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Posts Tagged ‘cold’

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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Why flipping a page from the book  is necessary

to pass time and you know that the hands of the clock

won’t turn back the hours that have been.

And you sit there on a corner

endlessly stare in silence,

writhing in the cold naked

without a soul breathing-

you shut them out of your world.

 

Why talking within your mind in monologues nags you

with guilt as if your life is a mess and you are helpless

about the future and guessing how it will ever end.

And nobody knows that there is a deep cavern

that you can’t escape. While you live the days

carrying the weight of an imaginary prison-

you wish that death is the only freedom.

 

Why people come and go as soon as the door opens

and later you close them. Never wanting them to stay

nor understand you like you always did before.

You said they deserve to be happy with the ones

who can fulfill their happiness and you are sorry-

that you are not going to be the person

who can be able to give the expectation.

 

Why does sleep won’t come as peacefully

like words that overflowed within you but won’t be heard

and you think that anyone would not be ready

to listen to any of it. Because they will feel the

vastness of the deep ocean and they can get drown

and won’t survive alive. And even they-  will feel

the same death that you have wished for yourself.

 

Why darkness is a fearful thing and yet you thrive in it

as if you allowed atonement for something or for someone

you have failed in the process. And honesty is priceless

but you keep on hiding that sad face within a mask

and wishing that this masquerade won’t last.

You go home alone again in the knowing

that you have not pretended to be accepted

for who you are. That is. Liars will go to hell.

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I am perched here inside with distances to roam

only my eyes can see. You are out of reach.

The wind blows from distances afar

bringing me in yesterday’s news. It’s cold.

And the noise reverberates like a broken record.

 

Tell me about freedom. Day in, day out.

Of walking in circles, and the light travels into the night.

Tell me about resilience. No matter how it looks-

a hard shell but brittle and fragile within my mind

where it builds edifices of dreams. Towering

 

over my need  to run away and get lost

untangled into distances unhindered.

Restrain my hand from gripping the bars

of steel I layed propping up my self-esteem.

I will run untamed like a wild horse.

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He stares at the frosted window,

dreaming of pigeons in flight.

Probing shadows in his oblivion

while the neighborhood is asleep

on this night bathed in blue light.

 

His heart refuses to surrender

to someone else’s handwriting.

 

He’s an outsider, perhaps a victim.

No one knows how he spent hours

imagining a beautiful world.

Unable to express, struggling

for a line to be understood.

 

An empty love bleeding sentences

that can never be written.

 

Such beauty, a flower in the field

belonging to some lucky bee.

Jealousy hits his innocence

like a knife to a man’s desiring,

leaving his wounds unhealed.

 

For the lady who reads letters

from some scented envelopes.

 

There is blood in the trash bin

and it does belong to him.

Among the crumpled sheets,

the fingerprints and drops of ink-

a memory of his scarred sanity.

 

How he endured the paper cuts;

this man’s life in blank pages.

 

The postman didn’t come today

and the letters were undelivered.

No one has foreseen death’s coming-

such as his knocking on doors

and opening of mailboxes, each morning.

 

They found a fountain pen in his hand,

motionless and still- in cold blood.

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In the old quarter of the city,

in the nakedness of the cold walls

of this back street. I sit alone, outside.

Here. In the almost empty corner of the café.

Looking beyond many mornings

distant, from the crowd.

 

There is something.

In the stale morning air that reminds me

of one strange midnight.

 

A quiet conversation of two souls

connecting among the silver teaspoons,

teacups and porcelain.

 

Exchanged glimpses of a period

when things are new, young and free.

Reliving a story of the jaded past

within a single stretch of hours

waiting for the sunrise.

 

There is something-

which I failed to grasp

and took hold of.

 

Something in the dust-filled glass windows.

The peeled off paint from the ceiling.

The wallpaper shedding its ancient skin.

The tattered leather and cushions

of these vintage chairs.

 

There is a memory of a voice fading

like the sheen from this worn-out table.

Among the bread crumbs for the pigeons to share.

And this bronzed cup leaving off a tinge-

a certain warmth I could not forget.

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Your alabaster beauty

fills these empty halls.

I am watching you.

As my hand memorizes

each curves and contours

of your sculptured life.

I chiseled. I breathed

a ghost of someone

who will never  be able-

to reciprocate nor return

the passion unfolding

in cold stone, white-

washed in lunar glory.

 

Hush now, Venus, hush

in your half-baked shell.

Please  lay by the fire light.

Under the moon’s silhouette

and the night full of stars,

feel my night’s embrace.

Letting your nakedness

guiding the master’s touch.

The ocean tides mounting

under my skin, surging.

Setting ablaze a part

of me. Hidden, unrequited-

this undying desire.

Rise now, Venus, rise.

I want you.

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To Pablo Neruda

I write these letters in smoke. They are fog

to the starry night of the south where you existed,  

circumnavigated the world, then extinguished

as a flame, long before I was born.

 

You said you had lived in the springtime

among the cherry blossoms of the west. While

here on this island, I had lived humming

lullabye amidst the scorched patches of sand.

 

I cannot sit still and my memory was filled

of your presence here. I can hear your voice

from a distant time and place. Your voice has traveled

and finally touch down inwardly and it lingers.

 

Tonight, the sad lines of your verses haunt me forever,

love is short and forgetting is so long”.

I chewed the words on my empty stomach

as the light from your waning moon fills my room.

 

I have no windows, they are shattered.  There is no door to enter,

so you don’t need to knock.  Inside my house is fire left by bombs

and gunfire.  And on my earthened floor are scattered pieces

of limbs and severed heads of dead dogs and cats devoid of shelter.

 

I have seen the heaven through the bullet holes on my tin roof.

And the fire is still burning from within. I have seen the clouds

unfolding and unfastened as I became the enemy of the gods,

pot-bellied in the pulpit- imposing cruelty to fools purchasing piety.

 

I have been an inheritor of misfortune, like a stubborn root

of an old dying tree, digging the earth to its graveyard, a tomb.

I seek to find in this endless tunnel, a repose for my corpse-

stiff, in pain and left there naked, writhing in the cold.

 

I can no longer find the stars in the night sky, Pablo.

And the tears begin to fall like rain on the tin roof.

Outside, you wailed a storm, flooding my being,

persistent, engulfing me with the soliloquy of the night.

 

This bed I made out of the coconut tree, lacerating my body

of little knives, that have sliced and shredded my soul. And I

smelled of the blood through the blade of your words

as I whisked them away to the westerly winds to reach you.

 

I ask you. Why things happened this way? History blood-stained.

And the sea mourns while changing course of the mighty river.

In the horizon, a crimson tide of the many who died seeking the meaning

of their lives. And the night birds still singing their lonely dirge.

 

I ask you. Where are the lilac? Immortalized in sonnets by men,

those middle-aged aristocrats. And the women becoming birds of prey,

caged and waiting to be sold.  Incessantly knocking on the doors

to see some faint hope traversing the day into their neon light.

 

Where are the language of stars? Deciphered by hypnotized strangers

who quest for clues and signs and wonders.  Why does the rain

did not stop from falling? I am bailing out to exist from this deluge,

finding redemption while concealing my cowardice. I cannot fight.

 

I am poor, Pablo. But I know your name. And the dense earth that

we both lived, became the pavement for  marching foot falls

of the many striving to live to see until their dying day- freedom,

justice and equality. Unanswered like prayers, unheard of the divine.

 

Your verses did not speak of dreams and leaves and great volcanoes

of your native land.  Your verses did not promise the opium

that will heal the wounds of time.  But your verses have spoken

of the blood in the streets.  And the blood in the streets, I have seen.

 

I will offer an elegy in my homeland. I will sing your song in vain,

hoping for someone to hear and join me singing your immortal chorus.

Your ashes I would want to scatter into the night clouds until tomorrow.

When morning will be awakened by pilgrims sojourning the other world.

 

And still, I am waiting for the stars to appear in the Far-east. I had

only a rose to your funeral.  I will not be able to attend. But I will

whisper to the westerly winds my discontent and the endless despair

you will hear from the shore of this island, questioning existence.

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