Posted in Books, Current Affairs, Literature, Philosophy, Poetry, tagged about, afraid, all, almost, another, ask, back, beginnning, better, boil, book, bouts, break, chapter, clue, confront, countdown, creep, crossroad, days, decide, door, down, ending, epilogue, everyday, eyes, face, fear, few, figure, find, finish, first, future, halfway, hang, happy, hard, hit, hope, hours, how, incomplete, insignificant, jump, keep, knob, knock, know, last, lead, left, made, man, me, mirror, miss, moments, nag, need, next, open, other, out, pages, paragraph, parts, past, pause, place, poem, poetry, pond, problem, prologue, questions, read, reality, remains, remember, return, road, search, sentence, serious, side, sleep, somebody, start, still, stop, story, struggle, talk, tempt, there, this, through, time, today, turn, uncertainty, unclear, unhappy, up, wait, walk, what, where, while, why, words, world, yawn on April 4, 2010|
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The past are days
like pages in a book.
On the first few pages
you can’t figure out
what the story is all about.
Prologue.
“There is a man struggling
to find his place in this world.
Had his share of hits and misses.
Of crossroads where-
it is hard to decide
which road to walk into, and
on which doors to knock.
Afraid, that somebody may not
be there to turn the knob.
And open up.”
If only, these eyes can pause reading
and stop for a while at these words
that almost made me yawn and sleep.
Insignificant hours of keeping on.
Hoping this story will not lead
into another unhappy ending.
“Why do we have to be serious
all the time?”
Don’t ask me. It’s your problem.
The questions still left
hanging in there, moments.
When pages stood unclear,
incomplete with the sentence.
Waiting for somebody
to knock the door. I’ll open up.
“Is that all? Is that all?
Is that all there is to wait
and it all boils down to this?”
Tempted to return to the first few pages.
Back to the parts when I remember
breaking down halfway through a paragraph.
As if not knowing how did it start
somebody talking to me. It should have
been better not to have read at all.
No clues from the beginning.
And the countdown to the hours
remains. Finish reading parts
on the last chapter- I confront.
Today- no happy ending.
Epilogue.
“And fear creeps in like a mirror
he have to face everyday.
There was a time when he need
to jump into the pond of uncertainty.
Searching the man in his reality,
faced with nagging bouts of questions-
What’s next? What’s on the other side?
What’s the future?”
I can’t figure out.
What this story is all about.
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Opening. Waiting. Closing. Life
Posted in Art Scene, Books, Current Affairs, Film, Literature, Memoirs, Nature, Philosophy, Poetry, Relationships, Religion, Science, Social Commentary, tagged along, anticipation, beginning, book, break, came, change, chapter, climax, clod, closing, cry, curtain, cycle, darkness, dawn, days, deep, door, down, eager, earth, end, enough, existence, eyes, fall, familiar, finger, footstep, heartbeat, inhabit, last, leave, life, light, little, long, loud, lull, morning, mother, night, only, opening, outside, pace, poem, poetry, pulse, reach, religion, rouse, see, series, shut, signal, sleep, slipping, soft, space, speed, start, take, time, waiting, wind, window, womb, world on September 4, 2010| 8 Comments »
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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