The sidewalk ended at the road to cross,
and hesitating for a glance both ways
I quickly pushed along towards what now
but another sidewalk to traverse;
So what will soon give first,
the sun to drizzling clouds perhaps?,
or that future up ahead they say
all successful eyes attend to.
Some days or nights, I get stuck in a mental chamber of thinking on my past mistakes. Sure, I learn from them as best as I humanly could (which could mean anything). The wish for redoing…perhaps it’s why the concept of redemption, or reconciling grace, has always appealed so much to me.
Invested hours, hollowed pens,
the scribbled marks on margin,
detail of some abstraction gained
before the years erased, forgotten,
that found beneath unsorted stacks
the once-young master of the lesson,
who thought by watching clouds
he is prescient of the heavens.
It’s fun to read the remnants of a younger us. I knew so much then, yet so little. Age does bring perspective, a higher wisdom as well as some scarring of young hope. Never stop, older me. One day when you read this. Never stop.
No one ever asked me
why I feel compelled to write
nor have I ever paused
to contemplate the question
but like instinctive thirst
would find water refreshing
that words, like dripping droplets,
relieve their pressure on the leaf.
I used to be so good at spending time by my lonesome. Does age make us desire company all the more?
the coffee’s done,
all headache, bitterness,
a moment’s audial end —
I pleaded silently for words,
brown irises distressed,
but I don’t know her anymore,
and perhaps never really did.
A little twist on that old familiar breakup line. We all acknowledge that people change. Sometimes though change leaves us incompatible. Hindsight may be 20/20, but it also has a rose-tinted lens.
What smoke that leaked in every exhale,
breathed deep from every smoke,
greeting death there in the abstract,
heaving deep the disappointed words.
We knew it, yes, the long tomorrow
when snuffed the buds lie scattered,
but also know of the lengthy sorrows
each hour of a lonely day can foster.
So many of us are secretly sad. It’s easier to be cynical and callous. It’s much more rewarding to be kind and authentic. Harder too of course. Much harder…
Slanted sunlight setting on the blossom trees,
pretty pink petals slowly shedding off,
beauty returning to the earth at last —
Audacious souls clearing spaces for the tree,
for the moment now a sheltered sapling stem,
at once a present, future, coexist —
Blossoms blooming cannot keep their grace,
as the blushing of the wine would also fade.
A little something different. The blossom tree by 352 has finished blooming and is now slowly losing all its flowers. It will also be the last year I am in the building to watch the scene unfold.
There’s a hole in my heart for you still my dear,
its love has yet to simmer through the years
but like the summer rain that I cannot predict
will flow sporadically as your hair once did,
luminescent, radiant, in the air;
That sun I knew has faded now, as did the joys
of younger love, yet thrilling like the wind,
compelling us to reminisce in the chilly air of night.
Man did I fall behind in the past couple weeks. Finals, projects, SIOP conference. Hopefully the break will be a productivity spur.
At least try a little —
none of us are good
enough to always peak;
even the morning light
must rest for half a day,
but not without reflecting
upon the dutiful moon
in nightly majesty.
One day at a time, that’s all I can do. It should be enough, and if it isn’t, then it was beyond me anyways.
You could as well tell all the tales
of unfairness for what we’re lacking
when judged against the gifts attained
by birth or chance without their asking.
that how glorious the beautiful lived
before dying from aging inattention,
or how proudly stood the taller souls
beneath their bequeathed adoration.
And if you did, you are just human so.
But you’re stuck here all the same,
the die was cast, the turn has started —
The numbers never promised to be fair
to the unlucky lasts finally passing go.
I’ve been in a reflective mood of late. For some reason, reflections tend to lack the joy that normal living gives. Reading about others’ misfortunes, their struggles, it fills me with hope for better days to come for all. Life does not have to be a zero-sum game, does it? Can we not use our one liberating tool (reflective thinking) that nature gives to tell that very same “natural order” to get lost?
You are so much the timeless vintage wine
to my teenage years of getting wasted,
treated much like common drinks the same
when all I wished for was a morning haze.
But that’s the thing about coming of age
we connoisseurs learn too late at times:
someone else will have understood it first,
and to that blessed soul goes the vintage wine.
Saw this analogy earlier on reddit, and I fell in love with it. Certainly reminds me of some beautiful souls already who were discounted in those younger days. If only we could go back in time and slap ourselves some senses. Too late life says. Can you at least learn from those mistakes?