Posts Tagged ‘four’

I would like to remember

for the sake of remembrance

without fear of talking on corners

where echoes reverberate

within these four white walls.


I would like to visit a place

that is only half-remembered

where the streets are fading

against the foggy morning light.


Have they forgotten

or just being forgetful?

Frozen fingers of tree branches

on a bleak Friday morning.

Wisps of emotion numbed

by the chilly winds,

the pores of my skin

have forgotten to breathe.


The chances of longing

for somebody or someone

whom you have felt the time

when the blood on your veins

boil and burst with life. Inside

of you. That the world is

still a beautiful place, after all.


Just for this moment of expectation.

This soft prison cell will balm my soul

who wants to break out as a man

free like a butterfly

in its resplendent colors.

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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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It is Sunday (I hope it’s Saturday)

still I dread about the things

that need sorting, or mending

or keeping the weekly life in order.


At the routine and the job not started.

Of promises I keep on procrastinating.

When I complain that time is not enough

but I spent most of it thinking how


will I ever escape the inner tensions

that keep gnawing my brain, restless

and un-contained, filled with regrets

I ought to pace with speed to numb me.


For the plates and cups that need washing.

For the pieces of clothing that need ironing.

For the broken fixtures that need fixing.

For the furnitures that need dusting.


And Monday will come. When you wish away

it is weekend when you get the alibi to be lazy

on Friday. Pretending you work hard but counting

four more days and you slam down the paperwork


bolting out for freedom. Still it is Sunday.

I hope it is Saturday, better nights on Friday.

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My world’s consist of four corners

and a square but miles apart to home

I get to travel back in my dreams.

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Your face tells much

and the crooked lines circling

your eyes, expressionless

but I have found a meaning.


You began to speak

but I can’t hear until

that voice, suddenly, came

from nowhere.  Sshhh. Quiet.


Keep calm. You wait-

for the one who sings the lullaby

to a child. Yes, you are a child

whose life will begin at forty.


And sleep will once again visit

to take away your silent screams

reverberating among these-

four corners of your reclusivity.


I have a hand that can grip

your shoulders from shaking disbelief.

The fears you have tried to put out

like a flame from a candle.


But no one said, it will go away

as easy, that one should get.

Only when that release of breath

would extinguish as a sign.


Your face tells much

not even a sound to decipher

the depth of words that was lost.

Searching for some kind of hope.

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Each rainy day on this side of my life is a quiet and lovely moment.  Where palette of memories and aspirations are painted on that fragile canvass of my mind.  It is a fine time where the four corners of my isolation will become the universe and the walls become the vast horizons of my own imagination.

How simple are those days of hoping and drifting to spaces I am longing to go.  And the days of dreaming stretched like long shadows in the past moving forward.  And they have become partly a reality now. 

I am longing to go home to the place where I am safe from the vanities of this world.  To my Wuthering Heights. To my manor houses and beautiful bridges.  To commune with Robert Frost and Edgar Allan Poe.  And have a romance with  Sara Teasdale and Emily Dickinson.  To view each sunsets with Jane Austen.  And listen to the rhythms of Phil Collins.  Or hear the piano symphonies of Richard Clayderman. 

Here in this four corners of my sanity, that the expectations of the world extinguishes.  Here in are the murmurings of the soul are heard audibly and each emotions are truthfully expressed.  Here in no one will ever enter to criticize my inner fragilities.  And where shedding of my tears is allowed. Here in the loneliness is a friend and not an enemy.  Here in, my tears are the proof of courage.

I will watch the sunset and salute to eternity.  In each farewell is a golden ray.  Where glory is never lost but always remembered.

I will not fear the night, because the raven will sing the sweet song to lull me to my sleep.  It will bring me back to the good friends and people I have lost to the day.  Yes, I will not fear the night, where the stars of Orion will be on guard to watch over me as long as the day breaks.  And angels await there basking in the dawn. 

I am coming home again. Coming home to my dwelling place that comforts this world-weary traveller.  As if the universe of my humanity will be there to welcome their once lost child.

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