Posts Tagged ‘minutes’

A brisk walk is the goal.

Skid some marks,

dash the line

but I’ll never say

a dream goodbye.


It may be pointless.

It may be endless.

And the minutes

stretch too long to count.

But I hold on

until it burns


a path uniquely

my own.


To the finish line.

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The hours tick like sound of punch cards

in this corporate machine treating

people like ants filed into ranks.

Mountain of paperwork  piled up

into sandbags. Bring it on, breach

my levee and let me drown forgetting.


Labor becomes a habit. Of numbness

and enjoying the suffering.


Like the sound of water from the tap

during a morning ritual in oblivion-

silence resonates like a hidden bell.

I wait until it fills the tub overflowing

down the rim and the clock raced

to the minutes rushing for the train.


Like the way the thinning soap glides

my body and the necessity to wash

away yesterday’s worry-rat smell-

that doomsday spell. A thank you note

and the termination letter. The downsizing

and the news keep rolling off the press.

People pick up some gossips to chew

and I am excited to blab my hunger.


Like the constant whining of the weekend

laundry, hoping detergents rinse the stains

and filth of missed deadlines. And overtime.

And I got the time to soak away thinking

about the next line to a poem, capturing it

before it goes down the drain. In limbo.


And I hope to keep afloat above it 

like a flotsam of dreams in a stream

carried away in the fading of days.

Figuring it out how to bailout myself 

like a straw in deep water.

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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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The storm had passed

and left pellet marks of rain

to my parched earth. An afterglow

radiating and pulsating


with warmth of whispers

and silent promises

about the sea of softness

under the night clouds.


Like the shepherd moon

it clings in the presence of moments,

of minutes and hours, sweet

love talk by the angels of youth.


Words, words I have to rinse away

thereafter- extinguish this flame.

Long before the dawn breaks

the transience of tenderness.


My intimate surrender.

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That is when I would want to stop

thinking about numbers. Straining my eyes

glued to the pages of the calendar

pinned on the wall, I marked of days

in and out.  In a work life punching timecard.


You never knew how stressful it was,

to run alongside the clock ticking deadline.

And seeing life like a finish line,

guessing as if today  I would be fired,

saying this day would be toast to the last.


Number is a finite word.  For me, an illusion

that therein we draw our strength, our definition.

If dying is a painful exercise of keeping track,

and if calendars and clocks are its devices,

then I should shred them all together into pieces.


I’ll proceed cutting my fingers straight,

until I only have zero devoiding myself of order.

I would not want to buy the minutes,

and the hours.  And of the days expanding

into months and years wanting to live longer.


When I die, so sure that I’ll predictably belong

to some cold stark concrete listed with names.

Informing humankind of milestones in a file

cataloguing folder of the year I was born

and the year that I finally stopped counting.

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Before the midnight sky  becomes cluttered by glittering show of the fireworks and the revelry of people shatters its silence,  I am lying here on my bed tracing back what this year the world had gone through.  It would be selfish for me to say,  that I am only too concerned of what had happened to me, knowing that on the far sides of the world, there are also people who like me, are in their silence thinking about the substance of it all.  Time has trodden a lonely and eerie path for some and here, most of us await for another new year to come.

The countdown begins. From the hours and the minutes gone to the last sixty seconds, and its ticking runs out to the finish line.  A tensioned stance that will be eventually released celebrating a new beginning of another year’s end.  And the cycle goes on.

I imagine.  About a child in Sudan begging to be fed.  A man in Chile waiting anxiously for the birth of his son.  An elderly woman in Russia staring blankly into the space in the cold of the night. A bargirl in Thailand sitting silently, waiting for a customer to come.  A seaman in a dock in South Africa, miserably misses his family back home. A teenager in Japan, held in her hands a knife, ready to kill herself.  A woman in Ireland, lying there in comatose in the hospital for a year.  And a father of three in India, unemployed, worrying about work that didn’t come for almost six months now.

There maybe thousands or even more souls out there, who welcomes the new year, not hoping, but filled with fear of how could they struggle to live one more day.  And fear has slowly crept into their being and deafening their enthusiasm to get on surviving.  Everyday, in our waking life, do we care to think about what’s on the other side, when half of the world is still in darkness?

What is the worth of this pondering on last sixty seconds before the clock strikes twelve?  I do not know how to calm down, when the world is on fire of succumbing to its continual decay and destruction.   And the day will come, that survival guarantees only the strong and the able. 

What an escape is there to whitewash with revelry the truth that we are coming nearer and closer into an end?  And all is vanity and a gasping in the wind.   Perhaps with this last sixty seconds, it is a reminder of what things may come.  In an eventuality that all of us cannot deny, where the headlines read that these are the worst of times.

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Somebody has told me how in his hospital bed, he is thinking of what will happen with the remaining minutes of his life.  His doctors had already given up hope and they already inform his wife that he got 30 minutes to live more.  Everyone in the room have already accepted the idea of death anytime soon. 

But the man on that deathbed, with his mind still intact, lying there mustering all his courage and earnestly hoping for another day. For another time. His heartbeat stopped, but the doctors still gave that 30 minutes for his heart to be revived.

Twenty nine minutes and the apparatus indicated life. With lines signaling another gruelling survival, cheating death.  The man in his afterthought, after that episode of heart attack, trace back how he spent his time on earth.  Then in his great resolve, decided that the remaining minutes of his life will be filled with happiness and love.

He decided to be laid back and enjoy more of life. To see  what’s on the other side, tucked away from his old busy life. A life then that is so competitive and full of time spent in work. But now, he travelled for some soul searching and talk with his heart’s content to countless strangers, who in one way or the other share the same longing to live their life to the fullest. And there he experience the joy of living. The joy of simply making the most out of every situation. The joy of actually connecting and not isolating.

He told me that we are the same. He told me, that even in my younger life, I ought to spend some extra time exploring life.  It is like him saying that life is too short to waste in hurting others or hurting ourselves.

I look past beyond this man.  And I can’t believe that here is somebody who seems to have been to many places will tell me how sorry he was.  That he forgotten to feed his soul of things that matters most. He almost got it all and what better could he ask for.  And true, money can’t buy all the true happiness that will satisfy you as a simple human being.

And after our conversation, I began to think.  I am thinking if I had been a good steward of my time here on earth.  Am I that conscious not to waste any more the time that is so short for destroying or building it? I am thinking that if I have been given the same prognosis, what will I have to do with 30 minutes? Maybe I will be the same man on his deathbed regretting if I could only turn back the time. 

Regretting that I should have been more forgiving.  Less of being a perfectionist. That I should have been more compassionate and loving.  That I should have been more open and more relaxed. Since there is no turning back and each day we endeavor on something, in due time so shall we reap the consequences.

30 minutes is all it takes for the man to re-assess the value of his life and recollect the things that matters most.  30 minutes on the treshold of another life and the scythe of death. 30 minutes to stop and start living one more day, inspiringly.

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