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Posts Tagged ‘reach’

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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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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It breathes against the mist

on the window pane when-

the evening stain left dreams

as they were. Entwined.

Fragile arms reaching out

the other. Bends

in the soft wind

like gentle caresses

searching for warmth.

 

Innocence crawl into the light.

They climb to support

each other and touch

as lovers do. Affection

grows like a vine.

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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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I’m No Frank

Frank Lloyd Wright

and his falling water. Masses

of concrete cantilevered,

and extending outwards

like hands reaching- symbiosis.

But I’m no Frank

and dreams might be

my little fingers clasping

hard and pushing pencils

for somebody else’s utopia.

 

The hewn boulders of rock

resisting the foundation

on which this grand design sits,

I bear the weight of expectations.

Balancing upon the scales

on which the measure of cement

is mixed in sand and water.

The lapping over of slates into a bond.

The forward thrust of hammer to nails.

The tightening of ties around stirrups.

The alternate laying of the roof decking.

 

And the network of drain pipes,

cables and ducting, and waterlines

resembling the veins and sinews

of the building’s skeleton. I build

a symbol- the framework of the mind.

The genius envisions an edifice

in his intellectual acrobatics,

justifying to the world the modern-

reality that build themselves on paper.

 

Summoning the masons to lay

its plaster to newly cured blocks.

The painter to swab the walls

in fresh coats. The decorator

sets the chairs, the beds,

the mirrors and the tables.

The vases and layers of curtains.

The lifeless sculpture pieces

and paintings hanged to the walls.

Fixing rolls of wallpaper  and carpets

over polished granite floors.

 

The carpenter assembling

cabinet boxes, ledges and shelves.

The windows fitted to the sills.

And the doors hanged on frames.

The location of the chandelier.

Installing wooden slabs on stairs.

The green patinated balustrades.

The landscaper to plant shrubs, and ferns

and vines and trees and patch of grass.

The water fountains and the waterfall

arranged mimicking a natural set-up.

 

But I ‘m no Frank.

The hours stretched for miles and miles.

The drafting table becoming wet with fog

until  the first  hours of the morning.

I can hear the mad conversations

of the vellum and the graphite saying,

“deadline nears, it’s almost here”.

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We walk along the beach to see

the happy couples like us staring at the ocean.

And see how the waves come and go

subduing our blues, buried under the sand.

Did we become a tourist of our own,

devoid of pleasure on being together?

We walk like solitary man and woman

glancing sideways, avoiding leisure

as if children were lost running both ways

chasing happiness out of sight. Dreaming

of lost balloons. Of lost kites. Of empty boats

bobbing, floating and drifting away.

We smile blankly and falsely wonder

about the beach umbrella blown in the wind

and the white surf racing past each other

to reach you. And me, while I am trying

to mute down my gaze towards a space

where shadows of people begins to fade

under the sheltering weight of the high noon.

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A series of opening.

Waiting. Closing. Life.

It started when you came

out from your mother’s womb.

With a cry loud enough

to rouse the world

from its deep sleep.

And the breaking of dawn

opening the earth’s curtains

like little fingers of light

slipping into space, entering

by the window.

 

For the longest time,

you inhabit that space,

eager in the waiting

of opening your eyes

each morning to see

that the world changes

outside while taking it in.

Waiting for the signals,

the pulses and heartbeats.

Speeding along with days,

pacing with hurried footsteps

in that familiar cycle.

 

Only to find that beginnings

anticipate endings. A book

closing its chapters winding

down through changes until

reaching its climax. At last.

Ending with the earth’s curtains

closing like womb, too. With you.

Like clods of earth falling

down into that space, night

softly crying to its deep sleep.

Shutting off the light, leaving

by the door.

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