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Posts Tagged ‘reveal’

A balloon hollow as air

I float miles farther away

no one could catch me.

I’m not here. Drifting

past the roofs of cities

and a maze of streets.

No one could see me now.

Lingering among clouds,

playing with dreams,

breathing a reality

of existing to survive.

In a skin I lived in

may not reveal who

a being- hidden within.

A face. A soul waiting

to be exhaled

and found again.

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The chandelier sways a little

when the ceiling sheds its skin

to show its old bones. Paint on walls

reveal its freckles and birthmarks,

wrinkled through the shifting cycle

of Gregorian calendars. You worry

about the constant reminders

from the electric company,

those unpaid bills overcrowding

this three-legged desk. And the

water leaks from the rusty tap.

 

The old photographs dog eared

collecting fungus of memories

dampening happy days like rain.

And the red wine loses its color.

And the window curtains block off

the light, dusty and unwashed.

Breakfast unprepared, it’s another

long hours without eating but verses

of poems you chew in your mind.

 

Here is the knife and slice something

open, now. It might reveal a thing 

that you don’t understand.

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You see, light can be a scary thing.

 

It reveals something you won’t confront

by the mirror. You won’t by your shadows.

This ceiling, will you know how far

I have travelled without moving?

Beyond which my eyes can see.

The mind wanders alone. Come

closer by my bedside.

I’ll whisper something, a story.

Like a baby crying at mother’s

giving birth. Hear the sound

of the first rain after a drought

and how it falls on the parched

earth. A seed hibernates too long

through the darkness, alive.

Set free with its fragile arms

embracing the sky.

 

Will you tell me the truth?

Have you seen the surging ocean

drowning you out of the blue.

Have you felt something taking

root beneath you, peace.

Lullabye of the mermaid

lulling you to sleep

and believe in love

like the shooting stars.

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Low tide reveals the sandbar,

my soul on barefoot walking calm

searching where I first came in.

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I can talk about my universe

like picking a good book

from the bookshelves and pretend.

As if my mind can fill the spaces

left as a void and of dusts

collecting at the edges.

Since the day I had let

somebody in.

 

I could leave good pictures

about art. About dance.

About the food and the drinks.

Of nice and pretty things

while you won’t discover

how tricky it is to conceal.

How easy it is to speak

about the avant-garde. 

The dead writers. The music.

 

I won’t show you the bookmarks.

The synopsis of chapters.

The highlighted paragraphs

almost torn to the leaf

where the watermarks

from my tears had faded.

I won’t let you read it.

 

I will let the cultured noise

suffocate me in silence

on something that begin

to reveal themselves.

Leaving handprints

and start mending

the pages of my heart.

I won’t let you do it.

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An invisible force within.

Sudden freedom.

A new life

for the first time,

this heart revealing

a paradise

 

amidst the simplicity

of things and the hours

walking around thankful

this morning.

 

Like light rays streaming

into dappled shadows

of the leaves above

dancing on the grass.

 

Such, such is my soul

as hope springs.

Lifting my feet

lighter and flying.

 

No past.

No future.

Only this moment-

just pure and joyful

simply being alive.

 

My miracle.

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These wasteful hours

in the museum hall

exhibiting the exploits,

critics alike

are flocking over,

in desperate attempt

unlocking

digesting

the meaning of a mystery

to which is none.

Blabber-mouthing platitudes

and bloated praises.

The body of work.

 

You will see how

this culture of patronage

drains the penniless,

being subjects

fallen prey-

caged

framed

to a prisoned canvas

of posing nude.

 

In a night enveloped

by a faked light.

Revealing,

showing

some fleshly delight

while acting out

a cheap scene ripped 

from the page

of a slut magazine.

 

An art nouveau.

A magnum opus

on which they praise

the painter,

and not the one

whose eyes

are staring back

from the canvas

like a muted witness-

mocking,

despising

the cultured whims

of the bourgeoisie.

 

They call it art.

And you shudder

at a thought, when

you know it is

a meaningless,

empty accolade.

Worth a few

hundred bucks

reclining,

staring

blankly to a space-

being still

and have nothing

to hide.

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