I am a Mess of the Heart's Litters

                                                                                                   

The air of realization says that

Wearing red does not make any difference.

These past few months I have bled enough

Enough for the red shawls to soak in.

My hair’s a pretty bun. Pinned.

My shoes speak of less walked soles.

The perfume that I wear carries my grace.

Yet, nothing makes a difference.

I am a mess of the heart’s litters.                                                     

 Does it upset you?

That I still walk straight into your mind?

That my memories still burn you between your thighs?

Even your upsetting does not make a difference.

I am indeed a mess of the heart’s litters

Like seashell necklaces

Worn by fisher-women

Adorning their raw fish-smelling necks.

Poetry Begins Where Tears Come to an End

Disposing the last moments before dawn
to the life-taking pain in my heart
I get a feeling that my dreams are losing their way
in darkness, and the fireflies imparting
the faintest rays of hope to them…
With no regrets but sadness
Taking the handful of life’s best memories
to be thrown into the deepest river
I realize that poetry comes to the lips
When tears come to an end.
The brightest rays of the sun are not what I need
to warm my freezing mind
But the full moon’s soothing serenity
to calm my dying mind,
Suffering from strangulation by
the handful of life’s best memories.

US..AND ALL THE BROKENNESS

His lucid verses giggle like the dancing brook,

Sometimes flow like a silent river

Figuring mysteries of the broken heart

And oftentimes, twinkles among the stars.

My verses tend to picture the dew-soft meadow

Looking at the blue infinity,

Counting birds and clouds,

Numbering the hearts that I have torn

and the many hearts

That have left their imprints on mine.

Together we are one.

The hundred words that form

a wreath of silent understanding,

Taking words to the dark infinity

Stealthily, carefully,

where dwells perfect peace!

TERRACOTTA TRANCE

Moulded beautifully into curves and edges
My dreams had their own palette of colors.
Some black, some white, some grey, some red
Some saddened, some gay, some thoughtful
And yet some shallow
My dreams had their own set of beliefs.

But each had a life of its own,
Photographic moments in them
My thoughts had their own place to dwell.

Some dawns turned into evenings
While I burned them slowly
In broad daylight, and some
Melted in my mind
Quietly into memories.
And even some remained there
Passively enough but lighting the path
That is taking me to the destination
That my earthy dreams are making since.