Light

Light bends, curves;
thoughts diffract to darkened chasms.
That point source is so far, galaxies
and light years away--a pulsing entity,
golden remnants of a dying star.

Surrounded by brightness, interfering
with a steady stream, a traveling wave of
fantasies, dreams. Interfering until colors disappear,
leaving behind the bitterness of darkness, the
pungent fragrance of fear.

Thoughts ride on waves, approaching the
point source, emitter of light--until it burns brighter,
turning shades of violet, particles vibrating
furiously. Light is a particle and a wave,
doubly powerful.

And so am I, once I reach the sky,
beyond the air, a universe away. Absorbing the light,
doubly strong, bright. Thoughts diffract, spreading their
essence throughout the dark, igniting the dormant
dreams and sparks.

Denouement

Why does a fire roar so loudly? Why
does it consume the oxygen in its midst,
begging for attention among indifferent people?
Why does it make logs prance about,
hissing heat in a sweltering treat?

Sparks steam into the breeze, trying
to draw eyes. But the wind is too strong.

Spluttering, gasping for breath. People walk around,
tossing sticks of wood into the forest. Their ignorance
is freezing, letting a chill pervade
the orange, flickering tongues. The flames
falter for a second, hiccuping. Feeling
the hood of neglect beat down on their skin.

Knowing that they will be appreciated
only when they turn dark, a soft black,
a contrast. And a few glimmers of golden,
letting shivering skin, watering eyes
know the treasures
they had missed.

Eddying Eras

First published in The Tower Journal 

A preternatural rush of flowing air,

a bewildering twirl of my surroundings.

Colors merge to form perplexing hues

my searching eyes have never seen before.

The ring of earth that encircles me

melts to form a swirling mass of confused tones,

that fade with the elapsing backdrops

as I stand rooted in one place

traveling through the disorienting fabric of space--

that transforms as each second wears away,

gaining me the rare, precious minutes

I had let go by without my noticing

as each sun set, as every single day

ticked by while I remained shackled by blissful oblivion

that is represented by slumber, of all the other times

the hours had passed at a confounding speed

to which I was unable to pay heed.

A disorderly mesh of voices

like multicolored strings of yarn,

incapable of disentangling themselves,

drift like confused currents to my listening ears,

of different pitches, varying tones,

blending to form one,

which I can't discern beyond a single word

because there are so many.

Altering temperatures, rising from a freezing chill

to sweltering heat,

interspersed with cascades of rain

that disappear as suddenly as they arrived.

The sun rises and sets disarmingly fast,

carving an immaculate arc across the sky,

darkening and lightening intermittently

of fluctuating intensities,

giving way to the moon and stars

once it completes its course

predetermined by forces beyond our command.

And in a trice, it all stops-

and I find myself in the past,

at a time exceeding my powers of comprehension,

having artfully escaped the pressures of the present,

to find solace in the rapture

of not having been born yet--

just a mere spirit lingering about,

attached to the clouds of the century-old skies.

Hiraeth

memories slither back,
    soft, serpentining their way,
        insidious. crawling into her
            mind as she rests on a strange,
               unfamiliar floor. next to a dark,
                   locked door, chained.   foreign
                    trees grow on the other side, red
                      and rosy, blooming in spirals, alien
                        flowers of a midnight blue. a past
                        can be broken down, but that
                       takes years, centuries. a native
                     bird's call can never disappear,
                   it remains hidden, painfully
                shackled at the back  of  her
              mind. until she dreams of it,
          of that enchanting rhythm, its
        beautiful tone. it slinks, eerie,
      to a place she dreads, its tunes
    leading her from  the  fettered
    abodes, down the mud-caked
     roads, through the ravines of
       a past she seeks to forget.
         going back in time, echoes,
             tides of lost voices spilling
               across, sidling back, sinister.
                  waves snake along, old voices,
                     remembrances of old sights, of
                     twinges of a gentle agony. her
                    sleeping soul takes her back, to
                    a place that closed its doors to
                    her wistful, glassy eyes. to a
               realm of reminiscence, past an
           ocean of pain. serpentining, the
         memory waltzes away, leaving
      an explicable ache when the sun
   shakes her shivering soul awake.
       

Alone

Trees overlook, her footsteps resonate,
far from the crowd, far from the noise
that rises up into the air--like swirls
of mist. Mist that saturates, mist that occupies
the mind, that doesn't let us think.

Mist that chains our thoughts in our physique,
urging us to bow before the current. It's hard to
raise one's head when an invisible force pushes
it back down. It's hard for her to raise her hand
when a million others are grasping the breeze, gasping
for attention, waiting to be released.

Eyes stare when she carves her own design. But
listening to her musical footsteps, the sound
of her feet claiming the land they walk on--is
so much more heartening, more empowering
than having them lost. Lost like a black speck in a
trail of ants, like a single note in an endless symphony,
like a single star in the darkened galaxy.

She can hear herself breathe, conscious of every
flutter of her eyelash. It's so much more enlivening
than inhaling the mist that was exhaled by billions of
souls. She can sense her body working, hear it
chugging in the silence of solitude, hear her thoughts
speak louder than the babble of voices she left behind.

A babble of voices with no meaning. A sorry mixture
of bass and falsetto, tears and laughs--a trail with no
destination, a pathless concoction. Minds that don't agree
can never create a beautiful musical piece, a harmonious
canvas. Her solitary mind can, though. Because a single
drop of water is more precious than a torrent, because a lone
star in the universe can give birth to life--while a medley
of them only destroy what was never conceived.

Scent

Tendrils arise, the scent of roses wafts
upwards. Pink ringlets dominate the air, entering
my nose, going deep into the crevices of my mind.

Old houses reside, untouched rooms,
covered by layers of dust. Rust. In the forgotten
troves of memory do they hide--needing a hand
to pull them out, a comforting smile.
Unseen photographs, unappreciated grins,
unheard stories of success--cowering at the back,
like a novice before a grand concert, like a writer
before her first release.

Daffodils, pancake batter, blue ice-cream,
lavender perfume, freshly washed clothes;
musty books and the scents that accompany--
have magic fingers, pulling out shy, uncertain
memories, bringing them to the fore. Opening up
that adamant door, letting the thoughts spill outwards,
flooding my mind. Letting me experience what I could
never find.

They have a subtle power within them, scents do. As
as I inhale deeply, I discover old pages
of my story. Torn pages, that were pieced together
by a force I cannot describe, but can only sense.
As long as I breathe, I am powerful; and as long as I
sense what I perceive, I am invincible.

Reality

Brilliant smiles seem dimmed; flashing
white pales down, a grin looks like a grimace.

Honest language, natural emotions--hidden,
under a blanket of disapproval; concealed under

an unending cover of fear. Artificiality attempts
to redeem, fails miserably, paves the path to puzzled

facades, giggling expressions. Words blur out--
true words, phrases that could make a difference,

lines that could initiate a change. A pixelated cloud
interferes, an awkward silence ensues for a second, for

the remainder of everything left. Sometimes, what we
see on screens could be real; it could be revolutionary--it

can turn the tables, roll the die, make the north
occupy the south, make a waterfall shoot toward the heavens.

Sadly, that waterfall won't rise upward
if an infinite plate of glass hovers above. But if the

shards of sunlight, with their minuscule fingers,
reach out--shatter the crystal into a million fragments,

let the droplets kiss the clouds... Let the world be free
of the hazy, disorienting shield, let the air inhaled be

fresh, unadulterated. Let the moonlight be without dust particles
that interrupt its silvered glow--so that it reaches out, bathing the

green-tinged sea. Let the viewers finally emerge free.

Elapsing Epoch

Echoes resonate, reflect off the walls,
amplified by a hundred--emotions embedded
in a baby's cry, in her teething smile.
Footsteps clatter on the floor above, trickles of sound
waft towards nostalgic ears. The scratching of a pencil,
under the fingers of a poet. A tapping toe, searching
the floor for iotas of inspiration. Slivers of wood
adorn the closed windows, shielding rustic furniture pieces
from modern wind. A rocking chair,
encasing the soul of a young girl, stirs feebly.

Stilettos step in, carrying sunlight upon her back;
golden gleams of sunlight, silver shards of moonlight,
to a darkened abode. A lipsticked face peering at the
dust-encrusted table, looking at the distorted reflection.
Music unknown to the home blares, tiny feet trample
around. The matured sun shines into the rooms,
as the spirits are forced out--forced out by the winds
of change.

The rocking chair rocks no more--it remains
motionless in the basement. Was there ever a past
in this house? Didn't ancient spirits linger about, filling
its rooms with blood, with life? But they rose into the air,
dissipating with the breeze, with the modern wind--the
wind of today. Peace disappeared, to be replaced with
a clanging, a menacing din; as the old house--into
a new era--was ushered in.