can listen to a song
That's three minutes long
And be affected
By lyrics
Tunes
Melodies
For years
When he drives around Elkins Park in
the dead of night, he thinks, this is how
I like the human race— asleep. When three roads
fork at Myers, he goes down Mill Road.
By the time the car climbs Harrison Ave,
he has the thought that the sleeping human
race is the holy one. He pushes past the old
derelict high school on High School Rd, wonders
if its still haunted. It flashes on him: the day
he broke in, smack in the middle of the Nineties,
with buddies now long dead. He found a hammer,
stole it, never used it— it sat in his closet
until after graduation. He was smashed then, too.
She said
I spoke to you…while
ailing and delirious, and I remember
what I was saying,
but can’t recall hearing
the sound of your voice, nor feeling
an air of your presence – at all, at
the time, except
for a part
of an unfinished sentence, on
an obscure page of a much-unused diary,
where you wrote
that the discovery
of your life
had been
that you were wrong…
A touch has a memory.
A voice trigger old feelings.
Meeting again is like inevitable kiss.
Forgetting is a lie; Ignorance is the bliss.
months have come
and
gone
and
still, her eyes haunt my dreams
her words' breath still lingers against my ears
the ghost of her lips grazing my skin
its been months
and months
and still, my heart breaks at the memory of her
Maybe it's okay...
For certain things to never come back
our mind-sea foggy clear
hides its scaled creatures
twisting turning movies with their
jungle passions ancient times
crusaders’ flaming crosses
pitiless in ‘faith’
as much a part of me as this treed
half-raked lawn
you hide your armies images
wrapped in your bones
sharing that sea
an attic's cast-off
gowns and gestures where
so many loves and knives
lie buried
in this marsh teeming
left: some clothes and letters
chips on dishes memories
her sisters neighbours
who shared recipes chat
memories of her some
like yours
there was a gap between you
you wanted others in
yet that deep work-a-day back-porch
wordless closeness
pulls you to her -
you die too
now she becomes herself
work struggle worry gone
her crisp voice, sense fill
silent shared rooms
my memories hold machines
the wall lighting up as a car
cruised by our house
and i was happy
high up a buzzing plane in the
hot empty blueness motors
sputtering on lakes
the long car journeys to the
city school with car rugs
the big orange busses leaning
around corners or to
the rolling hills
those old ironing machines
for sheets -
are machines romantic
after all? I've wanted them
A ridge of sand dunes barricades the rim
Of the horizon like a gilded bar
To roving sight; a lonely point, the brim
Of earth against the moaning surge. Afar
My glances wander, wistful, ill at ease
From longing to explore those far off seas.
The murmuring tide creeps up before my feet
And leaves a shell or two, a broken spray
Of strange sea growth; then to some chill retreat
In ocean’s depths it slowly ebbs away.
How blithely thought can trail the screaming terns
Beyond the boundaries that the eye discerns!
On the horizon looms that point beside
The pathless main, a prison door to me;
For I would follow on that restless tide
To lands remote beyond a shoreless sea;
When we locked up the house at night,
We always locked the flowers outside
And cut them off from window light.
The time I dreamed the door was tried
And brushed with buttons upon sleeves,
The flowers were out there with the thieves.
Yet nobody molested them!
We did find one nasturtium
Upon the steps with bitten stem.
I may have been to blame for that:
I always thought it must have been
Some flower I played with as I sat
At dusk to watch the moon down early.