Tuesday, July 16, 2013

Untitled

There is happiness
to be found in
the eye of the storm.
Tornadoes
spinning like tops
in the palm of your hand
as you mold them slowly
this way and that.
And happiness is there
in the gentle breeze too.
Filled full with the smells of
roses in a balcony garden,
freshly done laundry
and satisfaction.
There is joy hidden in the
the beat of a drum
and the thunder of feet
as countless follow
the path you tread.
The marches you started,
the journeys you led.
And there is joy too
in the tuneless whistle
that escapes you on a
particularly flawless day.
Happiness. It's there.
For some it's in the world
they hope to make.
And for others in the one
that's already their's to take. 

Saturday, July 13, 2013

Chalked out

You test the water
and feel the thrill of
the biting, acid,
electric, primal cold
run up your leg
like a vine gorging
quickly, hungrily
on spring's fullness.
You back away
and bury
your restless feet
in warm, inert sand.
There, you are still again.
Steady.
You wake yourself up
from dreams.
The ones that show you
exactly, precisely
what you want.
The nightmares of true
desire you dream.
And from them you
wake up in cold sweat,
choking on a scream.
You clench your fists.
Around time, life, fate,
people, coincidences
and consequences.
The stars form for you
constellations that you have
painstakingly dictated.
You have many fears
and very few
unanswered questions.
Don't you?
For not even to yourself
the reins you seem to give.
Just from one day to another
you reluctantly live.

Thursday, July 04, 2013

Dinner table

He was remembering,
sitting alone at the table,
the taste of pepper in
hot soup.
And the feel of starch
as his hand brushed over
the ornate futility of
the white lace tablecloth.
The ornate futility that
had slipped quietly
into the conversation
hanging heavy in the air.
He was remembering
the day when he had seen,
with looking back eyes,
the crunch of fresh apples
and the shine of a knife.
The gleam of polished,
naked mahogany.
The glint of a sun ray
from a time before
the table was laid with
glittering, superfluous
silverware.
He was remembering,
sitting alone at the table,
the voice that flew across it.
What was for lunch?
How was work?
Was the traffic bad?
Just yesterday
she had wanted to know
even about the most
mundane things.
And today
while he was dying alone
she was living on in oblivion.