Posted in Literature, Religion, tagged abode, acid, aimless, along, bask, beyond, bowels, breath, carry, chameleon, child, choose, Christmas, cloud, clown, coffin, corner, countless, crowd, cruel, cry, cup, dead, death, demon, depth, deserve, destroy, discontent, divine, dreams, early, earth, earthworm, Easter Sunday, embrace, energy, existence, fail, falling, fathom, feel, ferment, fight, fingers, forgetful, fountain, freedom, frolic, fullness, future, glorious, go, gone, goodbye, Grandpa, grasp, grieve, half-empty, hand, harbor, hatred, hear, heart, heat, hidden, human, I, images, imaginary, imagine, inability, innocence, keep, last, leaf, leak, Leden, life, lips, litany, live, long, longing, love, man, miss, morbidity, more, morrow, most, mother, much, Music, nest, never, night, numbness, pain, paint, part, perhaps, person, play, point, promises, querry, question, radio, remember, revenge, river, rose, sad, say, scream, search, seek, silent, since, sing, sky, smile, snatch, soft, soon, soul, steel, stop, suddenly, summer, swarm, taken, tears, tell, Teofi, thousand, told, traverse, understood, unfold, walk, wash, wither, words, world, yesteryears on September 14, 2006|
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Perhaps, Teofi
the promises of your future withers too soon
like the leaf falling early in the summer
where we frolicked in the fountain of our energies;
and bask in the heat of our freedom;
and in the nest of fermenting dreams with another human.
I can tell Teofi, how sad is the early goodbye
where you breathed your last and let go
without questioning who deserves to live more
and without crying over your half-empty cup.
So long that I suddenly stop, I remember
your acid- washed litanies and the morbidity
of your soul longing to be understood.
I fail to grasp the hidden images of your words
to the point of harboring steely tears
over the innocence of your chameleon smiles.
Perhaps Leden,
I cannot fathom the depths of your pain
as if the morrow of your life leaking silently
until the thousand roses leave those lips.
I may not hear you scream to the bowels of the night
fighting the demons of what cruel love has.
Let me feel, the inability of you pointing fingers
to a person who has destroyed your world as if
I can paint the sky with hatred and revenge.
Let me hear you sing in the divine discontent
of your heart seeking to embrace
the fullness of the glorious unfolding
beyond the corners of your abode.
Perhaps Grandpa,
I can cry me a river searching for the clown
of my many Christmasses and Easter Sundays.
Of letting the clouds softly traversing
like the music of the yesteryears
you keep playing on the radio.
I can say that you choose to live the most
but you never have told me that I
will be missing so much a part of the child
that was taken from me since you’ve gone.
Perhaps,
I would have not lived at all since then,
of querrying, of imagining how death
must have snatched me from my mother’s hand.
All along, I might be carrying this imaginary coffin,
grieving among the countless earthworms swarming
and crowding the earth
in the numbness of our existence.
Forgetful and aimless like a dead man walking.
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News Of The World
Posted in Current Affairs, Literature, Poetry, Politics, Relationships, Social Commentary, Society, tagged back, beginning, big, break, busy, byline, call, child, chop, clock, clod, cornfield, cover, day, deadline, disarray, dust, empty, farmer, footsteps, grow, hear, heat, heavy, home, hour, housewife, knife, large, long, lost, loud, more, name, nervous, news, noise, One, out, pan, pane, paper, pick, poem, poetry, print, punch, rate, regular, rhythm, ride, right, run, rush, sandstorm, sauce, scribble, shatter, she, shuffle, simmer, simple, skim, slice, soil, someone, something, sound, speed, stir, stop, story, synchronicity, table, telephone, ticking, time, tomorrow, tractor, tray, twice, vegetable, where, window, work, world, yes on January 20, 2012| Leave a Comment »
A housewife is busy at this hour.
The knife slices and chops vegetables
in a rhythm that synchronizes the clock.
While a farmer is out on the cornfield
riding a tractor, skimming the clods of soil.
It’s just a regular working day. Simple.
I sit here shuffling papers from a tray.
Scribbling and rushing deadlines. Punch,
punch, punch the buttons. Scribble some
more. Telephone rings. One time, then twice.
I picked it up. Yes, uhmmm, yes, I’ll be right there.
A child is lost, yes she is. Where will I get her story?
Ah, the empty sauce pan is simmering in the heat.
The table cover in disarray and the knife stops slicing
and chopping but the clock is ticking nervously.
The dusts were stirred over like a sandstorm.
Someone is running back home and a name
is being called out. This time it grew longer
and louder and larger as if the window panes
will shatter. This is the beginning of the story.
And you will hear the sound of footsteps
becoming heavy. And the noise picks up
like the tractor breaking the clods of soil.
Like the knife speeding the rate of chopping.
But it is not about the tractor. Nor the knife.
It is something bigger on the papers tomorrow.
Printed out loud. And my byline is on it.
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