i.     brought upon me 
    eternally
         was
             the
stone of regret

and how silly it was
for me to believe
    that
        stones could
           move.

ii.    skies never resembled people all that much;
  
  however:
    they both did command the world
       what to do and
       when to do it and
how
to.

iii.    “stones sink in water“
        they slash through it
  almost like
swords would.

but never would i have thought that it was 
a 
natural thing
for the stone to sink.

iv.    things that
      i couldn’t see

were often my favorite.

a cup of chai before the sunrise,
a powerful gust of wind that moved me,
and a sudden heat supply given by a mother’s hand.

v. but 
no matter
    what
        happened

the hues in the skies
would
always
contract and bend in funny ways
that i failed to comprehend
time and time again.

vi.
one thing i was sure of:
it would 
always fall when the day would end.
just
    like
        people 
    do.

and the water over the horizon
stood frozen 
reflecting the skies
and that
stubborn
little
rock lay hidden in the depths of the sea.

For days of scooters, skinned knees, and Band-aids — and the pride of wearing a bandage. For warm milk, fruit juice, and popsicles, melted and running down my face. For things strewn around the house — poetry books, broken crayons, handfuls of Cheerios, and wooden blocks. For hellos and goodbyes. For relentless flights to India and Hawaii. For beaches and sunsets and hikes in Maui. For putting frangipani blossoms in my little sister’s hair. For plastic cups and plastic silverware. For toothless grins — and toothless frowns. For silver moonlight, dark skies, twinkling stars, watching the clouds, and star-gazing at night. For days filled with love and laughter. For simple innocence. For being free.

Tears caught in your throat
and a catch in your voice
that is the sound of breathing.

A phony falsetto
with a giggle bubbling underneath
that is the sound of singing.

A stirring in your heart
and a fluttering of weak wings
that is the sound of freedom.

The bleating of newborn lambs
and the squirting of cold milk
into your wide-open mouth
that is the sound of childhood.

Tank tops air-drying on the terrace
the sun sweeping its rays down low
and back up again
that is the sound of summer.

The taste of words on your lips
strains of their lifeless and half-formed melody
that is the song of imagination.

We weren’t supposed to be here, not really.
The sun was about to set.
The last of the visitors had trailed out hours ago.
Feeble rays of light lit our path, and the dirt glowed golden.

It was only then that I let myself lean over the cast-iron railing.
Wow.
The word come to my lips at once — juvenile, unpoetic — but it was there,
And it wasn’t going away.

Time slipped by as I gazed, mesmerized, at the postcard below.

And I could almost hear strains of music coming from the hills in the distance.
Almost.

Written on an immensely boring road trip to Nowhere In Particular.

the clouds above me weave into a seamless white sky,
a windy road settles straight
endless and eternal

there is no stop, no start
only a road
gray lands enveloping it
yellow and white lines marking it

the power lines slowly become distant as i watch them flutter
up and down

my window feels cold although it shows no sign of snow
the wind sways my car and i
and when we fail to leave the path
it gives up
the wind whishing away
yet the cold does not falter

the turns make me sick and weak
but seeing the straight road ahead lights a flame of hope in my heart
although it starts ever so small
it grows

all will be better
all will be well
if i keep driving

Silence is never a good thing, for something always hides there in the silence, and things that hide hide for a reason, reasons darker than the dark that we hid in to hide from the silence.

 

it’s July 4th.

The heat comes down in droves

like so many sapphire-black beetles

and at night the fireworks explode

in fragrant blues, succulent reds;

the children laugh

in fragrant blues, succulent reds;

and at night the fireworks explode

like so many sapphire-black beetles

The heat comes down in droves

it’s July 4th.

 

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