what are you holding on to
Those ideas, plans, views
opinions of what all under the sky
For waters carry no words.
not a single verse.
And every made-up belief
adds a white-picket fence
around your distraction fields.
What are you holding on to?
Sink deep, into
spaces that make you quiet.
Dig old forsaken pleasures out,
those fragile bits of absolute silence.
You don’t have to answer it.
But you see – what’ll be, will be
and no reason,
no strength of a grip
ever made a difference.
Shaping one’s imagination into gripping prose is a lot like martial arts: the end result doesn’t give away the amount of sweat that goes into the act. You see, my literary heroes seem to have this quality that escapes being shaped into singular advice on plotting, dialogue and such. One could say that I enjoy stories that bring absurdity into the mundane, those that play with my perception of everyday things. If the main character or the narrator is a strong and a captivating persona, the story, to me, becomes secondary; they can well grab my attention by telling me a chicken soup recipe. And I guess I enjoy first-person narratives for that same reason. It’s as if a singular, deeply limited view on events sits well with my own narrowness and helplessness as a human being…
(To be continued)
Was it what you knew
That drew you away?
Was it that we weren’t aware?
Our arc of togetherness
Is burdened by all said, or unsaid;
We forgot how to be.
Silence and secrets –
Sly balms and weapons –
Too long to aid, too short to awaken
Make us opposing figures
In a stalemate game.
Inevitably time flow will
End mutual deafness.
Or innate pulsation of piled decades.
Do you, too, blame me?
We are love stuck in a maze, seeking the line
Of rich and of poor patience.
Making me blind
To the border between
Matter of daylight and
Experience of sleep.
Which one to awaken from?
Closed in a loop,
Waiting leaves my side
And I descend,
With gravity of my being,
Into the crack.
Now there is silence; convincing, dense.
A roadblock of dread: anxieties on what’s to come fueled by wrongs of times past. Next to the lumpy heap on sunless asphalt rests actuality and its plain might flees our naked eyes.
A playback of thoughts doesn’t still. Time drips like wax on flame.
Adrift in wakeful ages, I can’t locate the exit from the state of stand-by. Again and again, providence mulls if past our barricade awaits a second chance.
Take me to the sea, an abiding witness:
Its steady shore my home
Its brawny hum a purge
Every one glimmer relaxing across all time.
Take me to the sea, the bearer of my secrets:
Where ebb and flow, eternal and equal –
Granting and taking without prejudice –
Pursue one another, our lives a playground.
Take me to the sea, it knows what to do:
Accepting crumbled wishes and daydreams.
Its majestic patience a reminder
Of surrender to the Gods.
Take me to the sea and I will sail again:
As grays and blues meld
And waves ground the soul, hushing the ache.
Seize my hand, now, and take me to the sea.