Friday, September 13, 2002

Enchanting Words

Is it me hidden in these pages? Is it really me? Venting away on a page, staining it even now with a single thought. Scribbling a lifetime of words. Words that enchant me.

I don't believe one needs glosses or alphabets to write. All you need is life. Everyday is like a blank page set before you. Go ahead, tell a story. How about one of love?

time circles a ring of desire
and no words will suffice
ripe as a kiss
woven with sun
with eyes closed
I await you

I've never been the cause of such words, emotions exchanged with a rose. Maybe that's the reason they haunt my mind. But tell me a story. How about one of sadness?

I turned back to the house I grew up in
covered now only by shadows and dust
I tried to remember being happy
but the pain of today was too much
it wouldn't let go of me
my childhood was finally gone

Oh how I wish I could make life better for my family with a simple poetry line. It is so hard to wipe away tears with a wish. So many things one can't leave behind by simply saying goodbye.

Just one more story. Please, make this one about you.

posted @ 3:15 PM

To the east is the place where the grieving began, some will say from the west. Travelers will go, pushing the distance away, to say their goodbyes. All want to pay tribute to unexpected heroes and survivors who are trying to find their identity once again.

Before? How was life before? We complained about anything: I hate the day-in-day-out of my work, the sweat-for-your-dollar, the rich hate their gold, the poor their sore feet, the teller his cage. Funny how the beauty complained that her feet were too ugly. We didn't even know it then, but we were already weeping.

Some have tried to live unperturbed but things still keep pressing hard. Strong pilars fell down to the ground as if they were made out of salt!

Alas, all of it hopeless, I know - but I adore living still.

Will you let the dead rest in peace? I don't know if we'll ever be able to let go. Not forget but stop pounding memories on the stone. We cannot fix what wasn't conceived on this earth with the entitlement of our own hands - the past.

I lost so much in places I haven't been to. I went back to my newspaper and read on, like any good citizen. I wonder about those who had to live the fires, and the dust, the unbearable sounds and the solitude. Those who had to stand there 'till nothing remained to be seen.

Alas, all of it hopeless, I know - but I adore living still.

If given the chance, hatred won't let us breathe or go on with our writing. It will never leave us alone unless we speak up and say: shit on you all! in our name. Then we will see our enemy hopelessly buried, with power to harm only himself. Our grief we will endure and then we'll keep on being happy. We will sing of our mountains and valleys - a victory over the shadows of the monster.

Alas, all of it hopeless, I know - but we are living still.



posted @ 10:27 AM

Many times I don't know how I feel but I always know how I don't want to feel. I don't want to grow old and say I walked without seeing, endured absence in presence, extinction without being born, estrangement, the hostile eyes of the bypasser. I don't want to grow old and not grow.

I don't know what I want but I do know I don't want to be on the run - my footsteps rapid, insatiable, equivocal, bitter. Letting the world's weight press on my shoulders a mountain of mistakes. I don't want to run.

All I want is to never lose my vision. I need it to learn. My sight I can do without, but not my vision. I need my mouth to sing and if there is a soul, I need it as well. Of course I need my ears but for some reason, those are hard to keep. Many times I've lost them in the sounds of an ocean of people calling out my name. Focus, I tell myself over and over.

I like solitude. It teaches me about myself. It's hard to see the stars in the middle of a bright city. I only need one light - under the sheets of a dream. Realism, idealism: both parts of my world. I live as I must.

Desert Flower




posted @ 11:20 AM