it has been so long since I last moved,
that I forgot what it means
to take a step forward —
that my feet got stuck to the pavement
& grew roots in its crevices —
that my perception gathered dust &
flightless birds nested in my sentience.
it has been so long since I last moved,
that now
my footfalls echo farther than ever before
& resonate in the depths of my very be(ginn)ing
because this time,
I have nothing to lose.
Out of Reach
at times I wonder
if longing still clings to Those
long faded from this world —
we, left behind &
bound to sort through
epitaphs
in conflicting shapes & sizes, still
desperately trying to find a path
to Those
& never quite ready
to get there yet —
at times I wonder
how it would feel
to not look back at all.
Falling Skies
I was born the day the sky fell apart;
it dropped down on us
in radiating rivulets
that very day
we were convicted to be A-OK
& sometimes I wonder
if that same sky was fated to be
the origin of indifference.
Warm Heart(h)
back when I wished I could still fit
into your apron’s pocket
I watched time t(r)ick(le) off the kitchen wall
& pool in those delicate smile lines
you assembled so carefully over the years
the stories you told sounded like
filtered sunlight & the clatter of dishes
while you let me dangle my feet
off the kitchen counter
(cheeks sticky with ssshh! secret apricot jam)
when no one was watching
but you.
It has been years since I visited dVerse Poets Pub due to my lack of time to write… but for their 8th year Anniversary I just had to pen down a couple of lines. This time, Brian asks us to take a memory/moment and paint a picture of it… I hope I accomplished that.
Pay them a visit if you have a few minutes… they are wonderful poets.
Before The Dawn
back when the hours still churned slowly,
lilies grew in the palm of your hand —
rooting in deep crevices
forged by the strenuous hours of life
& every day I watched you touch their petals
with a fragile little smile, tucked
into the corner of your mouth.
The Attic
happenstance (d)ripped steadily
until the core became
harder than the shell &
tears were just a by-product
of Going Through The Motions
the soft spot where
You used to reside
has long since
faded into nothingness
& hung its hat
next to wishful thinking.
Water’s Edge
at first, we dragged our feet
at the bottom of the sea
when water still spoke in serrated whispers
that only we could hear —
but soon we lost our fortunate foothold
& were bound to face
the smothering tides.
Refuge
most of her flaws were tucked away
at the bottom of her kitchen drawer —
held together by a dainty ribbon
& labeled “keepsakes”
they felt right at home
amidst her life’s colorful clutter.
The (T)race
there is density in the air —
wringing life from every fiber of your be(ginn)ing
while you still try
to g(r)asp its meaning.
The Gift of Mor(t)ality
for the longest time I rode
side by side with mor(t)ality
on washed-out, winding roads, searching
for that one shred of humility
that led me back to mySelf
he was a hero of sorts —
with his relaxed posture &
those pearly-white teeth, easily slicing
through even the harshest bits of reality
as if they were nothing
& with just his lopsided smile
he always reminded me what it should feel like
to be human in an inhumane world.
Close(d)
it did not end
in the beginning
when all those little things
were still just little Things
& few noticed
their low-dosed beauty.
now that magnitude
outweighs the gravity of delusion
Little things
are all that matters
in the beginning
of the end
of the beginning.
Not A Christmas Poem
your smile stays hidden
behind a thousand snakes;
scales glistening in the spotlight
you force yourSelf to stand in —
so tall and manly (as you put it)
I still remember the color of your soul
& how warm it felt to the touch
when it was yet within my reach
not all that long ago
your eyes are filled with hope
when my fingers brush the last shred of dignity
off your starched collar
& I realize
this is not a christmas poem.
Arrogance (Haiku)
to believe we can
shape the world to fit our needs —
we are (grains of) sa(n)d.
Once Were Warriors
you used to cover the walls
with pictures of times long past &
between the wooden frames
there was no breathing space
for the present & the future —
but in your eyes
neither the stone grey of perseverance
nor the creeping chill of stale memories
lingered.
For Miles
I have been traveling for weeks now
on this (dreaded) path you called a symphony
back
when I still heard the rustle of my mother’s clothes
& tried to suck the warmth out of her shadow
in passing
I will (never) get used to being
the one who waves at you
in the rearview mirror, determined
not to look back —
I guess
life is funny that way.
Another Wandering Soul 