The Rain came down
And washed all the Noises
Away—
For the first time,
I was taken astray,
Far away,
To distant Lands
Where I would find myself
Steady,
Free to breathe the same
Air
Of consistency—
So that no matter where
My feet settle—
The Sierras or
The Himalayans,
I would still keep
That which
No Man
Can ever take away.
The Wheel of Fortune spins
On and on—
There will be days
Of Prize collecting
And days when Luck
Is seemingly gone.
But It Goes Like It Goes—
Not much Beef
In what’s been done.
So go on and on,
Counting winnings while
Accepting losses—
The Days are very bound.
There is a pair of cardinals that would pay their occasional visits to the backyard. Though I am not entirely sure of their flight routines, I am aware that their appearances seem to be bound by a periodic pattern—the details concerning its particular time intervals have always eluded me.
With agile and energetic maneuvers, the two birds would glide up and down among the tree branches and garden furnishings. And because of the vibrant red-orange of their feathers, one can hardly take his/her eyes off them anytime they are anywhere in sight.
Today, for the first time this year, I had the fortune to see these lively, magnificent creatures again. With winter nearly to its rear and spring yet to have sprouted it first buds, at a glance, the yard is still in shades of withered, yellowish-gray. This made the winged guests especially eye-catching, for their fiercely bright coats sharply contrasted the stark hues of their surroundings.
Having spent most of the day like a ghoul, the sight of these cardinals brought forth relief, coupled by a sudden change of heart; their presence rebelled against and defied all that has perished outside: desiccated stretches of grass, leaf-less, snarled trees, and naked dry earth—all void of any vital sign. Yet there they were, alive and in flight amidst the dead, like messengers of Hope, delivering a kindred torch of life to the ones still living in bleak times.
A Brother told me
That He cared for
Other people, and that
He wished to help them.
Though He a Brethren,
I could not believe Him.
Maybe it was because
He wore a passé
Track jacket, and
Sweat pants full of lint.
Or it could be that
His face was covered in
A slew of horrid
Craters—
Something that pegged Him
For a serial killer.
Or was it me,
Who is of little Faith,
Had simply refused to believe
Any Good?
Love can be a torturous thing,
Like poisonous tumors under the skin—
Thousands of desires itch and fidget
Manically
In the Iron Cage
Of veiled longing—
Terrified to tear apart
The vague friendship
That Kindles a secret,
Lonely heart.
I am doomed to not know the Silence
That I desperately need to find—
Even in this strangely isolated, luxurious place,
There rings an irreducible noise in my head—
Which for most of the time,
Hums like a muffler,
Drowning out all the fine things
That could be otherwise verbalized.
But every now and then,
This Droning would up itself several notches,
And become various buzzings of the uttermost
Jarring and painful kind—
Rendering me handicapped,
So that I should Speak peculiar, alien sounds—
Impaired to divulge;
Failing miserably to even identify
What was it
That I originally intended to clarify.
It’s early afternoon;
Gentle sun and silky breeze.
The leaves flutter and
The branches sway,
Together leaving patches
Of shifting, speckled shades
On the pebbled ways.
Sitting on a bench
In the midst of it all—
Friday’s concluding outflow,
Never too different
From its morning influx—
He wondered
If they were just a big,
Unwary herd after all.
Jazz, Jazz—
All that Jazz.
She leaned back and
Watched the daily round,
Where certitude lies
Forever long.
And then came the deluge–following an endless brooding–and everything was once again, alright. The past two months of suffocating and over-baked habitat of this town had received its reprieve, and became livable.
But what’s home? Everywhere and Nowhere–there are those who are obliged to constantly endure, adapt, and overcome the unfavorable. And this so called harbor of discomfort in the eyes of the pampered, by comparison, suffices far more than what’s required of a safe haven for the less fortunate.
Brown tiles and tanned walls—
Seats and sculptures in shades of gray—
The institution sits
On heavy, concrete bricks.
Full of rigid corners and
Filtrate air—
That which so asphyxiates,
The institutions build
Big, burial grounds
Over Intellects.
Particular Moments 