Away from home,
This Year
Ahead of time,
I caught a glimpse
Of the Red and Yellow
Fall—
So that upon
My return,
She had not yet
Arrived.
Knowing that She
Eventually would come,
I ceased to anticipate,
For I had seen it all.
But
She never appeared
Back in town,
As when She took me
By surprise,
I didn’t recognize Her
At all.
She would make Her stay,
Just like the year before,
But She was not
What I saw
Anymore.
Inescapable lures;
Deflated mornings.
I’m afraid
That I shall never break free,
Uncuffed from crippling yearning,
Emancipated from the cage of
Forever falling.
Innocence besmirched
By those who criminalize,
Prosecute and Villainize
The conjured up,
Perverted me.
Condemning
In blind contempt,
They know not
That I am Purity,
Too bright,
Too shrouded
For them to face
And realize.
“You love playing with that. You love playing with all your stuffed animals. You love your Mommy…your Daddy. You love your pajamas. You love everything, don’t ya? Yeah…But you know what, buddy? As you get older, some of the things you love, might not seem so special anymore. Like your Jack-in-a-Box. Maybe, you’ll realize that it’s just a piece of tin and a stuffed animal. And the older you get, the fewer things you really love. And by the time you get to my age, maybe it’s only one or two things—with me, I think it’s one.”
—Staff Sergent William James speaking to his infant son. The Hurt Locker.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Particular Moments 