Are writers master of their words?
I could hardly feel it to be so,
sitting here demanding presence
as the servants chuckle at me —
Nor anymore are they equal company,
to be greeted like your friends
who find themselves ruffling through
your kitchen goods and drinking coffee,
No — words are something else clearly,
an oracle of sorts, and until she speaks
I am nothing but a sham with words.
Whenever I find myself writing about writing, it’s a good sign that I’ve hit a mental barrier. Tomorrow will mark the 2/3rd way point of this year-long venture. So close, yet so far away if ideas were to dry up.
I’ll be that brave somebody for you,
at least that’s how each version goes,
when lectured words, like tapping rain,
slipped by the windowpane unheeded.
So then, here we are again, rehearsing
some fantastic plot where I, a hero,
powerful and noble, saves the day!
Strange how so few fantasies conclude
with working in our mediocrity, of turning
average grades from boring lectures
into average livelihoods, despite that fate
shared by so many lecture dreams.
I guess one advantage of dreaming is that it need not be realistic. The greater the expectation, the greater the disappointment from not meeting it. Is the mediocre’s only purpose to shun itself?
I wanted to let thoughts of you
seeped quietly past the seams,
a dream that waking up tomorrow
I could not bring to mind details
but other than to smile
that dreaming me experienced
a long-gone love like new.
And so another toast to you,
another swirl of whiskey nibbling
at the lips and chaffing tongue,
reminding all at once however brief
that lovers, kisses, come and go,
but sweet memories are persistent.
Change alone is constant. Oh how so much has changed since we last met, for both of us I’m sure. There is a certain peace to be found in the distance of the now and memories, a happiness even despite a less-than-ideal outcome. What a gift you have given me. I only wish I was better to return the favor.
Not too much more to say for us
where eyes cannot maintain,
but drift beyond to rosier blushes,
unspoken effort to mask pain —
That years hence to lament again,
replaying scene and changing words,
that even now proclaim as friends
a former joy and current hurt.
It’s a bad mental habit I sometimes fall into, laughing at all the lack of insight in others’ choices, throwing away what makes them happy and making choices that lead to ever-deeper misery. But I do the same. How often have I ruminated now on some missed opportunities, some person who was “the one that got away” (whether or not it was truly the case)…it’s so easy to harden our hearts to another’s mistaken choices. We can show empathy though, a little mercy from the heart. Sometimes, it’s harder because it’s personal or because I feel that individual is fully deserving of their choices. Still have to try; still a works in progress…
A world of wilting flowers can seem sapped
of vibrant shades succumbed to ends,
a colder wind descending on the plains
sending hushed citizens to their huddled dens.
And when that world of frost, of pain,
predominates with whiteness on all 4 corners,
that fragile furs know all too well
what’s beautiful can feel akin to hell.
The distant visitors of the plain would tell
of all that passes in a cyclical manner,
but what subsisted them until that future thaw
was solidarity of heat from each other.
World news can be so depressing, the feeling of hopelessness and defeat creeping up so often. We have to fight against such feelings though. Amidst the failures and frailty, we are also strong as well. What would giving up on each other accomplish?
Some lies outlive their sources
in the age of hyperlinks,
becoming truths as websites die,
itself the now lone monument —
The pillars stood there incomplete,
some few configurations possible,
that tales conveying its mystic look
differ by the viewer’s angle.
Why are mysteries and the unknown so captivating? Sometimes we’re better off mentally to not know, and yet if given a choice, I would still want to…
The minutes float by free today
unencumbered by a focused thought
as snowflakes falling on the edge
of beginning spring are likewise “lost” —
And lost they are perhaps
to the seasons’ sense of civility,
but water from the rain or snow
makes no difference to new leaves.
It snowed here overnight. I was looking forward to winter ending, but a little more time with winter isn’t so bad I suppose.
In some ways growing old
is not so bad — like the snow,
at once pristine and beautiful
making way for blossoms and
reading under summer shades,
or allowing gaudy day to fade,
exhausting and exerted,
that a night of sleep await,
a rest the proud deserves.
Growing old is not so bad,
as a stronger brew is harsh
to youthful tongues,
but to experience bitterness
is just simply one more taste.
All that’s left to figure out is what bitterness means in this case.
The leaves have not bloomed yet,
but come they will in droves,
adding color to the lifeless sticks
overlooking winter’s end —
For such is life, again, again,
a season to force shedding,
to see the green revived
in another cycle’s turning.
We will always fall eventually. But will we also rise?
My back is turned to all the patrons here,
my ears in headphones to all their stories,
and truth be told I rather it was even so
that the music ceases from their radio,
that in the most public of surroundings,
a seat to greet all comer-bys in front,
I have made here a private chamber,
a group’s comfort in being just one.
This corner has been a very productive one, minus the occasional attractive patron that briefly steals my interest. Such is to be human I suppose.