Trek Back

In the summer the bamboo groves remain cool
They await the lonely wanderers
Who crawl or limp in
Having long lost their way elsewhere
They await the the odd coincidence
When two solitaires meet in a single deck
Strolling along the same tired old track
Attempting to find without having to search

The scholars and artists sit by
Penning disciplined hypotheses and
Fantastical descriptions of beauty they are not
And will not and cannot see
Because they picture the lights of the day only
Smeared onto their canvas and paper
In only the pre-manufactured commercial pigments
Everybody can find anywhere else.
They will never know what we - yes, we -
Have seen and will see
In our memories, in our dreams
To remember

In the summer there are only hearts
To forgive and forget.

Track

The cement turned to quicksand beneath her nimble feet.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
One step forward. Another. Stop.
Stuck. Can't move; can't move: just one more step.
Breathe in. Out.
Dodge around - no use, keep running... Stop!
Breathe. In-out.
Come on. Voices ringing, echoing in dark, spiraling voids.
Just another basement floor push-up, right?

Flight: Fiction Fifty-Five

Fiction 55 had a topic a while back, a theme called Flight.

It's long over but here goes nothing:

It was a graveyard for spoilt makeup, torn net leggings and hastily ripped packaging. Boarders got the barest inch of space in their final resting place, and occasional neighbors always intruded, displacing comrades, with hot, sweaty skin, before the landlord evicted his most recent pretty little butterfly. They left in teary flutters of their wings.

Was it You?

I gave you a bouquet for Christmas
Grew each bloom by myself
Here in this old garden
Even when the snows came
And froze the ground
I carried the tears off your cheek
Planted them as seeds
Sprinkled a little dedication and foreplay
Propped up their heavy buds
And wrinkled leaves
Watched the petals disentangle
Till a knot formed in my throat

And they say that the thread of friendship
Can be mended when broken
But there'll always be that extra knot
The little bit of sensitivity
That builds itself up to a trauma
Deep within your eyes and
The quivering of your hardwood lips

You rejected my present on Christmas morning
Shut the door in my face
So I stared at goofy Santa on your wreath
Finding no humor in his sadistically cheerful grin
You came back put to hand me a rose
Picked, sieved from the blooms
I'm sorry to say
I only felt the thorns

So where does that put us?
I will never know when to call you
Whether I'm even authorized now that
It's not official anymore
Where does that leave us?
Lying somewhere between lost and found
No mutiny of the broken
Just a dead love of a token
Not much more than the empty boxes
Hiding beneath mangled wrapping papers
In the shadow of your Christmas tree

I was mistaken.
I apologize while I long for an apology
Apologize while I wait for forgiveness
I was mistaken.

It seems
There was never an 'us' to leave carelessly around
Stolen treasured memories from
Under the great pine tree

The Long Way Home

Loss stirs a heartache
I finally reach home, past
Evanescent storms

How Many Times

I want to be the one to tell you it's alright, it's okay, when you wake up screaming in the middle of the night and you're drenched in cold sweat but more importantly drowning in old memories of the black and white that lived long ago. Those days are extinct now but your recounts of them live on despairingly despite your continued efforts to forget. I pity that you suffer now from the atrocities of other people, other men under orders from their superiors up there in ivory towers who see nothing but what they themselves receive because long ago they realized how easy it was to fool. I want to be the one to stroke your midnight black hair back from your face and rub your back soothingly as if you were a child again because even if I spend the rest of my days with you it seems it wouldn't be enough not being there for you. And I know it seems strange but I wish your skeptical nature would accept and believe just this once to let me love you. I know you've been hurt before and all that other shit everybody uses as lame excuses to avoid commitment. I know that you don't lie until you want to conceal and not to deceive but please conceive of the idea that some people do still have happy ever afters. I can say this despite having been knocked to the ground and having shattered; having loved and lost: but all that matters now is you and me, and us. And I want to let you know that in terms of math, I've never passed exam when I'm still clinging on to the idea that you and I added together should equal one since we are the same, inside. I want to touch you and melt the wall of ice you've built around yourself because I understand you only erected it to see who would be brave enough to knock it down. Does it scare you that despite your valiant efforts I know so much about you? It scares me to know that there is still more to you, that I have barely even scraped the surface in all my actions and words. So upon my farewell I hereby bequeath to you all that I have and all I have given to let you know:
I want you and I love you.

Viva la Vida.

Human Error

I envy and pity you the ties that bind you, that may very well break you. I am glad and sorry that you aren't aware of the danger posed to yourself by allowing someone this close to you. I wonder at the ease with which you whip out your phone or allow your picture to be taken because that's leaving a memory behind in permanent inky pixels. I hobble along behind your laughter, face turned to the ground and smiling to it instead for the scene I see before me. Your gazes have summed each other up then elaborated again, a stretch-release-stretch-release-stretch motion allowing maximum knowledge of the other. You joke around like this is a competition about who's the best comedian, and then you ask me to join in.
I gaze so deep into the distance you assume I am looking away; you let it go instinctively and safe again I pray: it's alright, it's okay - ask me about tomorrow? I'm only here today.

Clear

ephemeral clouds
darken my old backyard view
then leave, defeated

Angels

angels cup their mouths
giggling uncontrollably
at human antics

frivolous creatures,
they give, and they take away
little memories

and they yet crouch down
faces hidden, in a kind
of bruising darkness

For What It's Worth

There was an expert watchmaker whose son was about to get married. To help with wedding preparations, he asked his boss for an extended period off work. Of course, his boss, reluctant to let his best watchmaker go for so long, requested that he make just one last watch before he left. The watchmaker agreed but it was obvious right from the start that even though his body was there, his mind sure wasn't. Sometimes when his colleagues called to him to go out for some lunch during their break time he would jump a little as if rudely awakened from a dream, shake his head slightly then blink blearily at them. And the watch that he was making was turning out nothing like the watches he normally produced. The straps weren't as brightly polished, and the tiny bits of machinery that ticked diligently behind the scenes to keep the watch running weren't very well put together at all, at times stopping completely. As he began testing the watch's ergonomics, one could already tell his head was already deeply immersed in seating plans, wedding invite designs and templates, the menu and decorations.
Finally he finished up and brought the watch to his boss. The boss accepted the watch, examined it carefully with his eyepiece and frowned slightly. Then he handed it back to the watchmaker, smiling wryly as he spoke these words:
"Here's your watch back. This was to be my wedding gift to your son."

We carelessly live our lives, stitching together random pieces that may or may not fit properly like a patchwork of random colors and shapes. Sometimes right in that crucial moment we don't give our best. We don't tell ourselves we have to because it doesn't seem worth it at that point. But is anything ever not worth it?

Why don't you go home today and imagine you were that watchmaker. Before you go to sleep tonight tell yourself tomorrow morning you will change from the inside out, not just make an oath you know you will not be able to keep. Tell yourself tomorrow morning that today as I'm fitting every little screw or gear inside I want to make sure it fits just perfectly, just right, so my life runs like clockwork and my heart will always feel more like a muscle and less like a bone because I won't let it harden and I won't let it be broken. Because my life I myself am a single creation, a handmade DIY craft. And maybe that's why those things can cost so much. Because you are worth so much.

Nothing Is For Nothing

my shadow lingers
permanent on your
crisscrossed bedroom walls

A Letter

At the local post office there was a particular staff member whose job was to sort through mail with illegible or invalid addresses. This day he came across an envelope that read, in a black, shaky script: To God. 

He flipped it over and gently slit the letter open. Its contents read:

Dear God,
I am an 83-year-old pensioner. Yesterday my purse containing $100 got stolen and my next social security services check won't be coming till next month. My only two remaining friends will be coming over for a party this weekend. Without that $100, I won't be able to buy any food and throw a decent party for all of us. Please, God, help me. 

Without even finishing his sorting duties, the man began making a round about the post office showing his colleagues the letter he had just read. Each one of them, touched and sympathetic, dug deep into their pockets and came up with a couple of dollars each. Soon the total reached $96 and they mailed it to the old lady.

A few days later, another letter addressed to God came to the man. He called everyone over and they all eagerly crowded round to read over his shoulder. 

The letter was quite simple this time:

Dear God,
Thank you so much for helping me! Because of your generous help, I was able to have a wonderful time with my friends. However, there were $4 missing in your letter back. Must have been those thieving scoundrels at the post office. 

When it's a gift you've been given accept it. Say thank you politely, just like a child. By this time maybe you have a shell of makeup you wear like a mask, one you grew yourself from experience to keep yourself from hurt. When you can anticipate the future, be your prediction right or wrong, where's the point in even getting there in the end?

Titillate

played the strings of my heart like it were a harp
that doesn't make you an angel

All Around

Tell me, because I think I forgot the difference when your name rankled or echoes in my mind.

Did I Get It Right, or You All Wrong?

rainy day call
you changed your number
but didn't tell me

The Old Attic

glances
up from the page
glasses clinging on for dear life
off the cliff of her nose

of course,
miscomprehension
lack of comprehension

of course,
teasing and laughter
that suddenly stops
she couldn't actually remember
the words anymore

of course,
a strange longing to become the
Mother
take her little grown up child
by the hand, nice and
tight and
warm

and drag her through a labyrinth
of the castle in the kingdom
of far away words

Poetry In Motion

these volumes,
these
ancient rhymes
chants and
pastimes

whisper
their words

secrets for everyone to
hear
if they would only
listen

Slow Dance

Have you ever watched kids
On a merry-go-round?
Or listened to the rain
Slapping on the ground?

Ever followed a butterfly' s erratic flight?
Or gazed at the sun into the fading night?

You better slow down.
Don't dance so fast.
Time is short.
The music won't last.

Do you run through each day
On the fly?
When you ask How are you?
Do you hear the reply?

When the day is done
Do you lie in your bed
With the next hundred chores
Running through your head?

You'd better slow down
Don't dance so fast.
Time is short.
The music won't last.

Ever told your child,
We'll do it tomorrow?
And in your haste,
Not see his sorrow?

Ever lost touch,
Let a good friendship die
Cause you never had time
To call and say,'Hi'

You'd better slow down.
Don't dance so fast.
Time is short.
The music won't last.

When you run so fast to get somewhere
You miss half the fun of getting there.
When you worry and hurry through your day,
It is like an unopened gift.....
Thrown away.

Life is not a race.
Do take it slower
Hear the music
Before the song is over.

- someone out there blessed with cancer

Dancer, oh Dancer

ODE to the dancer

your tutu skirt
is swimming
amongst currents and currants
and around my head
and your sashays
and your smiles
are spinning away
and I need you to stop now
because
this has gone on long enough
I need you to stop now
because
you make my world rotate
primary axis
of evolutionary delight
and you make me
feel
yeah you make me
feel
you make me

Moving On, and Past

I squeeze my eyes tight and disciplined, scrunched up like the wrinkles on his face bunching up those times he laughed at party-told, politically incorrect jokes; tight like the buttonholes on his shirt, the one he was wearing when warmth waned, the sky-blue one that reminisced of his next home - a place he always liked to call Heaven.