She’s beautiful but flighty. And the world is only ever a breath away from falling deeply in love with her, with her every lyrical gesture. But he sees the plucking fingers. He sees her careless machinations, her careless smiles, her throwaway laughter. He keeps his eyes aloof and inscrutable. But oh God, how he knows this, to adore her how easy it would be.
Resplendent were the roses on that gleaming diamond day. There from the bridge overlooking the bathing brook I saw the inviting warmth of your upturned smile, the beautiful calling harvest for my hungry hands. And rising from your skin I saw the dreamlike wisps of Earth’s gentle breath. But were we the swift ever waning light of youth. Though even now and, if in memoriam had you a mind to let me, maybe just maybe, I’d love you once again.
If In Memoriam
For once the mailman delivered good news, but in dreams visited men the spectres of brutality. It was the quietism that mostly frightened me. For though the massive moon spoke to some primal instinct, cowardly my hands remained so unsure. And I walked the shamed darkness of not giving my heart to a bigger thing.
The Coward
What kept me going? I had reached the end. The curtains now pulled. I was no longer impressed. Was the magic cheaply done or elaborately executed? Yet, I felt it there, in whispers cued from the wings, a lingering promise, in a voice foreshadowing the blistering colours of spring, waiting to pull me in, again.
What Kept Me Going
Yvette and I, we were once sworn enemies, for many acrimonious years, wasted hours plotting the other’s destruction. In our war of attrition, I’d be once proud to claim: I had the edge. That was until her one deft move. I saw her hidden beauty under the blue light of the moon. Now I no longer seek her destruction, only to conquer her, to drink love from her warm, supple, freely giving hands.
The mid morning sun is gentle and pleasant. I pass by the softest pink and purple flowers that quiver meekly at the periphery of my brutish eyes. I’m aware…but there’s a hole in my tongue, for I cannot name them nor the soft flutter of birds that startle me halfway down the block. Harsher words have too long colonized my mind. I think of the fires in the streets last night and the righteous burning of prisons and the flares that lit up the distant mountainsides like angry dragons. Maybe one day. Today it’s still a war zone here.


"Solitude did increase my perception. But here’s the tricky thing—when I applied my increased perception to myself, I lost my identity. With no audience, no one to perform for, I was just there. There was no need to define myself; I became irrelevant. The moon was the minute hand, the seasons the hour hand. I didn’t even have a name. I never felt lonely. To put it romantically: I was completely free."

I was late, but I sensed it in the hollow grimness of the breeze, in the ancient summer reluctantly divesting its fire, in the strange new housemates cum ready wardens of the haunting lonesome dark.

There midst the city’s tentative civility, I contemplated a neighbour’s crossing, and a widow with eyes ringed black and tongue slurring drunk on sadness.

I pondered the wager of…
belated condolences, exhumed memories.

In the end, I extended ruefully the gravity of my silence.

The Passing of Sir Bobby

The Exiled

I return through the doors once denied me, Shorn of youthful hair and heavy with the accumulated wealth of foreign sensibilities. But I weep openly in the crowded streets, and strangely I feel alone, as if no one can really see me as I hail the shadows of family, and friends, and old memories, and all the walls stained and brittle with the violent winds’ passings. It is not now joy that I feel - but some unjustifiable indignity, as if trapped in some forever unsatisfying Noon day reverie.

Under the Ornate sky I rest. In the distance - a white flag…Your Dress of organdy allows me A Peek into a more beautiful vision. Away From the Doldrums and wars I see, Bright eyed and So open…the world with its sharp fangs is yet to strike. You lure me to the pond, Offering my bloodied hands Ablution; Though I dare not look up to face you, lest now I’ve become one of them.