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Posts Tagged ‘beginning’

There’s a suitcase in the hall.

And emptiness will soon occupy it.

Something which kept me immobile,

quite undecided to test the wind

or its aged leafless trees outside

 

where the silent pavement beckons

and my own shadow as a companion.

How should I, in the permanence of seasons

would not be keen to grasp the clues

that promises were never made to last?

 

I thought I could be strong enough.

I thought I would not have a glimpse

of that leathery box which collected

my yesterday’s dust of missed chances

that dried up in the passing of years.

 

I thought I could forget the barrenness

of autumn’s leaving another space

which I tried to fill with the leaves of days.

Un-withered, but soon became faded letters

that I will be keeping in this humble suitcase.

 

Memories of old coming back to me now.

I will turn the knob to open another door,

and walk into another painful journey

of beginnings. Never ending days catching

the falling leaves as remnants of moments.

 

And when the falling snow in the winter comes

and rest on the branches of those leafless trees,

like the way I carry the weight of my suitcase.

I will try picking up the pieces again and slowly

survive another night without the moon nor the stars.

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Forever seems a word unspoken

upon seeing the herd of caribou

silently crossing an ancient pathway

under the pearly moon.

 

The soft glistening flutter of misty light

on the river finding its way to the sea.

Reflecting the stars painted on the sky

like little eyes- all knowing

since the beginning of time.

 

It made me cry.

 

Something within me springs

divine and humbly I begin

to wonder-

 

My smallness

in the scheme of things

pre-occupied with thoughts

of needing only to survive.

 

Creatures of this earth on the move

tracking down the maps of our lives.

Encircling this cycle waiting

for the sun to rise in the morning.

 

Travelling through journeys

winding as these trails

like the herd of caribou

silently passing by the route

 

with one life to live.

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She prepared her new year’s resolution in advance

writing down beginning and ending of things

and the reasons why she needed a starting over.

There is a luggage she’s tugging down the concourse

hurriedly outpacing the brisk walking of time,

meeting down in the alleys of strangers and guests,

with a  mask of smiles and warmth of handshakes.

She wrote words about her past life compiled to a book

for the world to read awaiting for her autograph signing

and a keepsake of empowerment how she made it through

hell and have been there when no one cared to witness.

 

It is another dramatic story rolling off the press

of another life written down for movies to gobble up

sparking another way for media moguls raking in profits.

She did not understand that her life became a playground

for dreamers and drifters praying for some kind of salvation.

When tomorrow will be another sorry day for someone

who can match up sympathy and the public adulation.

When she forgets about the time when reality is not

what she is on TV, but a flickering glitter destined not

to last another year. As fickle as the world spins around,

she begins another round of playing masquerades again.

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A series of opening.

Waiting. Closing. Life.

It started when you came

out from your mother’s womb.

With a cry loud enough

to rouse the world

from its deep sleep.

And the breaking of dawn

opening the earth’s curtains

like little fingers of light

slipping into space, entering

by the window.

 

For the longest time,

you inhabit that space,

eager in the waiting

of opening your eyes

each morning to see

that the world changes

outside while taking it in.

Waiting for the signals,

the pulses and heartbeats.

Speeding along with days,

pacing with hurried footsteps

in that familiar cycle.

 

Only to find that beginnings

anticipate endings. A book

closing its chapters winding

down through changes until

reaching its climax. At last.

Ending with the earth’s curtains

closing like womb, too. With you.

Like clods of earth falling

down into that space, night

softly crying to its deep sleep.

Shutting off the light, leaving

by the door.

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This pilgrim slowly falls

into longing.  Loneliness

hums along a prelude

to twilight.  The olden days

forgotten. Of distant past

revealed and was found-

in the lines of her song.

 

She sings of a sad refrain.

 

As if she knew the way,

retracing tracks to wounds

of a love lost.  A trip,

down the memory lane.

 

She sings

 

as if she knew this pilgrim.

Whose heart is keeping

a sad, hidden melody

left here at the station.

Unsung of someone else’s

 

story.  She sings

 

about broken promises.

About dreams fading

into the horizon.  About

memories slipping away.

Like trains not returning

 

this song’s sad ending.

 

Loneliness runs along

here at the station.

Tomorrow is another day-

down the memory lane.

 

And this pilgrim chose

to stay awhile, alone

past midnight.  Waiting,

as she begins  to sing

another sad song.

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A Moth In The Flame

Idealism is one glorious

iridescent flame-

a magnet to young blood

swathe in innocence. How

with our simplicity,

our winged resistance-

singed and burned. Died

 

until our ashes will mix

in the wick, obliterated

by mediocrity and irrelevance.

Our lives wasted and fading

to wisps of smoke-

in a country where poverty is

a usual sight. Everyday

 

like cockroaches,

we swarmed the sewers of society

and its livid pavement. Of placards-

waving vituperatives.

Flaunting invectives for a change

we vaguely understand. We

 

solicit publicity.

We paraded wearing black

signifying protest. While

those frigid walls, we painted red

in grafitti seeking sympathy-

disguising under the mask

by being a pro-masses. A peasant.

A proletariat. Civil

 

disobedience. We clasped

our fist imitating Che.

We lined up first against

tear gases and waterbombs,

provoking a phalanx

of uniformed men.

Maximum tolerance.  How

 

dangerous, how close

we have trodden

by knowing so little.

We advertise poverty

as a face to a cause,

bannering struggle for

autonomy, sugar-coated

manifesto of national democracy.

A sovereign common rule. Blindly

 

we morph

into mouthpieces. And fronted

as cynical puppets,

high decibeled in echolalia-

against powers in the high places.

Contending reasons

constricted within the bounds  

of our manufactured rhetoric

on utopia. We are

pre-conditioned

 

to see the world

as our oyster. We read

in our books a twisted history

of our beginnings. Taking

a stand by that rostrum

endlessly kvetching

the capitalists.

We became subservient,

as willing subjects to-

 

a coward. Who

shielded himself in

the backdrop of its

Nordic friends.

An ailing lion,

such an imperialist-

remotely controlling

his serfdom, extending

influence. Like a poison

to the minds of the horde

of pseudo intellectual-

moth as we are.

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