I bought once a bottled dream,
a wish or two, untidy, written
as children finger-paint the yellow sun —
Then passed a decade’s fun
of blurry moons, remorseful mornings,
the bottle shelved behind the lines
that maximize careers.
It’s cracked since here and there
from age perhaps, though mostly
poor attempts at my stuffing
neatly written wishes to its helm,
wishes polished such they mock
the bottle’s fusty form, and yet —
the sun was painted brighter then
despite its humbler mess.
-Inspired by the daily writing prompt. Might have gone a different direction than what was intended by the prompt, but hey, is that not what the creative process is all about?
-I can’t tell if this is personal or not. Hard for it not to be at least somewhat. I’m also not old enough…
The quarter balanced on its side,
held up by carpet filaments,
awaiting topple, heads or tails,
as time slips till tomorrows…
Yet desperate pleading cannot help
as coin, tossed indecisive, could not give,
and Providence proves the more elusive
when puppy paws collect their treat.
An older find within the vaults, with some tweaks. Then, as now, life offered few clear answers. Then, as now, we push on.
As long as you are happy,
wherever that may be,
some songs of solemn thoughts
played on repeat as you quietly
read and contemplate.
As long as you are happy,
with or without me,
I am happy too,
cursed with happiness by day
and solemn thoughts of you in dreams.
This picture here, edging 3
years of our days beside:
as long as you are happy,
that memory alone suffices
until I die.
Acceptance is the key to peace. I am learning to accept your presence’s loss with grace, though never without hope of course that reunion in some future date’s in store. Almost got away without a rhyme, but alas, the pull with my “style” is just too strong…
“Beggars do not envy millionaires, though of course they will envy other beggars who are more successful.” ~Bertrand Russell
Deep wisdom? Or shallow observation? It certainly makes sense to me. The question is: does it matter? My judgment so far is no, probably not. I maximize my odds with my given hand. Sometimes, the hands have a 0% win rate. To play or to throw the cards on the table. The game happens either way.
All I truly own are words
arranged as birds compose
their tunes — will you share the music?
Above the canopy, musing stars
lend their ears and contemplation:
Will your heart join with me and sing
in mutual congregation?
Something something about it being Valentine’s day coming up. For the most part, inspiration for new works still remains elusive…
Tomorrow will come, though we may not arrive;
such fragile dreams of idle lives
in luxury — does only to the future
Tonight will pass, but we are at least here,
the goods we own may seem inferior —
but minutes, accorded all the same,
passes by for prince and pauper.
Never richer was I than today
nor ever will that be —
our words and silence, mutual spent,
transcends wealth’s mortality.
A newly birthed draft. Also devoid of images compared to other pieces. Somewhere in creative writing class, I was told this is bad poetry. But if bad poetry lets one feel cathartic for giving birth to it, is that so bad?
A theme has clouded most of my writing this past year. A yearning for something beyond the current condition. I have it rather good right now: a good path in grad school, a good prospect, a decent living standard compared to last semester (though I did splurged more than I should have, given conditions). I made peace with certain elements of my recent past, all of course but the one person who remains the subject of much poetic lamentations. More than anything, I wish that story had a better ending. The last chapter should be something more than blank pages…
But I’ve slowly realized too how strange said reunion might come to be. I’ve changed much since those fateful texts and that terrible meeting. No doubt she has as well. Some days I wish we could share these heart-to-hearts again. I won’t lie to her and say that my eyes will remain chaste (they never could). What does she look like now? Some days it pains me that I do not know.
Life is great, but it could be that much greater. If I could have my fate foretold, would you be there at the edge of all?
It’s so funny how much pain you’ve seen me bear for that one. She has resigned herself a footnote in our tale. You on the other hand…
Another smiling night
of shaded eyes,
hugging pillow tightly
by the side as though
delighting frizzled hair.
A day now seems a week,
and 7 days a year, until
enraptured eyes will meet
again in February air,
whose patron saint
works tireless to impart
hopeful warmth in hearts.
So to those rosy, ember gazes —
six more dreaming nights
to go, with pillow hugged tightly.
It has never done a soul much harm going to bed with smiles.