207. Sanctuary

Like a pair of butterflies flirting in the garden sun,
behest to none but their own mutual moment,
such is the hour you and I shall get to meander here
spent in wanderlust beneath the verdant shades,
where not a single robin’s tune or drop of lazy rain
on the sapling leaf is out of place.

And much too fast an hour passing by, the rosy sky
of setting sun to bid the dreaming world adieu,
return to home and hearth we shall then until light
permit explorers to venture forth and chart
the trees, the leaves, of their hidden site.

Something a bit different. A bit less lazy. Maybe it’ll be a catalyst to break out of this funk.


206. Lines

One second’s much too brief
that sighs are wasted coveting,
nor two could make better case
of smiling more often —

Yet just some tens of these
would start or end a chapter,
the littlest of lines to cull
goodbyes from happy ever-afters.

Time hasn’t felt like it’s been on my side lately. But that begs the question: how could time ever be on my side if I squander it? Yeah, that whole saying about time you enjoy wasting is not wasted…well, it can be wasted. A little joy in the here and now can cost so much future joys. Gotta snap back into it.

205. Exhausted

Repeating actions lead to age,
or was it age that repeats action?
The self-same labor every day
to search for motivation —

Abandoned too some principle,
those youthful aspirations
when meals are scarce to feed
the next hopeful generation.

Progress is slow this week. My laptop is dying; I can feel its ever slower pulse. My writing has become stale again. Sigh.

204. Neighboring Tables

Through the steams of passing lattes
and the words of once-loved strangers,
there we were, the vulnerable souls,
ever eager to move past the barrier —

Delighting in answers we exchanged,
the glimpses of a story building,
and somehow 60 minutes passes by
as the coffee, cold, went unfinished.

Life is never quite what makes sense. Sometimes, you get a hint of fate in the most random of places.

203. All-In

Given enough time of days
and anything at all could happen,
as hours fast or slow will build
until at last some prized achievement.

But time of day has limits,
allotted and invisible,
a budget no builder’s privy to
except to hope that he or she is able.

So what to do then with these bricks,
contemplating some great structure,
shall we lay them neatly anyways
and test our lifeline’s favor?

This cold has done much to contribute to my laziness. That is no excuse however. It’s so easy to blame or attribute negativity to something/someone else, just so I can feel a little better temporarily. I can’t allow myself to take that road – it leads only to stagnation. “Our greatest glory is not in never falling, but in rising every time that we fall.” That’s a lovely quote to own and live. And live I shall.

202. Same Old

Letting go of well-meant words,
the fading of a summer,
as birds do migrate south
upon familiar, old zephyrs —

Yet just a few did lag behind
to feel the snow upon their feathers,
unlikely to survive the cold,
as forgotten words don’t matter.

I am hungry now, though I will wait till morning/lunch proper. What a mostly unproductive day it was; refreshing certainly in small doses, but this cold weather can change anytime now.

201. Condition

No love was ever sane enough,
nor hope that’s only logical,
to justify whatever suffering
experienced for the end goal.

Yet hope and love remains,
despite their rate of failure:
resilient symbol of our kind,
or are we just slow learners?

So, I find myself writing these ponderous type of poems again. The lesser ones, as it were. Gotta kick back some imagery in there. Also, 201…it’s amazing how much time has passed since the project was started. And yet, 200 days really isn’t that much time, is it?

200. Companion

The cold of winter could not take
the slightest warmth from you,
nor the ever-shorter daylight make
of your form a lesser view,
the most pristine crystalline flake
to ever grace me hitherto —

Come then princess, let us two
traverse this bleak Chicago weather,
for so long as I have you beside,
the winds, the snow, does not matter.

If you write about happier things, you focus on happier parts of life. Writers can be so melancholic, but we need not be.

199. Hand-held Mirror

Are there characters beyond
that dictate the heart’s notions,
or are we fated between flames
of hatred and of passion?

Are there characters to find
by reasoning’s convincing,
or must we stride in circles,
repeating like the seasons?

These characters then, within,
to whom are they subservient?
The whims of fate or friends? —
or even worse yet: it depends.

Why do I value so much consistency? Why does it seem so undervalued by so many? Some people almost take pride in the fact that their words have no value, that their promises and commitment are essentially meaningless. Worst yet I suppose is I continue to extend an olive branch, hoping somehow the scenario changes. Perhaps in doing so I am the fool. But in not doing so, I feel like a hypocrite. Striving to be better is so painful sometimes, be it physical, mental, or emotional. I am still only human after all, despite my belief in our potential.

198. Idealized

My nightly dreams are made of these,
sensations of embracing you warmly
as though the rising sun rays lit the face
of an exhausting night watch duty —

My daily thoughts shall wander then,
searching for inspiration endlessly
until the night will let us meet again
in these dream-locked fantasies.

For all the dreading of sleep I harbor, sleep is quite relaxing on most nights. Getting up in fact is quite a pain. Yet I would say the same of going to bed. Reality, dream — some days, both have their charms. Some days, neither.