Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Posts Tagged ‘witness’

We have to spend our whole life getting up

each morning and see the many suns

rising courageous from the horizon.

A simple life- who knows when to retire

at night time and hug long-time companions

called pillows and dreaming dreams.

 

There are episodes here, which send ripples

into our seemingly monotonous existence

everyday. And we have to wage battles

with boredom and her sisters- called mediocrity

and irrelevance. But not all were lost.

Somebody needs to learn how to befriend them.

 

Some may think that something was lacking,

but perhaps in the company of silence we find

orbs of thoughts in the usual grind of days

like the fowls of the air having simple cares.

Season after season. Day after day. Aged

but content to the simple things that matter.

 

The small country talks over the weather

and life in the farm begins with asking folks

how the young are doing these days at school.

The familiar warmth of seeing old friends at a gathering.

The joy of witnessing someone else’s milestones.

 

The farewells and well wishes when someone

is leaving our own little places to discover

the bigness of things. There goes a little prayer

and a hope that nothing is wrong when one decides

to stay and carry on doing their tasks each day.

 

We might spend our whole life thinking it’s good after all, 

though it has never been easy and there are rough times.

 

But it will never stop us believing that peace within

is the only dwelling place, our enduring shelter

when the day comes that we will never be able

to witness the sun and it has forgotten to rise.

 

In the darkness, we hope our soul in its own little spaces

can see the moon and stars light up the evening sky.

While the wind whispers- all is well, we’ll be calm as the sea.

Read Full Post »

Here, walks people

wasting not a second

navigating urgent missions.

Without halt, in cycles

coming to and from,

fast and slow. We walk

alongside the bobbing sea

of heads and shoulders.

 

There goes a man

who is in a hurry

to catch his train.

While the woman

will just be in time

to make it with an appointment.

Some guy chases a girl.

And a working mom

squeezing in the crowd while

talking on her mobile phone.

 

Like them,

this pavement

lay a mute witness

to strangers who make their way

onward to destinations-

to directions

precisely peg-marked

as milestones to life.

 

Turning left and right,

brushing past signals

and pedestrian crossings

colliding like busy ants.

Our back’s two steps ahead

to the ones whom we have left

behind. Existing as familiar

tourist walking our two legs

in an imaginary life machine.

No one notices the other.

Read Full Post »

A balladeer sings a song.

Serenading his heart’s reflection

in wine glasses rippling its rhythm

navigating strange passages

of tenderness that filled

water canals of romance

he witnessed everyday.

 

His voice knows the direction

where to bring new lovers

bowled over by the moon

and the stars, sailing

their feelings away.

Smooth gliding inch

closer to tranquil

crying of a love lost.

He forgot, almost.

Read Full Post »

She prepared her new year’s resolution in advance

writing down beginning and ending of things

and the reasons why she needed a starting over.

There is a luggage she’s tugging down the concourse

hurriedly outpacing the brisk walking of time,

meeting down in the alleys of strangers and guests,

with a  mask of smiles and warmth of handshakes.

She wrote words about her past life compiled to a book

for the world to read awaiting for her autograph signing

and a keepsake of empowerment how she made it through

hell and have been there when no one cared to witness.

 

It is another dramatic story rolling off the press

of another life written down for movies to gobble up

sparking another way for media moguls raking in profits.

She did not understand that her life became a playground

for dreamers and drifters praying for some kind of salvation.

When tomorrow will be another sorry day for someone

who can match up sympathy and the public adulation.

When she forgets about the time when reality is not

what she is on TV, but a flickering glitter destined not

to last another year. As fickle as the world spins around,

she begins another round of playing masquerades again.

Read Full Post »

The clock strikes the twelfth hour.

As the familiar sound of wind chimes signals

another year of moving on,  slow and steady.

Remembering the images of the man

within the constant, shifting revolutions

of sunrise and sundown in this woman’s life.

 

Witnessing how lifelong travels have ended,

forging across countless dinnertime of growing old.

Around the fireplace, rekindling romance.

Recalling the stories of the fishermen,

of sailors down the Mediterranean.

Of cowboys in the Wild West

and the wildlife in Africa.

Of the mystical journeys

from the sands of Arabia

to the sands of Samarkand.

 

Those intimate exchanges of lofty dreams

and grand ambitions traveling marvelous

distances of north going down south.

The eastern spring and the wintry west.

Witnessing how she listened. And almost

forgot the difference, whether it is

the story of this man’s life in the stories.

Or simple make-believe.

 

Witnessing how she wobbled achingly

at her feet standing up and lighting a candle,

whispering a prayer. Memories became

mighty flexing arms reaching out for the years.

Discovering the man who makes her laugh

and who makes her cry the silent tears.

Witnessing a love that will never grow old.

Those quiet devotion as ageless and tireless,

pacing along with the hands of time.

Read Full Post »

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.

Read Full Post »

It’s odd to see a cow

grazing in the fields of gold.

I wonder how they chew

the sun-bleached blades of grass?

 

Wearing a pair of green-

tinted sunglass.

  

It’s odd to witness a bird

perched on a concrete sill.

A shred of plastic

on its ashen beak.

 

I wonder. Isn’t the bird

building a synthetic nest?

 

It’s odd, then I wonder.

How life forms into a breed

evolving through changes-

of this world’s decadence.

 

Natural species adapting

surreal existence.

Read Full Post »

Older Posts »