I cannot let it go

Am I losing touch?

have I lost my face?

is everything just scrambling now  

and out of place?

a fistful of facts and they are

swirling out of tact and

everything is blinding chaos

beyond my broken eyes again

an act

what now? I wonder. What now?

I ponder upon all conceivable options 

and hows

and all the walls and choices

dance in contradicting voices

run. stay. persevere and either any way

Dismay 

this is all artificial art anyway

pointless soul-consuming cartons

of creativity that create past-times

and passing time

why waste a wallop of reflection and 

inspection towards a future

that isn’t mine to begin with?

let it be.

with twisted toes I stutter

barely heard at all that

I

cannot.  

faith

seek silence and stability

calm of shallow water and

sunshine ricocheting off

reflective surface reflecting

sky and the universe beyond.

seek comfort and a knowingness

that we are not alone this world

has stretched its arms around you

embracing you in an everlasting

invisible hug 

that protective blanket that

will always heal and heighten hope

and let us call it

faith.

 

meditation

Stop.

breath.

notice your breath.

fill your lungs with air.

seek tranquility.

let silence be your intention.

let your intention be still.

and fill your mind with silence.

notice things

fill your ears with sound.

be one and let one be you

silence

Silence is creeping

It is haunting me

It sits on my chest suffocating

It throws my words into a bathtub filled with

water watching them drown

and all the while silence is smiling

as those last bubbles rise and pop

as sound loses itself

drop by drop by drop

Is silence cruel?

Is it a psychopath looking

for stimulation?

Is silence the surrounding gravity

that makes one hide within

a static shell?

If I could

I would look silence in the eye and

ask it

what it is and why it haunts

me

I would

Fight silence with a sound

Capturing it into a cage where I could

contemplate

At times when I should

And will I sit here forever?

and will I sit here forever?

Unwinding and rewinding the same roll

Twisting past present future into a

knot that leaves me stuck

In a rut and helplessly petrified

A still statue crumbling

Mummified and tumbling over

Histories colouring in anxieties

And stumbling over stitches

Scratching scars opening wounds

And making marks time would

Have healed

potential

Who knows

What you do not know

We crush our toes into the ground

beneath us, testing the soil

We face the sky and walk

Onwards onwards and above,

open ourselves to the sun its

shine and love. Embracing the whole

world one atom at a time.

The Elephant Parade

No one knew where they came from. They only knew that it was while the weather had turned unusually strange. It had begun raining in sheets; walls of quantimous amounts of water cascading mercilessly as if someone had turned the tap on at max from above.

It’s only a little rain, many had thought, expecting it to end soon, that the grey ceiling their tin-box city had newly incorporated would soon dispel in the wind. Days passed, however, and the rain fell unfaltering. The clouds only gathered and condensed into darker greys and fiercer water bullets; the walls of rain became brick walls. People began breathing in water instead of air.  When the first death by drowning was announced people stayed indoors more, waiting it out, the brave few who had to leave covered their mouths with masks before facing the screaming new only to return quickly with pellet bruises from the rain’s force.  The rain didn’t stop, those sheets of white-metal water fell and fell, blinding the city and isolating everyone within their own islands.

It was on the third day the elephants stepped out of these sheets of rain. Nobody knew where they came from; the zoo creatures had all been safely locked away and accounted for. Nobody saw them clearly, they could only just make out their silhouettes stampeding through the streets of new york, as they peered through their tin-box windows. They heard the elephants trumpets bellow beneath the roaring rain.

..currently reading Stephen King-11.22.63, I’ve noticed that whatever I read tends to influence the tone of my writing (have not find ‘my own’ voice yet), my descriptions are also influenced (or inspired) by Ray Bradbury, who is a genius and his freedom and brilliance in description give me more confidence and freedom in mine

passionate penguins- blast from the past

So they ate silver spoons and laughed at the moonlit mansion in a sick sadistic fashion, riding the rollercoaster of their twisted minds ranting about all the passionless penguins the world increasingly carved from its over-structured and under-felt ways. What are words? we are..was the answer they came up with, twirling their ancient locks of hair as they walked through ceilings and flew through walls trying to sense the making of everything over and over again, polishing it to such perfection that they forgot. they forgot what it really was. When all they had left was their pride all they felt was shame, and what a shame that was- to the self-acclaimed judges that thrived on the pompous clouds they walked on from their own stale and heavy breaths of judgment. what a sick world we live in, they said it was only perspective..Save the world and cleanse your air, we are all artists in our being. Words manmade may be untamed..

Written in 2010

reasons for letting go

many many months have passed

and I have grieved you

cried and contemplated

held on so tight until

you were nothing but dust

beneath my grip.

And memories hit

in unexpected moments like

when you screamed above a rat

and jumped almost to the ceiling and

how funny was that?

or

when you brought a pan to bake in

and I saw it and saw the ghost of you

besides it saying, here- so you can

bake your cakes in.

or how you always aimed to be

‘professional’ like it was your

favorite word and your

perfect way of being

how we cooked from chaos to synchrony

like the dissonance and consonance

of song and melody

and I’ve almost stopped remembering

I have drowned myself

in performance poetry and readings

socializing and teachings

meditation and prayers

trying to find peace

writing and learning my way out of memory

fighting to stay one step ahead of wallow

two steps ahead of missing you

three steps ahead of looking back

and letting my gut crumble

in nostalgia at your past

And then you say one half-sentence

one half-year

later

and I find myself submerged

again

in memory and feeling

as if

I never learned a thing

and I must remember to

remind myself

I must remember

my reasons

for letting

go