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Posts Tagged ‘day’

Some say love is never about speed but a slow

unfurling of beauty- gentle and unhurried.

That makes the difference between the passing

of time and the crafting of masterpiece-

not everyone is interested reading about angst.

 

And you fail to notice that everyone’s engaged

to their own brand of narcissism- they maintain

to survive and keep up one’s reputation.

 

And if you think that poets spend their lives

holed up in their four cornered walls and a window

looking in from the world changing night and day.

Self-absorbed about  feelings or digging of the past

and wanting for love that they never have.

 

Or won’t have.

 

Some say about exiles to another country

or to another time or another space would

make people stalk on your mysticism.

Or the lyricism of recording things-

one have chosen to leave behind.

 

You can be exiled even without a room.

That is easy- while you walk around nonchalant

and pretend you didn’t carry anything.

You must know how heavy it is to bring

one line of a poem and to bravely express it.

 

Who says poetry is a dying art? I say otherwise.

For centuries, poets mined gold, toiling the minds

of men and keep them going on despite travails.

Ranting about their lost loves, lost paradise

or lost keys of their hearts.

Or lost childhood. Or lost future.

 

Art that was losing chances and losing hope.

That made poems became songs sung out loud.

It became pieces of conversation. In the streets.

And in the way people speak. To sell. To buy

affection and things people would want

and impress people whom they would want

to belong with. But this will never be.

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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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What will it take you to remember?

The light and shade of beauty

in minutes and seconds within hours

in a day or a year. A lifetime

 

about colours mixed in a palette

about anecdote in a story

about a scene in a play

about a line in a poem

or a montage in a song

 

I carry within me

waiting to be expressed

in time. Little by little

a masterpiece.

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A heart

belonging to someone who-

in another place

and another time

traveled the open ocean.

The distance of years

were only yesterday.

 

There’s a message in a bottle

washed up ashore.

 

Like the wave

knot by knot reaching out

for the love he lost

 

by the sea.

 

Sailing past the stormy waters,

buoyed by hope afloat.

For one day, their souls

might have a second life.

Reunited and alive.

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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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The gambler lost that day on his deck of cards.

He lost to fate by slim chance for survival.

They say, speed and luck are brothers

to a pair of hands knowing the trick. To hide

and conceal a loser’s streak while

 

at the bargaining table. The game goes on

and there’s no other way but win.

He need to come back for another try.

It’s another night playing jack against

the king. He will have to pawn his aces.

 

And he owes the world of the hours

he let passing by without noticing.

Isolated by fixation to win his conquests

by which probability of mathematics

and shrewdness, his potent weapon.

 

Pre-occupation. He tries to recover his losses

by the number of risks and repeats. He stabs

on chances and chases even more. It’ll never stop

until he is squeezed to the bone analyzing

his moves to that glorious escape. Big time.

 

And he believed- eventually he will make or break.

For him, to live is to win the game by the numbers.

The gambler lost that day on his deck of cards.

No bailout. No tolerance. Just lost his control,

when speed and luck became his greatest traitor.

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The dress fit well

and the gods must have been happy

to mold a gypsum to form,

speechless and never tires of standing up

to impress. Look here, the mannequin is alive.

All would envy, their eyes on the centerpiece,

dreaming of petite silhouette. Her face caked

in make-up and lashes thick with mascara.

And lips enticing like vagina. Perfect attraction

who would not dish out bills from the pocket

envisioning…

 

beauty.

 

She must have been stoned

from entertaining the feet-seeking

fortune swept the marbled floor

day in  and day out of vanity.

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