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Archive for the ‘Books’ Category

Search me, oh my spirit

at the riptide on my blue veins.

I am at the end of the line

in the deep ocean I lay.

I let the undercurrent shake

my foundations of faith

moored and hidden

a wreckage-

 

beneath the sea weeds

and coral cloisters

beached with visions.

Murkier as mud clouds,

adrift in liquid abyss

disturbed my soul. I

 

an abandoned cast-away.

The once mighty crusader

sailed the troubled waters

has now dropped the anchors.

 

Weighed down, crashed,

beaten and ravaged.

I had forgotten the buoy

afloat in its hope. Angel

caught in the maelstrom

shroud in its mystery

just like a prayer.

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That sober news in between sobs of my mother

fades in wispy notes from the other line.

Finally awaited- the bombs have dropped.

 

I suspect the sunset will turn

into dead stars this evening

while the cold wind languishes

as the last remembrance.

My heart in its faint nervous beat

became cadences of urgency,

free at last from its cages.

 

I begin to imagine throngs of flower wreaths

to a coffin and a flag, draped across its whitened sheen.

I can see forlorn faces, those sincere sad acquaintances

whisper their nice condolences, those sweet anecdotes

about the man and his lifeless body. I imagine

his image in me, my uneasy composure.

 

I fill my lungs with air and heave a sigh of relief.

The burden of many years in denial, disowned

of what has become of a child as this.

 

I forgot. Where I keep and hidden deep

the face of the patriarch of the house

and his kingdom he ruled with an iron fist

that broke many of my unspoken dreams.

I do not know what it will become-

when the news is a bullet that penetrated

like a shrapnel misplaced in empty despair.

 

But no, maybe, I wished for it before.

A king who rules will die eventually

long enough when the rules I will break,

torn at the door away from his grasp.

And I, a son, whose life had been buried

out of father’s love to its silent cemetery.

Lived each day in the absence of his ghost,

forgiveness I lay in his memory I lost.

 

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He keeps me shrouded in shredded pieces

sprawled and reclusive and momentarily

locked up vanishing in mediocrity.

 

Like someone who is afraid of the sanity

and Charles Dicken’s tale of two cities

and I never get to understand Virginia

Woolf, why her heart cries like a wolf

in the night longing for words as

earnest as Oscar Wilde. Dorian must be

some kind of lover of self and boisterous

as Ernest Hemingway. Not in the league

 

of imagination pours in my cup of tea.

Blood of ink flooding in my desk.

Days and days of wandering and wondering

where the words hide in the curtains.

That great expectation.

 

Lucky is Jane Austen for she can choose

not to be shrouded and shredded but

privileged unlike some Emily Bronte’s

Heathcliffe who tries to redeem romance.

Some hearts that pound in the will of the horse

and to kill a mockingbird of Harper Lee.

I hope to catch the rye like JD Salinger.

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Wood scars fray the edges of a sanity-

house paint color gave up its loyalty

to the surface weathered by seasons.

I am a man who leans against the backdrop

of grafittis’ with vivid emotions of discontent.

About an aching hand, bloodied by history

wrapped in white bandages soaked

in spiritual rhetoric. It didn’t stop

the bitter flow.  This hemorrhage. 

While bullets of sunlight streams within

dark passages to freedom fighting,

floating clouds above charred ruins.

The innocence held captive

in the hopes of winning

a logical war for a bitter peace.

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They are silent, yes, they are silent.

I imagine them talking on corners

sounding like the bees ready to sting.

And the beehive is ripe and heavy

with gossip running over like honey.

 

The audience, they lined up like stones-

incensed hot coals ready to be casted

and thrown at statues and pillars

breaking under the weight of judgment.

 

They are silent, yes, they are silent.

A mockery of sorts, they like the show.

Shadow puppets will scream and whistle.

They are victims to a phantom in a circus

and worship the magician with words.

 

I wish the sword will tangle with tongues,

lacerate the innards and spill the beans.

I wish the fish will bite the bait

and see the hook clasp hard the mouth

to stop fishy things from overflowing.

 

They are silent, yes, they are silent.

The blind is not actually blind

but open eyes would like to see illusions.

They have ears but do not want to hear

truth as sharp at its double edges.

 

Applause will fly like white doves

for the trick and the disguise deceives

the gullible and naivete. Silent ones

whose ignorance excuses no one.

They are silent, yes, they are silent.

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It’s not the imitation of a scene

of a snapshot perhaps.

A memory perhaps

 

beneath it.

 

I see words

swirling past shadows

of a hand restrained to speak them

but paint the sky

with reds, blues and yellows

in circles and dots

of dreams I am afraid

to wake from.

 

Sunny days

in my weekend beach walks.

Windswept cold and bleak winter desert.

And the frozen grey and snow

collecting at my window pane.

 

Still

 

on paper water diluted tones,

shades and hues wandering

the landscape of my memory.

It may be the translucence

or opacity of colors. The absence

of whiteness and blackness

that leaves neutrality

 

of the wide space. I dwell,

linger and fade into horizon.

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You see the bookshelves collecting dust

and the pages of books banded together like

comrades and no one stop by to break the line.

Or a lyric sheet spread at a piano stand I suspect

the sound would be bland as no one cared

to touch the keys for a long time.  And the strings

of the violin were like my hairs loosened from

its follicles. Aged and unkempt.

 

Or the watercolor pans caked and its oil evaporated

in time without seeing a day on the paper

and all the images just lay there in the mind.

Each night you stare on the pair of begging hands

reaching out and nagging at your conscience.

Where does the time go? Does anyone know?

You may gone flirting into new diversions

gobbling your attention and forget the allegiance

you made to Mother Art and create orphans

watching when you’ll pick enthusiasm.

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