crossroads point 1

i'm still waiting, but i'm not holding my breath,
hardly a matter hanging between life and death,
i'm taken this path for so long, it's taken me thus far,
going to keep walking till i reach that faraway star.

nobody can tell me i shouldn't feel this way
those dreams mean nothing, and that's what they say,
if i'm standing up for someone, i'd have to start with me,
or else i huddle in a corner, shivering cowardly.

so yes to the things i hold so close to my heart,
and a joining of the fragments of self, part by part,
i'm starting again, this time i know just that wee bit better,
sometime soon somehow i'll make all this matter!

time for a poem (after a long while)

just when i thought my inspiration had run dry, i find it again. :)

do read it here.

thank you.

something soul deep is broken

something soul deep is broken,
betrayal and pain has dashed it to pieces.

something soul deep is broken,
the cracks appear in the brittle words spoken.

something soul deep is broken,
it cannot seem to hold light anymore.

something soul deep is broken,
no peace, no serene contentment.

something soul deep is broken,
when will it be made whole again?

apologise / indicative

the words 'i'm sorry' trip off your lips for what must be the hundredth time. so easy, so light - if only because you honestly believe that you're sorry for just existing and everything else serves to confirm it. sorry that you take up air some other more worthy soul should be inhaling as they go about being better people than you could ever dream of being.

you're you. nobody should have to prove they are worthy to live. so if you don't know how to do up your shoelaces or you take forever to decide what to eat or you're confused and sad, you're still you and that means something. that you're part of this great mass of human beings who live, eat, breathe and are strong, weak, happy, sad all at the same time.

don't be sorry for belonging. hold your head up, the sky is still blue and waiting for you to look the clouds in the eye and to walk on.

***

the threads that bind people together,
the undercurrents that can drown,
tensions bubbling beneath -
the molten magma that roils under the placid lake
in the middle of the crater,
one glance, one look, the drop in tone and voice,
indicative.

***

drink, to forget

drink, to forget,
the smooth taste of alcohol washes down
my throat, it burns.
i am on fire, but i want to put it out
so i take another gulp.

it's hard to forget those words.
it's hard to forget that smile.

but i want to forget. don't i? the throb in my heart, painful and real and ever close.
what the hell. why aren't i numbing up - i feel myself sinking into the sadness of something which should belong in the past.

then the colours come alive, so bright beautiful and vivid. everyone's so cheerful and their jokes are so funny, i can't help but laugh in spite of myself. i'm happy, after so long, I M FREAKING HAPPY.

my head starts to spin. my head hurts too. i want to sleep.
so i do. but not before my stomach heaves and i let out what i was holding in. did i cry? i must have laughed a lot, and the warmth i felt at first became an almost unbearable heat.

when the morning comes, mouth worn and dry - throat parched. i wake. i realise that the dull ache remains. and i wonder that i never learn. one more night in the limbo between dead dreams and live nightmares.

youth

to the young one,

youth is a time of skipping through the clouds, light and airy, padding across the white and blue range of sky, voice calling out, loud, ringing with life. you are alive, you know it and you want to feel and know and claim every patch of cloud and every corner of sky.

but no one tells you how the clouds have gaps through them. and you can fall. how far will you land then? and no one tells you about how the lightning streaks and thunder rumbles can turn the sky into a black mass. frightening and frightened, you retreat but where will you go?

keenly feeling, sensitive before time dulls and numbs your senses, you face up to the storms. and only the somewhat foolish thoughts that there is a way out keeps you going. to cut a way through the dark into the rays of the sun.

young one, you must know by now - the secret lies in crossing the clouds one at a time.

when the sun was out, you mocked the anchor. you said it held you down from where you should have been. but realise that as you rock from side to side, turbulent and disturbed, it keeps you whole.

and the pessimism, the cynicism of age cannot dim your light. this so even as you cross beyond the rainbow.

the glass cage

the butterfly is flying, its wings beating against the hard, solid glass.
there is no escape. there is only the glass cage which encases it and in which its feeble wingflaps slowly come to rest.
it perceives the sun only as a distant ray, and the green of the trees and scarlet flowers mock it. all it knows is the clear prism of light which heightens, deepens the colours it sees but can never draw close to.
slower and slower its movements as it begins to feel life slowly seep out of its body.

perhaps it should fight against the lethargy that signals impending death.
perhaps it should continue flying.
perhaps it should go on living.

then someone unscrews the top of the jar. the butterfly is out. a single wingflap as it touches the wind it had never felt before. a single wingflap. the final wingflap.

there was never a choice, could it have come to value what it was given? when the fates have given unto it a beginning and an ending, a loop of despair and destruction.

the moment before

before the one step, the moment before, lips tremble.
apprehensive and afraid.

is it time yet?

is it this very moment?

but in the here and now, much remains to be done, more life lessons to be learned.

tear your eyes away, and keep it focused on the goal ahead. is it so hard?
you've been doing it for the best part of your life.
and yet maybe you long for something more. ...
sigh. life goes on, indeed.

bitter brew / the face of loneliness/ search and embrace

bitter brew, the Chinese tonic that builds up strength
and gives vitality. drink, consume, though it be difficult to down.

how often has it been that the most bitter experiences give us the most strength?

but the danger is always that you become embittered yourself.

***

in a crowded bar, through the smoke and music - she saw the face of loneliness.
so stark the dissatisfaction, a longing for more than this world could offer.
at the moment of creation, we are never told that our hearts and longings are boundless but our capacity limited.
so certain the emptiness of the soul. spirit so often ignored, and it arises with a vengeance, proving that it does indeed exist.
at the moment of creation, we are given spirit but we are never told that the spirit underscores all there is to life and to the world.
so dark the sorrow, unhidden beneath the painted smile and the face, fresh made up.
at the moment of creation, we are made to be true but we are never told that the world can never abide the truth.

***

there is a search. there is a journey.
what are you searching for?
where are you journeying to?

search and embrace those you have learned to love best, then.

and in the meantime, i ask myself the same questions.

does turmoil produce great poetry?

remembering the time when i was commissioned to write a poem commemorating the 90th anniversary of SMI, and how i got stuck because for the life of me, i had absolutely no idea where to begin.
thank goodness for Bro Vincent Corkery who inspired me to write about SMI from the perspective of humble Michaelians (as opposed to the famous and the great) - hence, 'Homage to the Humble Michaelian' which i eventually recited at the assembly.

having said that, the words Bro Vincent gave me still stay with me - that there must be suffering and turmoil to produce great poetry. that sadness somehow generates better writing.

looking back, i m inclined to agree. it's almost as if the feelings give the words added depth and bestow on them the X Factor which make them stand out. otherwise they'd be nothing but empty words, arranged about prettily, a cadence and rhythm which has a catchy beat and yet nothing stirs the heart.

have i suffered for my art? i don't think so, but i am glad and thankful that i have this gift of writing - it allows me somehow to make sense of what i have gone through and share it in a way which moves the senses.

of one of the saddest episodes in my life - i think of the immense amount of poetry it has generated, some of which has seen light on this blog and i know that while it cannot be GREAT poetry, it is at least honest and sincere. and i keep trying to improve my craft.

thinking, reviewing

still searching for an answer.
still searching for faith, hope, mostly love.
still wanting to hold on to what used to be, but it is futile.

tearing your eyes away from the subtle break between night and day,
when it seems heaven and earth merge into one,
you long for the promise that darkness always gives way to light,
you long for the assurance that your struggles are worth something,
you long for the rest that comes with knowing fate, and where you stand.

you long for so much, and you are only human.

how much of it is avarice? the grasping and discontented nature of man? how much of it is the poisonous and insidious envy, that threatens to turn your soul green?

you're not sure. so you're going to keep on trying to find for an answer. and in the process, learn to be happy and contented.

where the river meets the ocean

winding down the slippery path
of dew-wet grass, fresh in the morning sun,
the blades which swish and swathe
the side of the river, rushing on by,
ignorant of you and i,
strolling along, ambling along,
this gentle pace.

then watch as the noonday sun
rises sudden and
casting its heat-filled rays upon
both of us, glints of light reflected,
sparkle on the silvery surface
and dances in time
to the flow of the current,
you long to sleep,
i want to move on
tugging impatiently at your sleeve,
i hurry along.

the evening light falls,
the sun begins lowering in the sky,
and you shut your eyes. sleep beckons,
you do not long to go on with me.

i walk on by,
and alone i stand, regarding the
place where the river meets the ocean.

i could have waited, but to no avail.

this is where i belong,
and you are quiet, almost still,
slow breaths that follow one another.

i know now the tide of the ocean
the waves become my heartbeat,
the green blue blends with the crimson gold
a tapestry of colour that is my life,
day is done, and you are no longer with me,
where i am, i look out, and see
that the journey continues.

let my tears be hidden by nightfall
let the first star i see
become the light by which i
begin to believe again.
for i can never forget
the morning even in the dusky twilight
that has begun to cover the land.

backstage - part i

ladders, and boxes, and blocks of wood,
ropes and pulleys. the stagehands sit at the back, waiting for their cue.
a few huddle around, sharing a cigarette break, oblivious to the peremptory sign.
and the stage manager, his piercing glare takes them in, deepening into a scowl when he sees the cloud of smoke.

and one of the stagehands begins to think:
who gives a f***, anyway? looking at those buggers prance around on stage. not like they know how hard it is to heave these damned props around. Look! night turns into day! it's stormy weather! wow! and what do they do? ooh and aah over them in the stupid makeup and idiot clothes.

a flurry of activity, fading into almost a blur. it's almost time for the curtains to come up...hurry! hurry. push and pull. the levers. the cloth. the actors taking their positions. the prompt reader looks a bit apologetic, and she gives a nervous smile.
and the stagehands, it's time for them to come out.

again, and again. why do i do this? stubbed out a cigarette. the ropes come up.

wait a minute. isn't Harry supposed to be the one to set this up? damn that bastard! he's off flirting with that chorus girl. stupid f***ers!

and then it's lights, camera, action! another day in the wonderful, exciting life of Joseph Brown, stagehand extraordinaire...

alright i m done. i let go of the rope. and then i look up, to see a new face sitting in the chorus. there's something about this face. she's not pretty. i've seen better looking dogs. but there's something about her face, and her smile. she's nervous, but she's hiding it well.
and that voice...i've never heard anything like it. i think i m starting to stare at her. what the hell?!!!

poetic moments in everyday life

the other day, while waiting for Easter Vigil mass to start, Elizabeth and i heard the sound of glass breaking. (not sure what broke exactly, most likely a chalice)
i did not expect her to begin reciting the scene as it unfolded '- the sound of glass shattering - the pieces flying everywhere' with gestures to illustrate. and it delighted my heart...

all poetic moments in everyday life delight me, likewise. to think that one of the most practical and down to earth friends of mine would suddenly show her poetic side ... it's amazing.

i have often believed that poetry is linked to an appreciation of beauty and the diversity of life's experiences, and the capacity for such appreciation is within each person's soul. it is only a matter of vocalising it, of putting it into words, and expressing it. in the end, poetry is less about making it rhyme, having perfect diction or producing a technically competent and sound poem. it is about expression, honest and true, and getting in touch with that same capacity i described earlier.
why is it that scenery moves us? what is in the mountains or the sea that makes us silent and filled with awe?

so write, express. don't be afraid, don't be doubtful that you cannot produce works of art like Shakespeare or Auden. for it is your voice that comes out, the imprint of your everyday life placed into words that will last into eternity.

rise and fall

the rise and fall happens on a daily basis, coming to know the ground a little bit more closely.

it is not a sprint, it is not a race ... it is walking on, come what may. my breath catches in my throat, and the rise and fall of my chest is in a rhythm that only i can hear. and which i know best, throbbing and pulsing, full of life blood and oxygen flowing through my veins...

i keep on learning, i keep on moving. and sometimes it's a little harder to do so. there are days when i know that no matter what, all i need to do is to keep on moving, even if it's only a small step... and then there are days when i know that i have covered entire continents in my mind and soul, where the metaphysical world has its own laws.

is there a destination? i wonder. ever so often it turns out to be yet another mile post, a marker of an achievement, something understood, something that has either become part of me, or i have put aside. and i keep my eyes on the journey, the way ahead is long, i've only really begun though it seems i have been walking for some time yet.

sometimes it's a bit lonely.
and sometimes, when i feel the wind wrap itself around my shoulders and my hair blows about, a tousled mess...when the sun is warm, and the sky a mild and gentle blue...then i realise i am alone. but never really lonely. and i smile back at the sky, continuing on my way.
it's nice to be alive.

dawnsong

the mornings are always cool, and i open the window to let the breeze in, and i think that when i do that, i also invite Him to come in. i know He is always there, and yet, just as i go to His house on Sundays to spend time with Him, i would like Him to come in and be with me, in the place where i live.

it is early yet, the sun is only beginning to rise, and the faint outline of stars begin to fade in the light of dawn.

i like the first few minutes of silence, a comfortable silence that only intimacy and truth and trust can yield to each other. and when He begins to speak, or when i begin to, the silence changes, and yet it is not harsh, or unnatural.

i open His word and read, absorbing all that He wishes to teach me. and i pray, prayer that starts out as simple words, petitions for my loved ones, myself, for the aches and pains of a broken world and ends as something far more profound that i know indeed the Spirit intercedes for me, beyond my capabilities.

but the best moments surely must be when He and i sing the dawnsong together, a symbol of our faith, our hope and our love. there are no words for the dawnsong, rather, it is a melody that each heart carries, and i too hear it in the most sacred and hidden part of my being.
i know that he enjoys these moments, and every morning, i am reminded that His presence is real and His love, life-changing.

a vixen love poem (ii)

blue. always blue.
and she wears it to please him.
to make him happy.
because his joy is hers...
and he is hers,

and so when she tells him
that the red shirt he wears
brings out the light in his eyes,
she waits
for him to wear it to please her,
because her joy is his,
and she is his.