It might take fifty years for the waves
to turn clear glass cloudy white,
unmistakable as platinum blond hair
in photos from 1936 when Grandma Dagmar
looked like Jean Harlow as she discarded
broken milk bottles that I might find
and piece together into a ghost or new moon.
She looked back
Going through her whole life until now
And she found out why songs never sounded the same
Why orchids were her favorite
Why she loved to dance
Why singing made her smile
And why just stopping to breathe helped her recap
Decisions make us even if we don't see it
Moments of inspiration
Laid forgotten, barren with dying sin
Inspiration opening reality,
Reality staring into possibility
possibility morphed into dreams,
Dreams barren, forgotten,
Forgotten moments of inspiration.
There are days where I feel so much,
My heart pounds, my eyes sweat, my knees shake and my memories jog.
They all go back to you,
The feelings double,
I wish I didn't pick rocks over you,
I wish my feelings were stable that day,
I didn't mean to hurt you.
I've been restless
Trying to forget you but you just appear out of no where,
in my memories
Since you've faded from my reality.
I miss you.
it is 6.30pm, the edge of the sun
glimmers beyond the boundary,
taking its last breath before it is
returned to its rightful lover. and
the bystander waits, listens to the
cry of the sunbirds, knowing yet
their time has been lost, past,
it is time to forget. they remember
naught, the outline of your skin, the
glistening voice, an airy shadow
left in the wake of mere fate's hands
nestled upon circumstance; a certain
glory to the act of erasing resides in
the dying glow of the auburn sky.
and it is a new dawn, they say,
rid of all sentimentality. the air quivers.
i have completely erased
your footprints in my room,
replacing them with the ash
that now circulates in this space
i can only call my own. memories,
from the ash of one they arise,
to the ash of another they fall,
the soil is overturned, exposing
the fresh life within old earth.
your scent seeps into my
bloodstream, infusing into sunken-
in memories now remembered in
sepia. its touch clings to my
cold hands, the air-con hums again
at 23 degrees, the bed is ever too
high, the curtains are drawn once more,
alpha & omega
beginnings without
an end
meeting you was a blur of
colour
for i was young then
but it will always come to
an end
my heart will sew itself
up and beat, once more
as the saying goes, "first
loves never last"
for what matters are
the loves you treasure after
you will never read this
but if you ever do,
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…