Click on the author to expand and explore their work!
Ghosts
Footsteps in the entryway of the
campground. A light flickers on.
A rocky path, barely illuminated,
stretches out into the darkness.
More footsteps, gravel shifts,
rocks tumble. Poles with string
lights, bulbs broken, line the path
to the arena.
A pause, at the threshold. The path
expands into a large circle.
A muddy green tent, with a tear
in the door flap, sits there,
knowing too much. The lantern
is placed on a crate, next to the
fire pit. The flame’s ashy remains smoke
gently. Someone has been here.
Footsteps ensue, but there’s no
movement. You stand there,
frozen. A breeze picks up.
The hairs on your neck stand.
The lantern flickers out.
Your eyes, unadjusted, see nothing
but darkness. The haunting sound
circles your ears. Who’s there?
Silence is the response. You hear
a ghastly low growl. Or was it
just the wind? You hear the scrape
of metal on stone, coming from
somewhere behind you. As it
approaches, you struggle to
relight the lantern. When the match
flickers on there's a Wraith
Standing in front of you—
and you panic, step backwards
trip over the rock edge of the fire
pit—why did it have to be there?
It looms over you scythe at the ready
and it slices through the air and
your lights
go
out.
Rotting Leaves
my pile of mistakes
is 3 times taller than me
it takes a rake
to organize the things I’ve done wrong
but the rake is too far away
and I’m too lazy
so I just watch
as more and more leaves fall to the ground
eventually the leaves will run out,
right?
eventually snow will fall,
and cover it all up,
with a white coat of paint
so I’ll wait
and wait and wait
for winter to break my stare
me, myself, and I watching leaves rot
through the dirty window
both of which,
I am too tired to clean
Someday, Someone
Someday, someone, will probably find her. Covered in someone else’s blood. Her grave will remain empty, her hair remain at the bottom of the dark, deep river. Her friends may cry, but they don’t dare to leave flowers at her cold plot. Her mother will remain soulless, and her father at the bar, even as the sun reaches its highest point. Against the rotting door lays her rotting body, covered in strips of bright CAUTION tape. So, it’s possible, that someday, someone will find her. But by then, no one will find me.
Graveyard
it was january when you died
which is strange
because you are very much alive now.
i spoke to you
before your thoughts were buried
by the old tree they grew from.
i was told by others it was worth it
that you spent your time wisely
that this would carry into your future
but how can i hear them
and think their words wise
when you said yourself
you were happy it was over
for three months you died
you worked until your back arched
in harmony with your trifold.
i was unable to be happy
looking upon your talisman
for i was busy mourning
the rust on the clock that went
unwatched in your focus.
they say it made you stronger
atop your survivorship
but what doesn’t make you stronger
kills you
as it went for many others
in this graveyard.
and these
these are the years we look
back on and say “we
miss it?”
you mean the time you didn’t spend
on the things you didn’t do
because someone told you
to do something else?
i wish i could see it
as more than the pain
that lead to its inception
more than the stone
unmarked
where my name
would have been.
so that’s where you were
this last january
an open casket funeral
grieving the struggle, the viper
that you took and swallowed down
a pill with sharp edges
making you better
by cutting you up
from the inside.
Garden Loop
In the depths of the vault, there was a scroll that told the future. It screamed in silence, begging to be heard. The people guarding the vault could sometimes hear a faint memory coming from inside. They all wanted to go in, to know what those sounds were, but then they looked to the hundreds of other guards in the room, and conceded to staring at the ceiling, and guessing the words they would hear.
The scroll came from a lost civilization, and was given to the first humans. They were given a simple message. “Eventually, you eat the fruit of knowledge, and you will know exactly why you shouldn’t have. I beg of you, do not create this certain future.” The humans took the warning, and refused to look at the tree that the fruit hung from. But oh, how the very idea snaked into their minds. It said that no matter how long it took them, they were going to eat the fruit.
“Eventually,” the first humans reasoned, “We will break, and will betray what the scroll has said. I want to know why we shouldn’t. I want to know the extent of the paradise that confines us.”
And so they ripped the fruit from the tree, and the paradise ripped around them. It tasted satisfying, like a bandage ripped from an open wound, to avoid an inevitable, slow pain. They understood their mistake, but knew they made the right decision.
What sort of paradise gives the opportunity for it to be ripped away? Perhaps paradise can only live in a radioactive existence, before returning to a stable form of reality. For the sin of wanting to be free, the first humans were sent to hell, leaving behind a scroll.
When the scroll told the story of the first humans, the next set realized how dangerous the scroll was. To avoid the panic caused by knowledge of an unavoidable death, they locked it in a vault, and locked the key in a fading memory.
“Eventually,” they reasoned, “We will all die to the scroll’s future. We mustn’t let the scroll control us. The inconvenience of prevention would negate the paradise we want to create.”
So the vault was set to be guarded, and the scroll was rightfully forgotten.
Some time later, above the miles of concrete and stone keeping the scroll from spreading its message, a paradise was forming. A great city had emerged from the desert. The skyscrapers swallowed the sky, so much so that no one could see the emptiness surrounding. The view from above was an orderly fractal of connecting highways and streets, connecting everyone to everyone to everything. There was a great park in the center, with mountains and forests. There were thousands of footpaths, more area paved for comfort than land shaded by trees. Most importantly, at the center of the park, was a single fruit tree.
It rivaled the skyscrapers in height, but the bark was withering. Almost all the fruit was gone, except for a few on the highest branch. Metal scaffolding spiraled up the surface. Visitors of the park often pressed their ears to the bark, and swore they heard something, like a fading memory. The visitor would then climb the scaffolding in excitement, rip a fruit from the tree, and eat it. The desert crept closer in. There were only a few left.
Eventually, the scroll withered from time and despair. It had given up hope, not that certainty could be avoided, but that humanity would try to avoid it. Then it realized that scrolls can not scream or think, and stopped trying to.
But there was hope yet, across the room from the vault, an old man furiously wrote into a scroll. The scroll was a story, a warning. It was a story of acceptance, an odd acceptance to the end of the world. It was a story of a great cataclysm, which will occur when all the fruit from the tree are plucked. It detailed the exact process to avoid the end. It also explained that no matter how much they tried, they failed to stop certainty.
Suddenly, the guards felt a great pain, like someone ripping a hole in their chest. It felt satisfying.
The old man breathed a sigh of relief. He put his quill down, and picked up the scroll. He shambled to the edge of the room, where the machine had been the whole time. The guards wanted to know what was on the scroll, what any of this meant, but couldn’t speak through the pain. The old man carefully placed the scroll in the machine, and hit go.
The scroll was gone, and the old man collapsed on the ground, life leaving his eyes. The paradise returned to its stable hell.
You picked up a scroll.
Days go Colder
Days go Colder,
As the older slows their praxis.
A four dimensional being,
Doesn’t want to move older,
As it’s pushed to the end of its axis.
I want to mourn the tip of my finger.
I want to mourn the bottom of my shoe.
I want to mourn,
before I was born,
A death only grieved in the fifth.
Maybe if I grow my head taller,
The plane above will notice my presence:
my essence,
transmitted parasitically,
Feeding on my victim’s neurons.
No, there is a difference between space and time.
Like a fall through the sky, unable to climb,
And unable to see,
The possibility to fly,
From the single dot on the line.
But we all fear a death of perception.
Prioritized over interpretation,
To not see the world after;
Possibility of experience;
The frequencies past intuition.
We have found the workaround to death.
An efficient inscription of presence:
A few inches shy,
From a chip in the eye,
Is immortality in all directions.
My grip will become the diameter of the earth.
And with age, will grow through the fourth.
And through eyes of scrabble,
Break the fifth; library of babel,
A simple trade of parasitic belief.
When eyes are mirrors of beliefs,
Nothing but a projection of another,
It’s easy to see,
Impossibilities,
The surface of everything.
Soon we’ll meld together.
The Selfish Thought, survived.
And as days go colder,
To stop the older,
My presence will revive.
You, too, grieve a death in perspective.
But the anticipation of possibility has ended.
Through time you wanted,
The limerick that haunted,
Died, for you, at the end of the second.
The Snakes (Don’t) Know the Newts Feel Pain
The snakes lived in the swamp at the center of everything they knew. They didn’t know anything beyond, and couldn’t remember a time before, but that didn’t worry them, they knew everything they needed. All they needed to know was that they were alive, that they wanted to be, and how to continue to do so. To survive, they needed to know how to kill a newt.
Since forever, the newts were attacked by the snakes. The newts didn’t know why the snakes attacked, but evidently they did, so what mattered most was how to survive their attacks. It was a difficult task; the snakes were fast and their bite inevitable, but the newts were clever, and created a poison within themselves as a countermeasure to stop the snakes targeting them. A strong newt could kill a snake as their final act. The newts prided themselves on their determination to live, and their willingness to die.
Those who succumbed to the poison were celebrated as heroes. The snakes knew the only way to continue was for the weak to fall first, so while they feared to be the one who passed, they weren’t saddened by the passing of others, as it ensured their continued survival. The poison was painful, and the feeling of hunger gave way to only dread. It was a difficult life, but the snakes were prepared to give up anything to live it.
The newts sometimes wondered why the snakes killed them. The two creatures weren’t alone in the swamp, but the snakes always went for the newts. If only they could warn the snakes, to tell them that they were alive. And if only snakes were too, so they could listen. The newts were sure that if the snakes knew they were alive, the snakes would stop killing them. But the newts had no voice to speak, and the snakes had no soul to care, so it wasn’t a tragic thing when a newt was eaten. It was the natural consequence of life, and it was necessary to make their poison stronger, and to ensure their survival.
The snakes sometimes wondered why the newts fled. The snakes knew they were alive, but it was impossible for the newts to be. The snakes believed the poison was a test, to separate the strong from the weak. There was a faint thought that they shouldn’t be tested, and that the newts were a cruel thing for the world to make.
One of the newts saw a bird with a snake, limp in its talons. They had assumed the snakes didn’t have creatures that ate them. It seemed odd that the same mechanism of death applied to both the snakes and the newts. Did the snakes fear the birds like the newts fear the snakes? Did death mean something to the snakes? The newt was repulsed by these similarities, and for some reason, the sight of the dead snake was terrifying for the newt.
One of the snakes was on their first hunt alone. Most of their knowledge came from instinct; to take cover from the birds, to stalk the newts through the undergrowth, and to pray to the world they are stronger than the poison. They were alive, but cognition came at a price. The snakes knew mutations were deadly, and ideas could be deadlier, so the world made sure to wipe away any unneeded variance of the mind. This first hunt was a test from the world, to separate the strong from the weak. Out of the corner of their eye, the snake spotted a newt.
The newt denied the possibility of the snakes being alive. If they were, they wouldn’t kill the newts. The world wouldn’t allow that. A being with a soul would care if they were murderers, they would have no other choice.
The snake had cornered the newt. They knew the chase was not the difficult part of the test, the snakes being much faster than the newts. The true selection event comes from the act of killing, and surviving. The survivors were not only strong in their strength and speed, but in their decisiveness. Stopping to look at their prey before ridding them of life was a deadly mistake. As the snake approached the newt, to finally test their strength against the poison, the snake spotted something in the newt's eyes, which the snake felt in turn. For some reason, the snake was terrified.
There was another possibility, but a pointless one. The newt knew it was a mistake to think the snakes were the same as them, that thought had led to the deaths of many. It was possible the snakes had no other choice, that the killing of newts was to them as necessary as food is to the newts. If that were true, what did the world expect of them? All the pride felt for surviving would turn into pride for other souls starving, cursed with life based on other’s death. The newt wasn’t saddened to banish this pointless thought, as it ensured their continued survival.
The newts are alive. That realization occurs frequently to the snakes, after making the mistake of looking them in the eye. Those snakes don’t last long, and their ideas end with them. The snake knew why the newts fled, not as a test, but from fear. Their death must mean an end to something, something they want to keep. They must feel pain at the snake’s bite, just as the snakes feel pain from the poison and hunger. The snake didn’t want to care that it was a murderer, but when they looked into the newt’s eyes, they had no other choice. It was a terrifying thought, that they felt pain, but a pointless one. The snake knew it was prepared to give up anything to live, even the lives of others. Still, the sight of the fear in the newt’s eyes made it impossible to do what was necessary. The snake was clever, and created a solution to both ensure their survival and to not see the newt feel pain.
The newt saw the snake close its eyes, and lunge.
This writing was for an assignment in Creativity and Culture. It is inspired by the Caspar David Friedrich painting The Monk By the Sea.
The wind blew a chilling mist at the cliff-face. Each speck of the sea stung away at the tall rock, and the monk who stood firmly on it. The monk had a simple task. Hundreds of years of tradition told him so; that it could be conducted with ease, especially by a well-trained monk like him.
The sea’s mist maintained its stubborn barrage. Peering past the dark robes wrapped up to his eyes, past the rock and out to the ocean, he saw the shadows under the waves. They would be concerning for anyone, yes, but a monk should know what to do, what to feel. Still, our monk was unsettled.
It was not like the rituals back at his monastery, amongst the cloisters of boughs and singing birds. He thought of his life before, the simplicity of following in the footsteps of the grand masters. The howling thief of warmth brought him back to the cliff, the edge that cut into the mist. The wide embrace of the horizon enveloped his view. There was simply nothing but him, the raging fog, and the land’s last defense against the sea.
He alone had a choice to make. Would he carry out the transmutation, or would he let his failure live on, here at the end of the land? The wriggling anxiety, the disappointment at his hesitation, they could not be controlled. It was basic protocol to rein in one’s feelings, yet in the presence of this ever-vast, wind-swept sea and its cold, moist breath, our monk was as still as stone.
Perhaps he was still more man than he was monk, something that could not be said about his mentors and elders back at his monastery. With no one to judge him but himself, he soon left the cliff behind.
A Blood Soaked Love
Dark pressed in around him, thick and suffocating, the weight of the sky collapsed upon his chest. The man lay still, his breathing ragged, each breath a fight against the searing pain that cut through his body. The great keep lay in ruin around him, shattered by the onslaught of the night before. The memory of which had long since left him, now just a tear-filled view, masked with a crimson haze of blood and death.
Deep gashes marred his body, two on his head that still pulsed blood out, and several others dispersed across his body; each one a searing brand of the battle's toll. Blood dripped from his fingers, staining them a deep carmine -- he hated the feel of it, but he had no choice, he had had no choice.
“Just a shame it wasn't worth it,” he exhaled, hollow voiced. His gaze drifted to his left, landing on a sky-blue helmet, slick with blood. He sighed again, the sound resounding through his skull, an echo of past memories.
The air was cold and damp, heavy with the scent of iron and rain; somewhere in the distance, the world went on without him. But here, in this silent void, only one thought remained–her.
Cherry-blossom-tressed girl, her smile was a breaking storm cloud lit with sun, she held his heart with so fatal a grip that even now, life ebbing from his torn body, she alone was what he wanted.
Cruel, he thought, that above all things it should be the memory of her laughter, soft and ringing like wind chimes in the spring, clung to his mind and not the pain or even the fear of the abyss drawing closer. He closed his eyes, and he could see her–the way her kind eyes softened whenever she looked at him, the way her soft hands once traced his palm absent-mindedly as they talked, as if memorizing the lines of his fate.
He could almost see her clearly, the warmth in her eyes when she called him sweet, that playful glimmer when he teased her in return. He could hear the lilt in her voice, the way she would sigh his name when he said something particularly charming, as if exasperated by his kindness, yet unwilling to turn away from it.
She would scold him for lying still, giving in to fate so easily. She would cross her arms and call him stubborn, tell him he must always have the last word, must always be the noble one. And then, in that way only she could, she would kneel beside him and touch his face, her fingers feather-light against his skin.
But she wasn't here.
And perhaps that was his biggest sorrow of them all.
Ah, my sweet… he thought, it is a greater pain to be apart from you than any sword I have ever known.
He closed his eyes and let the memories unravel before him in threads of gold across the dark. He saw the night they first spoke–the way her voice sounded like something he had known, something preordained. He remembered how the world quieted when she laughed, the lessening weight of his loneliness by her simple proximity.
He recalled those evenings beneath lantern-lit skies when a sliver of time felt like an eternity, and the space between them filled with a glance of knowing; words half-swallowed in hesitation. They would map their similarities with precision, as an astronomer traces constellations in the sky–first slowly and carefully, or so it seemed, for fear that to acknowledge them too boldly might shatter the delicate balance between them.
"You're too sweet," she had told him once, pressing her fingertip against his forehead as if branding him with the accusation, her expression somewhere between fondness and exasperation.
"And you, my angel… are perfect," he had murmured in return, his voice softer, almost reverent. Because she was— divine, untouchable, radiant in a way that made the rest of the world seem so dull in comparison.
If only he had told her the truth, spoken of the ache in his heart whenever she wasn't there, of every glance that had seemed like a prayer, never finding its answer; if only he had told her he knew, long before he could admit it, what he had become: all hers. Cruel thing, time was; love never uttered was lost.
A sharp pain tore him back to the present, a fresh wave of agony burning through his body, forcing him to gasp. His fingers twitched, desperate to hold onto the image of her, but it was slipping, fading, like petals torn from their branches and carried away by the wind.
Would she remember him? Would she know how much he had loved her, even in silence?
The frozen rain had begun, the ominous clouds from the night before finally yielding, releasing their sorrow upon the shredded earth. Water rushed from his trembling fingers, their twitch one of the final signs of life in him. The cold felt nice on his skin and slowly washed away the stain of battle-- not that it mattered anymore. How could it?
A single tear traced the curve of his cheek mingling with the icy rain, cleansing his face of blood. A shuddering breath left his lips, each inhale laced with pain, yet he took in as much air as his failing body would allow.
With great effort, he tilted his head forward, his gaze returning to her helmet-- cleaned once more, glistening beneath the pale, merciless sky. Slowly agonizingly, he raised his hand, reaching for it. His fingers trembled as they turned, revealing a faded tattoo-- two initials entwined amidst a heart, a promise inked into his very skin. He exhaled one final breath, surrendering his will to the silence.
The darkness closed in around him, he could do nothing-- Only whisper her name.
My Invisible Fear
I walk down the same halls I’ve seen before,
But something is wrong with the floor.
I cannot feel it beneath my feet.
There is dysfunction and no rhythm in the beat.
I think my fingertips are somewhere at the end of my extremities—
Unless I have changed like the autumn trees.
No. No. The match has fallen out of its box without being lit.
I am in this body with a mind not fit.
Where I have gone I am not certain,
If only someone could pull up the heavy, velvet curtain
That is draped over my consciousness.
The black fog of fear is very ominous,
It makes me tremble and quiver.
Bobbing in this frigid sea, I shiver.
Sinking, sinking faster than I tread,
Where has this path I’ve followed lead?
Spirals of mumbles and fumbling for strength,
It seems that I can’t pull the brake the full length.
My fingertips waltz to the doorknob but instead turn to go left—
I find myself faced with a theft.
Suddenly, the somber eyes I am peering through, close.
Is this how life flows?
It can’t possibly be my fate—
Am I too late?
Who has taken the strings,
Who has taken my wings?
Nothing. Nothing I can see. Nothing I can feel. Nothing I can hear.
This thing I believe is named my worst fear.
It’s not very friendly and chokes my passion.
Murky and irresponsible fancy its fashion,
Followed by a growl of constriction,
That unwillingly bounds me into inevitable eviction.
Fear
In a room of flickering firelight a silent atmosphere spirals around the furniture.
An open window blows in a breeze that shoots straight to the bone,
Oblivious darkness festers an unsettling cloud with an irregular curvature.
One’s senses sharpen and become effortless to hone
When you hear an unearthly moan.
The light is like lightning that flashes bright then back to black—
One moment it’s there; the next it’s gone.
Terror makes you realize that there is something you lack,
And it seems to be the ability to witness the dawn.
Shifting Seasons
Spring
Balmy, Bloom
Seeding, Germinating, Sprouting
Tulips, Daffodils; Peonies, Dahlias
Relaxing, Exploring, Grilling
Verdant, Refreshing
Summer
Radiant, Tropical
Sweating, Tanning, Recessing
Free time, Sunshine; Schooltime, Cloud shine
Changing, Cooling, Comforting,
Colorful, Bountiful
Autumn
Chilly, Breezy,
Preparing, Indulging, Savoring,
Harvests, Feasts; Holidays, Festivities
Freezing, Giving, Warming,
Quiet, Patient
Winter
November
The frosty gust
Begins to blow over
The mountains. It carries white dust
And strong thrusts to bare the leafy cover
All the color fades to gray and brown— the sky
A shade of silver hue. Creatures rush to fill their supply
Fast before the long months of frigid and unforgiving weather .
Here’s November
Little Leaves Welcome Little Snowflakes
The little leaf
Clutches a sturdy twig
As brisk breeze blows with no relief.
The snowflakes hurry to flurry back big—
Patient enough has the cold been all year long
Waiting for this winter weather to return strong.
Fall leaves become frosty once the sun becomes weak and weary
Yet glows dearly
Dear Pencil and Paper,
You know how much I fall for you. I think it is clear how deep my desire runs truly every time I go to pick you up. The words I write with you could never express the pure joy and delight that I feel in my heart when I can see my thoughts scribbled over the lined sheet. With you, smiles and giggles can grow. Laughter can be generated, tears can be shed, and goals can be reached. I honestly don’t know what I would do, if I had to live my life without you.
There are too many things that would be left unsaid, too many words stuck on my fingertips where no one would be able to know them. How could one live like that? Silent with so several wonderful things to say. Thankfully, I have had you around to help me— and for that I am forever grateful. Just think about all the messages we’ve shared and all the lessons we’ve learned, the things we’ve said and the things we’ve described.
Needless to say, I dearly love you both with equal measure, you’ve truly brought me so much pleasure. Even though this letter’s ending, know that my feelings are no longer pending. Now and always remember my word, keep it in mind forever forward. And don’t forget to think of me, the next time you write great symbols of glee.
Yours Truly,
Audrey N.
The Morning Sun Through Your Window
Oftentimes, I like to live in an optimistic, fantasy world filled with joyful bliss.
The world does not have to be dark and cruel as it may appear,
Maybe those grey clouds are a handful of beauty you sometimes miss.
Because sometimes the world seems to flutter by with fear-
Filled eyes and defenses secured in place.
Tricks and trials to keep away the undesired beast,
And continue to assign people challenges they must face.
These adversities of living are the concern of the least.
Alas, you will not find me among the pessimists for I prefer to find myself in other places.
Like at the sunny, vibrant shore, or atop a snow-capped alpine peak.
The places I live without any kinds of disgraces.
The places I never feel obliged or ashamed to “properly” speak.
The places I can feel pure glee.
The places my mind satisfies itself in when it gets down dirty in the mud.
Because of this, my brain never dreads the rainy days or feels the need to flee.
I never have to get dragged into the piles of crud,
Since my path forward is so bright in my eyes, it burns right through them.
When I see others so distressed and full of discontent,
I simply can’t help but figure out the matter.
Because maybe I could help them too— my love is a known constant.
Wait patiently through the difficulties to see what becomes in the time come latter.
After the thunderstorms pass, the merry birds sing—
Their gleeful melodies dance through the air.
The crickets join in to enhance the magical ring.
There is always that shimmer of dawn following the sharpest of the night’s glare.
For smiles that shine with sunny sequence,
I can assure that any glimmer of hope could one day be grand.
All it takes is positive reality and optimistic frequence. . .
Then your dreams might just land in the palm of your hand.
Once in a while, you’ll think and compile
Thousands of thoughts you never thought you could think.
These will reflect the lens of your world and the purpose of your smile,
So contemplate your values as you watch the sun sink
And remember that days ahead may not all be brighter,
But, you can choose whether to give in to the challenge, or come out a fighter.
Beginning of Spring
It’s the music of the morning
Sung by the gleeful chickadees who find the dawn adorning.
The forsythia sun shines through the misty haze,
The sleeping flowers slowly drift from their concealed phase.
How lovely it is to smell the pungent rebirth,
And see the little babes come forth!
Fawns with white spots,
Chicks in twig cots.
Rivers trickle again
Through the lively fen.
Children return outside,
Relieved to run away from parental abide.
Magic melodies slowly warm the air—
The weather’s mostly fair.
With a crisp wind to mellow out the hot sun,
Makes us want to go do something fun.
Sick of sitting, cooped up like birds,
We want to stretch our wings and spread our words.
Take a deep breath to embrace what’s now come,
Taste the sweetness of sunlight’s outcome.
Hear the little whisper, from the willow across the way,
And watch as its shadow scares the last of winter away.
Clouds dissipate, clearing the sky for more space.
These young spring days, filled with grace.
Rainy days fuel the flow from winter to spring.
Although they do restrict the young wing,
Some fellows still make it aloft.
Damp days also make the soil soft,
Nice and easy to work your tools through,
And too much makes mud, too.
Here’s to the Sun
Here’s to the sun that illuminates our world.
To its efforts of rising every morning in the east
And setting every evening in the west.
Here’s to its magical essence that allows bright flowers to grow,
And what provides us with bountiful fruit from the farm.
We often overlook its significance,
Up there so high—
Floating across the baby-blue sky.
Here’s to our sun, for returning each day
To bring a glimpse of heaven into all of our lives.
Change
How much can one change in their life?
Could they change from a precious gemstone deep below the surface
To a boulder of granite beside the stream?
Is it possible to escalate from a pebble to an avalanche?
Does anyone know?
How much one will grow?
What if they shrivel up over time and become dust laden like the picture books on
the shelf?
What if they get swept away into the land of green and greed?
What if they climb the beanstalk to the heavens above?
Could someone change that much?
Like the sea’s tides,
The breeze blowing through my hair tonight.
Like the stars that sparkle each and every night.
Like the leaves when the winter wind whistles grow louder.
It would seem to me so.
Can love change that quickly, too?
I guess it would depend on the question of weather.
how anxiety views me
it is watching me
tick
tick
silently judging
picking me apart the way i pick at my skin
tick
tick
it is quietly snickering,
laughing the way my peers did at me
tick
tick
it is soundlessly hiding
out of sight but in my mind
tick
tick
haunting my memories
its presence in my present
i try to shake it off
but its gaze
the pressure within me
they grow unchecked
tick
tick
boom.
Box
In a stolen box, years old, floating among the shreds of algae, was a human skull. It was one among the various treasures rescued from the ruins of the sunken ship. My nails scratched the worn, bleached surface as I turned the skull over in my hands, scanning the surface for any sign of who it had belonged to. I stopped at a series of numbers stamped on the base of the jaw. 080945. As I understood what those numbers meant, the skull toppled from my stiff fingers as my mouth fell open in a silent, endless scream.
Pondwater
He’d been missing for months. His parents had started wearing black and the posters on streetlamps had faded with the rain. The schoolchildren said he walked out of the lake, eyes wide, face dripping, taking only a few steps before collapsing. When he woke, his parents stood over him. They said he wasn’t theirs; the doctor said he must be. The boy’s eyes stared blankly at the wall. The doctor let him stay there, out of pity. The boy neither ate nor slept for weeks. After a while his parents returned. They found nothing but a puddle in his bed.
Plane ride
-inspired by “Blessing the Boats” by Lucille Clifton
may the stars
which shine brightest at eve
guard your safe travels across
half of the whole globe
may you find
that which you sought
your heart find purchase
on freedom or at least an apartment
filled with dirty socks you call your own or
maybe hers may you
seek out vindication
vindicate whatever chased
you across half the globe
Mud
I’m petrified, stabilized by my own inability to
Move or even pursue all that’s in the world.
For as long as I know, I have remained
An object to be trampled under soles.
All my form’s a great uneven compromise,
Caving in as if it’s what I’m meant to do,
So they leave their filth with me, and withdraw
All senses of what’s pure and good to them,
Even if I tried to retain, reaching out my tiny arms,
They’d treat my touch as a stain, rinsing it as if
It was the mark of the corrupt.
So I’ve learned to retreat, cornering in a shady spot,
So I wouldn’t disrupt the picturesque scene which surrounds,
When the golden leaves fallen into my arms,
They slowly rot and make me strong, and they call it growth.
When more filth has filled me up.
The Ocean and its Beautiful Starlight
I love the ocean and everything it brings:
Be it winds that are slightly too cold,
Or calm breezes that rustle my face.
In the ocean, there are always bright lights:
Gentle bioluminescence brought about by life,
Or warm, radiant starlight piercing through its depth.
It doesn’t know it, but I love it most when it smiles
with its charming indigo arbor and calming waves,
When it surrounds the harbor in a loving embrace
Of nostalgia and passionate mildness.
Here divides the night
in two, like the earth and the sky, like a line
drawn across the beach of wandering stars,
like a childish doodle across the vast canvas
of celestial symphonies, crudely disrupting
and disturbing those musicians who were in
perfect harmony. The noise and dissonance
seeps out of the great divide, like an oil leak
across the azure sea, like spilled coffee
across the clean bedsheet, like locusts
ravaging the serene and tranquil harvest of fall.
It is a fault, a crack, a flaw, an oversight;
It burns brightly in the dark sky above, consuming
the starlight in its wrathful flames, feeding its hunger.
Like a newborn screaming into empty air,
it lets out its rage on the innocent space:
tearing it, ripping it, biting it, scratching it.
The cold air slowly sings a hymn of passing.
Down here, far beneath the tears of the infant,
the mountains and rivers say their goodbyes.
mothers bid their children goodnight,
lovers embrace each other until the end.
like the stain slowly creeping up the musty walls,
The air crawls into people’s hearts and minds,
they know it will be goodbye.
Is it summertime in January if I squint my eyes?
Sometimes, when I wake I’d lose my eyes,
I could only hear, I could only feel.
I won’t be able to see for myself
if the calming springtime you promised is real.
But I can still feel the gentle drizzle on my chest,
I could still hear the floral aroma around my hands.
Or I think I can, I want to think I can.
Yet every night, I would pray and hope
that tomorrow I don’t wake up and discover.
It's January.
The wind
I have these dreams where I would fall:
it would run its rough hands along every inch
of my soft skin, caressing me like a new father
whose ruggedness far surpasses his love.
The next moment, it would tear me apart:
its hands forming sharp blades of glass,
driving them through my flesh, like an infant
through the mother’s womb. It would carefully
peel me apart, like unraveling a silk cocoon,
taking loose threads and tugging and tugging.
Like a noose, it tightens, like a guillotine, it falls,
Snap, crack, pop. Boom, bang, crackle, thwack.
It reaches its hands out, wide open and palm up,
It whispers and tempts, It seduces and pretends.
It is killing me until I die, and it kills me
and kills me, shatters my bones to dust,
When I’m falling.
A Contemplation
It’s a loneliness that you feel in strange places:
when surrounded by friends, you’d feel it ache.
when breathing beside the grass and mud,
it would be quenched; like gentle spring rain
tenderly soothing branches who are still tense
from a long winter that went unobserved.
It’d be a loneliness whose name you could not speak:
like swallows who run from the approaching dusk,
you’d flee from its name like a startled hare, or
a young child running after traces of a squirrel;
the thrill is in the chase, and not the bounty.
eventually, when sitting in quiet contemplation
amidst the urban chaos and modern noise, you’d
pack your belongings, and take a cab to the wilds
Only when alone with the fog and spruce,
you would come to terms with this strange tingle,
like an infant locking eyes with a new friend,
or visiting your father on his deathbed.
the end of something new, the start of something old.
and soon, when you extend your hands to the sky,
when you reach so high that you could touch the clouds,
you would have learned to take your seat by loneliness.
What would be in your dreams?
Like raindrops, our bodies slowly melt within the sand,
Shells, and the scent of blue ocean; or green or red or
Glowing bright purple, closer to the night than the sea.
Swept up by beachside blindness and dryness and
the past. But slowly, when tides rise and the moon takes
Center stage on the canvas above, bright cerulean
Eyes cover the purple background, waving through
The thin sheet of crystal blue which breathes in rhyme.
Quietly, we slumber.
Like tepid drizzles and slanted rain-
Parting
Before you leave, let’s turn our memories into liquor:
Intoxicate our nerves so the dulling pain is dulled in turn.
Before you part through the thin mist of falling autumn leaves.
Burning
Concrete walls with scratches and marks in ashy whites,
Tall charred suits forming barriers around the bright red furnace,
Grimy shoes trample all over old dirty fliers, staining
Scorched dreams from youths, now covered in grease and soot.
Memories of passions burning in an oil fire, efforts made
To salvage what remains, though not much remains in the wreckage.
Piano
A piano was left in the abandoned classroom of a school,
People didn’t pay much attention to the classroom, anyway,
Except the few who had used this room to learn the way
That the notes would dance through the air, like fairies
That soothes and calms. But the fairies have left the room now.
All that’s left is a piano in the abandoned classroom of a school,
But maybe, if one of the few happen to come back one day
And gently lay their grown-up fingers on the faded keys of
The piano left in the abandoned classroom, and let the rusted
Strings vibrate, ringing out the story that was inscribed
On the piano left in the abandoned classroom, then maybe
You would see those fairies, also grown-up in their own ways,
Dance around the faded piano in an abandoned classroom.
Celebration
Colorful fireworks blossom in the pitch dark night sky,
Under vibrant lights, we lie with such proximity to each’s hearts,
Which thud in symphony with explosions from beyond the sky.
Autumn
Cold rays of sun
Shine through gaps in the leaves
Whose orange glows so bright, not one
Critter nor fauna could resist these thieves
Of soggy mood. Though as squirrels and bears scarper
To cozy caves, the angle of the bright light grows sharper
As if a stern warning of the coming frost which whispers: Behold
Here comes the cold
Titleless
Four hundred meters above the ground,
Against the blue backdrop, a white bird flies,
Words woven out of past hatred and regret weave a crown
around the poor avian’s neck, tightening like a noose,
Or a lover’s embrace before they never return,
Slowly choking and forcing the air out of your lungs,
As if the air made you sick and ill,
As if the air which you fly in, soar and find freedom in,
Which you loved with all your heart (or what’s left)
Which you cared for with all your fortune (or what remained)
Which you nurtured better than yourself (at least the parts you recognize)
Which you had poured your soul into
dedicated your life to it sacrificed all your time for it stood in the storm for it swallowed your pride for it made the impossible possible for it
to be cut away from you.
Silently, the pearly white sprite which had flown now lies on the patch of green,
Lively green adorned with droplets of red, almost like a trail of crumbs,
And if one were to follow the path to where it originated,
One would find a perfect, unused white canvas,
with a grotesque stroke of black that struck right through,
A black that is darker than an unlit room
and brighter than the stars you gazed at through your window,
It makes it claim on the canvas, trembling and insecure, attempting to declare its ownership over the canvas
But if you looked past the small terrified figure,
you would see clearly behind it,
the canvas cries tears of crimson droplets.
But neither of you care to notice
During April,
Gentle spring returns with drizzles and warm sun,
Tepid watercolor seeps back into grey woods and mounts,
With tiredness from the year before washed away like stains
Under the ceaseless soothing rain, whose pitter-pattering
Remains everlasting beside bedroom windows, as if an open
Invitation, informing residents within:
Spring is here, Spring is here.
Though crystal skies might be blocked by the gentle sight
Of veils formed under herds of misty air, and waking buds
Are just barely reaching their tender figures above the mud,
The waking earth is already restless, extending its arms
Towards the sky, attempting to swash the clouds away
With flocks of birds and winds of change; The clouds
Remain stubbornly in place, playfully jeering at the half-asleep
Efforts of the earth, whose loud thunderous cries bring about
A new wave of growth and birth, informing the latecomers that:
Spring is here, Spring is here.
As newborns wake and drift off once more to the rhythm
Of thunder and rain, mothers and fathers look at each other
With calm and joy at the consistency of another year gone by,
Their houses surrounded by the calming lullaby of raindrops
Running through the temperate climate, And as the family collectively
Sinks deeper into the mellow embrace of spring weather,
The earth, now recovered from its childish fit, lovingly oversees
Them off to sleep, its gentle gaze informing all who can see:
Spring is here, Spring is here.
Nylon
Bright, urban, neon lights shine through crystal
droplets dropping through the air filled with scents of
businessmen, tourists, and water bouncing off
plastic umbrellas which bloom like an ocean
of flowers or mushrooms. These streams of
colored buds coalesce at crossroads to form
some sort of modern mosaic, with the pitter-pattering
serving as background to the idyllic grey city life.
On an empty grass field
Like withered petals blooming after ashes settle,
Drunken soldiers sleep well past preambles
Of War and heavy losses; “Have some mercy”,
So said the corpse whose mouth was moving.
He died in the war though no bullet went into him,
But his sister daughter mother children and bloated
Balloons, they all mourn for his brothers siblings
Friends, and him. Though he may live in cities,
NoRoomIsLeftForHimInTheCrowdedWallsAndEmptyMorgues,
So he slowly drifts,
Closer to his brothers
So he slowly exits,
From the city which can’t see him
So he slowly vanishes,
Into his coffin made so long ago
So he meets himself where he’s supposed to be
In history books, and documents,
And newspapers, and tombstones
Though his mouth may be screaming,
Though his heart may be bleeding
The River
Of gentle whispers pressed against my ear,
there’s none more pleasant than the flowing stream.
When winter pours dismay upon my dream;
the stream will flow, her voice I hold so dear,
her soothing song dissolving my one fear
like raindrops; seeping into every seam
of nightmares, only then can that soft gleam
of gentle susurrations glow so clear.
But now, the flowing river’s dried out;
exposing ugly yellow mud, dying
corral of droplets slowing and crying.
Decaying creek! How you so wish to shout!
but she’s too tired now. The stream lays, complying,
unmoving. And I watched as it died out.
Flowers blossom
Flowers blossom into pretty valleys
Cities under siege, oncoming volleys
pebble common streets, depleting lamp-lights.
City walls now come undone, and the night
Hide what once were our homely alleys.
Every soldier fought for sad finales
Every mother mourned at tragic rallies
Corpses burn and ashes scatter, take flight.
Flowers blossom.
Battle’s lost and cities making tallies
Battles’ end is coming, sorrows shall leave
Battled grounds, and hearts will give up their fights
Soon, bombarded streets will heal from their blight
Joy shall fill once-empty streets and alleys:
Flowers blossom.
The Seasons
Alone, I walked on the empty road and watched:
first came pale green wind and rain
as if the earth had just woken from slumber
the flowers bloomed along the road
youthful and vulnerable
then the firm and strong heat arrived
it’s conviction unshakable
unbreakable and brave
but I still walked the path, under the burning sun
soon, the gusts and rotting leaves fell
the once clear road now covered
in the remains of the once alive
but I tread on, stepping on their corpses
the harsh cold silence finally came
taking the road over with a desolate pride
it’s cruel grip decorating the once lively road
now covered in snow, lifeless
But still, I walk this road alone,
I walk on these lonely trails
laced with the memories of those that fell
Seasons change.