lullaby

she was asleep
the linen would protect her
remember the lock on the door,
the alarm (always set)?
sleep.
if you hear the pebbles knocking on the pane,
sleep.
if movement disturbs the gravel
outside, underneath the window,
sleep.
when the lock fails
and the alarm remains silent,
sleep.
when darkness streams in
through the door forcing itself inside you,
sleep.
if you wake, the night will break.
sleep and let the linen protect you.

stained

it's something that you never think will happen to you or someone you know. i found out only minutes ago and my only thought was to write. i cannot cry or scream. i cannot feel anger. i just feel an overwhelming need to write. as if writing will turn it into something it is not.

it is just a story. a story that is distant. make-believe. a story that will end. please God let us wake up from this. i fumble for words of comfort. words that will never reach her soul. maybe if i wrote better i could write for her. write beautiful words that would tell her about a future she can still have. words that would take away the finality of what she had to go through.

what do i tell her now? how will i face her knowing that smile is no longer the same? she is pure. she is pure and innocent. it is not she who has been stained.

love

Loving you is jumping off a rock
72 feet high
into white waters.

in-between

How many times have I written your name?

Again and again I have written your name.

Write over and over just that, your name.

As if to tell my heart who it is that has been lost.

As if to tell myself what it is that I will never have.

I pen the letters one by one, calling for you.

I mark them down and sense that I am waiting.

How many times have I written your name?

Oh the countless times that I have written that name.

cynic

the lie is that love exists
in rose-colored auras and
heady perfumes

love does not exist
it is created
it was born into non-being

born from eyes singing a song
of inacceptance
and perhaps, if you allow, regret

it was with your leaving
that you proclaimed love unable,
an elusive myth in a world of hard truths

poetry - my stress reliever

the stars didn't move tonight
the night is still

the warmth (traces of your once near body)
staves off the darkness

it isn't so lonely after all
not when the mind has stopped to dwell on it

in the distance, i feel something stirring
perhaps, despite the silence, my heart will find its way back

composed

if i close my eyes and look away,
the after image
of your face
will still remain vivid in my mind.

if i choose not to stay
my heart
will give me time to forget.

maybe all it takes is one moment
of indecision
and then of perfect finality
that there is nothing more to do
but leave things unspoken.

when poetry is left unpolished

it was late last night when you stood near the doorway
(my dreams are rarely so vivid.)
and took in the washed-out walls and stained window frames.

your fingers traced the broken silver of the doorknob
and pretended to pick the rusted lock with your nail.
(it would have been comical had you not been so stern.)

(there was something both endearing and cruel in the remembrance.)
they were only moments from my sleep and yet
each movement caused the world to rock in frozen longing.

(you enter my dreams and i can only watch
as you strum the chords of a lost song
i will never find when the sun streams through the curtains)

snip

her hand poises, ready with the scissors
"the thing about hair, you see,
is that once you cut it off,
it's gone forever."

"yes, yes. i understand. shorter.
i want it shorter. cut away", i say
looking straight ahead and breathing in deep
"i'm sure."

*snip*
damn. i swear i marked it a bit longer.
"well?" she queries (triumph in her tone?)
"perfect," i reply.

the thing about hair, she should know, is that it grows back.

dahil summer

Love

Pablo Neruda

Because of you, in gardens of blossoming flowers I ache from the
perfumes of spring.
I have forgotten your face, I no longer remember your hands;
how did your lips feel on mine?
Because of you, I love the white statues drowsing in the parks,
the white statues that have neither voice nor sight.
I have forgotten your voice, your happy voice; I have forgotten
your eyes.
Like a flower to its perfume, I am bound to my vague memory of
you. I live with pain that is like a wound; if you touch me, you will
do me irreparable harm.
Your caresses enfold me, like climbing vines on melancholy walls.
I have forgotten your love, yet I seem to glimpse you in every
window.
Because of you, the heady perfumes of summer pain me; because
of you, I again seek out the signs that precipitate desires: shooting
stars, falling objects.