Tag Archives: Poetry

Metamorphosis

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A meadow full of yellow buttercup flowers in full bloom

Photo by Tim Mossholder

I like yellow flowers.

I realize how much has changed;
How the stars appear brighter.
I am wary of the light sometimes.

I remember its deceptiveness.

I catch myself smiling
with a lightness and innocence,
Untouched.
Daydreaming.

As though I did not emerge
gasping for breath
only to submerge again.
And again. And again.

I chide the part of me that smiles,
child-like. I remind her
of happiness that is hard earned;
I tell her to not spend it all at once.

To save some
For nights that are darker
For mornings that are colder
For roads when she finds — I find myself alone.

I tell her to wrap up her smiles
In cotton wool,
To ration out her joy in bits and pieces
A little here and there, wisely.

She laughs loudly — audaciously.
And it sounds like cowbells
On a warm afternoon in the meadow.

She blows bubbles in the bath
And makes smileys on the fogged mirror.
I stand besides her
Trying to protect her from herself.

Someone has to maintain the archives of memories.

But her happiness is absolute
She wants no part of the carefulness.
I hesitate a little, and indulge
Into a smile like sunshine sometimes.
I still like yellow flowers.

Penance

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When they skinned me alive,
I was afraid, very afraid.
For I knew my crimes were not merely skin-deep.
And when they pelted me with stones,
A chill crept into my heart.
For I knew I could not atone my sins with broken bones.
But when they reached deep inside
And pulled out that one tiny shard to crush,
A sliver of hope, that sustained my life,
I gave a weak laugh, giddy with relief.
For there could be no more;
The Lords of Karma had crossed that line.
There would be no more punishment
Without violating the very laws that they held so sacred.
I reached out and took it back;
That tiny shard of an already broken whole.
“No more punishment”, I repeated to myself,
A statement and a promise at the same time,
For I had reached, at last, the end of my penance.

Scavengers

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ray-hennessy-118046

I thought there would be no more.
I thought there would be mercy
After losing my limbs, my heart, my head.
But the razor sharp teeth betray
The signs of salivating
At the mere empty shell of my broken body as well.
They have come for my soul,
Hidden helpless under the folds of my tortured skin;
I wonder if they can smell the rotten death inside.
They will peck and bite until nothing remains but bones.
Circling around me, they wait,
Watching the struggle,
To drag myself slowly
An inch every minute.
They are patient in their hunger,
Biding their time, until the end.

Red

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The world went red this morning;

Was it red yesterday as well?

And the days and weeks and months before?

Do I remember a world with all colors?

 

As dawn approaches,

I see the crimson of the sun

Bleeding in all directions of the sky.

Do I remember seeing a rainbow?

 

The creek flowing through the valley

Is the vermillion starting at the head

As it paints her, the mountain,

With the color of her master.

 

Red flowers adorn the branches

Like ruby rings on hands;

The shine of glamour masking

The bruises beneath the bangles.

 

I trace the heavy droplets

From palm to elbow to neck.

My cheeks feel hot and sticky;

I discover, at last, the source of red.

The White Lie

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Can nothing be a thing,

That is heavy on the heart?

Can nothing be a knife,

That carves out a hollow in the chest?

Can nothing be dark,

Engulfing the air around, suffocating me?

It seems to have too much character for being nothing.

 

It approaches every night

And I am afraid of sleep.

It approaches every dawn

And I am afraid of the day,

Of going through the motions,

The endless rituals of what we call life,

As I hide behind the mask of a white lie;

“I am afraid of nothing.”

Olive Branches

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Olive, Branch, Leaves, Sky

Olive branch you extend,

And I reach out with my own.

 

But time keeps passing

And turns it into a dagger

That twists in the heart

 

As I open my hands to find nothing;

Perhaps it was all imagination.

 

Gentle breeze starts blowing,

And I dare to venture a smile.

 

The moment draws to a close

And turns it into a stormy gale

That tries to uproot all the faith

 

That I had built in my heart;

Perhaps it was all imagination.

 

Paper Boats

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boat paper, water, dream, water, fullscreen

I would ask for meanings, if allowed,
Of the many words which float
As messages in paper boats do;
There for all the world to see.
Because I am afraid now
Of falling off the cliff of difference
That seems to be present
Between what is said,
And what I understand.

These words seem miraculous
For they sound as if spoken
From the depths of my own agony
Instead of the writer’s;
Perhaps it is the same?
But the words are not mine
And I dare not claim anymore
To understand what was meant.

To ask for meanings,
I must sail my own boats
And that plan suffers
From the same flaw of interpretation.
But I must, of course,
For there exists now a vast ocean
And only a vessel made of feeble paper.
I can only hope
That the ocean does not engulf it.

Then again, the ocean is free after all.
Who knows if the boat was even headed my way.

Phoenix

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Photo by Alex Wigan

The spark of smiles

And innocent longings

Turned to a flame;

Deep red and pure,

Of passion and warmth, hopes and dreams.

 

As she watched the flame turn to harsh fire

That threatened to cremate the very love

Which it was built from,

Panic washed over her,

And she stood paralyzed,

Forced to watch the destruction all night.

 

The fire had burned without restrictions

And brought to light all good and bad.

She now surveyed the landscape of the hearts

Where residue flames still burned around;

Bright stars in ebony dark.

The venom had flowed out due to heat;

In rivulets of poisonous green. And the love?

 

The memory of the pure, red flame

Danced in front of her eyes

And she saw the light igniting far off,

As crimson sun broke the night.

Gaining strength from warming rays

She promised aloud to burn just as bright

And sent her word to the fiery being

With messengers of both lands still stirring;

Phoenixes, after all, are reborn from the ashes.