Walk each and every step
where once you used to skipped
the stairs to save by twos
to climb with less fatigue —
Fatigue is welcomed now,
or at least in future days
when rested, legs emboldened,
would clamor for more weight,
but find its joyful opposite
in a slowly thinning waist.
Slowly slow indeed. But hey, just more practice thinking in years. As long as we survive them…just stay focused. Small victories, then large ones.
Why yearn for love that never was,
a bond with blurred out boundaries,
a pledge so heavy taken, unrequited,
yet offered still in spite of sanity;
Why yearn for nights of sleepless sighs,
demanding dreams to cater whim,
only to wake and greet the sun
feeling that greater loss within.
Soon, soon I will move on from this current phase of sappiness. Hopefully that does not entail moving on from you, though I suppose the motions have been set in such directions. The pity of unrealized potentials…
a path beyond the tread
where feet so steady swing
found no closure to be had —
But here is somewhere anyways,
no closer to the place in mind,
but still in soreness must jog on
until heart could fall in line.
We, or at least I, always have the choice to go. But as that saying goes, I also have the choice to stay. Not all struggles need be heroic; indeed, the quiet ones prove much more difficult thus far…
Were we to hate so harsh,
without a second blink
would words so painful, twisted,
stir a passerby to think —
And yet those profound words
arose somehow from love,
that to foes compared would feel
adored when at their worst.
Definitely a forgettable one, but the lesson itself shouldn’t be. If I am honest about my love for her (or anyone), that should mean a higher level of value (and joy) added than misery or pain.
We tried to waltz our best
beyond the charted pasts,
a dance experience feigns
to know what’s coming next;
But fragile were the words
only weekly intertwined,
that even one step skipped
sets the dancers ten behind.
Back to it. Back to the story so nearly done, complete…
Another scribbled note, imperfect, hasty,
frazzled like the scattered rays of sun
behind the budding leaves of spring,
though winter winds still lingered on a bit —
The note unfinished, the jacket donned too thick,
though kept the dying winds aside for walks,
but also hid away the words unsent
as frantic rain relieved coherent thoughts.
My thoughts are oscillating as erratically as Chicago weather churned this week. Towards the light it seems, but not there yet. Towards a future worth waiting for, but like any other future, not certain to arrive at.
Banish for now the light which soft compels
the gentleness befitting of the morning,
where we, relenting, solemn stride
half-hearted in deep yearnings —
Instead delight but for a moment
inspired by the blushing red of cheeks
emboldened by each drop of wine
reflected on the fuchsia lips.
My battle waged against sleep tonight is quickly coming to a loss. Well fought though old friend, tonight we’ve learned a lot.
Beneath the darkest roils,
between the winding thoughts,
invites the idle mind
to fantasize, indulge —
in dreams of bitten passions,
the spirit firmly seized,
renouncing all of light
for figments in the mists.
So the mischievous side of me comes out to play. Let’s keep it up a bit, shall we?
Dear love, I lift my pen to write
an unsent letter from the heart,
that pensive in your absence, spurred,
by the compulsion to make art —
Like tulips blossoming in dawn,
so too each thought of you a burst
of brilliance in the solemn grays
of joy unseen and voice unheard —
But lost to time you are, dear love,
and lost I am without your smile,
resigned to count each hazy day
in dreams and idleness the while —
And in some distant day perhaps,
these tulips will again greet light,
but until then may they find rest,
contented in these words I write.
Another year of writing starts. It’s been an interesting four months so far to say the least. Maybe 2016 will continue to be the year of miracles. Maybe I’ll also finish closer to the deadline too…
We knew a day the pens would stop,
the last of clacking finger strokes
as projects, pledges, meet their end
uncelebrated in this coffee shop —
Below each written piece was sealed
a clue of heart or soul disguised,
at best bouquets of fashioned hopes,
though more often failed designs —
But could we know between the words
revised, excluded, made obscure,
that in a year of dreams made real
we’d finally arrived at that day here? —
A year of thoughts to ink inscribed,
to tell in time our weathered lives.
Dedicated to S.K.
8 months and 8 days late, but finally this one poem a day project’s done. Finality has a certain beauty, invoking such mixtures of elation and profound solemness. But all things good and beautiful must end. Lest I get too sentimental, we’ve agreed to start anew. Time to pick up the pen again. The next chapter starts.