Tuesday, October 24, 2017

No More Butterflies

Farcical, this crazy, strange love.
All it takes is a gentle shove.

To rise or fall, in its tempting arms.
To accede or repel its many charms.

But there comes a time in your dream-run,
When autumn leaves dry in the burning sun.

Spring’s over, tall, naked trees loom.
Flowers aren’t much, they bud, they bloom.

When songs lose meaning, they make noise.
The melody’s ripped, from your soulful voice.

I look for what’s lost, I sift and I sieve.
When I know truly well, it’s all make-believe.

Longing no longer gives me the thrill,
Of seeing, of touching, of needing you still.

It matters no more, love’s desire long gone.
No more butterflies, this heart’s moved on.

As much as I detest, I must say for it’s true,
As much as I loved, now I’ve weaned off you.

But why, you ask me, and it leaves me reeling.
Is this what happens when you stop feeling?

Saturday, September 30, 2017

Silent Rain

Like snowflakes descend on lonesome mountains,
Like flowers wither when winter calls,
Like tall stories play in a charade,
It’s in that hush the silent rain falls.

Like a stifled cry of a forlorn heart,
Like the suppressed screams of a lingering brawl,
Like the brimming quiet in the depth of an ocean,
It’s in that hush the silent rain falls.

Like rewound tapes of forgotten memories,
Like the spirited hope to mend broken walls,
Like the edgy first stir of a revolution,
It’s in that hush the silent rain falls.

Like glittering pearls form in dark oyster shells,
Like the last glow of the setting sun enthralls,
Like the mute protest of a rebellious bard,
It’s in that hush the silent rain falls.

Like the impatience of a ticking clock,
Like injustice thrives in sparring court halls,
Like the slow chug of a train at a hopeful station,
It’s in that hush the silent rain falls.

Thursday, August 10, 2017

Fleeting Moments

Passes swerve, a shadow up a mountain.
Snow valleys litter.
Like strewn blobs of paper,
a writer's infinite attempts at free verse.

A mountain trail here
and an eager stream there,
the recluse makes an appearance.

Closeted in hearty laughter of a jocund company,
hidden in mindless banter.
Not anymore.
The mountains engulf. They fill a void. 

But like lonely caves in a forgotten civilization's past,
they create another.
Hollow, but deep.

Rivers move on, like a clock's hands.
They ebb and flow as they please.
Upon meandering paths, up mighty peaks,
down crooked crevasses. 

Tales weave themselves in and out of a distant mind.
Lost, bipolar and ecstatic.
A puppet, stringed in nature's game.

Fleeting moments, like a lightning's streak,
flash and fade. They flow with a river's song,
they rise like a mountain's pride
and fall like a stream's humility.

And then, out there, in the real world,
plains gather dust. Concrete jungles tempt a living.
They are on their own trip.

But that fleeting moment,
is it really over when it ends?


Star Gazer

In their millions, they shine, 
Some gleeful, some whine 

She sits, cross legged, soaking them in. 
The noises in her head, a loud din

Then a shooting star lights up the night.
Those troubled noises fleet, put up a vain fight.

She smiles to herself, wishing upon a star. 
The star smiles back, so near yet so far.

They weave a blanket and sing a sweet song. 
That only she can hear, all night long. 

Why wonder what shapes shimmering stars make?
Why trace back time, for whose sake?

You're a mere speck, in a mammoth universe.
You're an accident, a result of a Big Bang, for better or for worse.

The stars shine today, as they did yesterday,
They will shine on, here, there or away.

She looks down, her neck sprained.
Stars call her back, desires restrained. 

She looks up one last time, she tells them, she misses him. 
The stars shine on: He can see us too, don't be grim.

She smiles, a lonely star gazer.
As twinkling stars chide and chase her.

Coming of Age

Did you know the Japanese have a coming-of-age holiday? So, every year, the second Monday of January is a national holiday to celebrate...