Violins and Trees (Unforgettable)

Grains and ridges glazed
The past made to be forgotten
A form unfamiliar to the self

Music played, notes sung
A distant lover’s longing caress
On ties stretched along the body

The song of birds reverberate
Humming through a new jungle
A standing tree to a seated forest

The applause of branches and leaves
The woods having come to life
As the bird long dead hymns an end

An elegy for lost friends
Screaming from chains bound
The violin cannot forget its birth.

Coffee

I like my coffee light
with a distinct flavor of the roast,
the hint of nut and cocoa wafting
with the aroma of the earth
and mellowed by milk.

I take it in ice
until it melts and loses all
that makes it coffee.
So sometimes I get it hot
because when it cools down,
it doesn’t lose its charm.

I add syrups and sugars too
because even as much as I like coffee,
the bitter acidic embrace on my tongue
makes me shrink back and turn away.

Love truly is blind.

I’m Here

When the sun breaks the dawn
When the rooster first crows

When morning traffic starts to congest
When horns fill the urban theatre

When screens boot up
When clicks and clacks spit out words

When the sun stands tip toe
When the lunch rush clamor a riot

When orange paints the sky
When office hours tick tock to an end

When the night falls
When happy hour dances to music

When the bed beckons
When the clock sings its lullaby 

When silence fills the void
When the darkness echoes over

Stolen Time, Twisted World

I swear I saw her cheeks blush
in the light of the fluorescent
that made the sunrise behind her
seem insignificant.

Her smile was bright and blinding
and when she said, “Hi! Good morning!”
everyone stopped and couldn’t help but smile back.

Her lips were that lush red
that belies roses held up in a bouquet
and overshadowed the sun now setting behind her.

Her eyes shone bright in the moonlight
even as clouds crowd the moon.
Time loses meaning, east turns to west,
as I stare at the night sky in her eyes.

For Lack of Words

I write you a letter where the blank spaces has all the words I want to say.

wish you were here

The grounds blurs in haste
—like an arrow leaves the bow—
the plane cannot stop.

    The warmth of the sun
    makes the sea a lot colder
    and the shore lonely.

Mountains look as small
as the hand, at hand, in hand,
and still out of reach.

    The forest beckons
    the song of birds and insects
    wont of longing.

Everything rushes
up close and everywhere near
at the journey’s end.

Watch

A watch
turns its hands
in mourning
for one circle then
another and,
until it grinds itself
to disuse,
it lives on.

The watch
keeps on
lookout, stern
and stoic; not
betraying an emotion
to make sure he mourns
no one else
that night and all
nights to come.

Those who watch
unmoving
mourns themselves
their reflection
on the glass.

Therapy

I sit there fiddling my thumbs, fidgeting on a cushion of needles trying to let out the colossal hoard of thoughts and worries that I’ve kept inside like a ship in a bottle. Wading through the perilous, meandering stretch crossing floods of memories through muddy relations on derailed trains of thoughts. Over the walls I’ve built.
In this room, what’s said and heard, however much I let go, is as much as this room keeps with the two people here. This is a safe, a  room that serves as just a bigger confine of my mind.

You’ve Got Me, Friend

It’s been ages since we’ve talked in earnest;
when there were nights we spent almost sleepless
talking over the phone. I don’t even know who
you are anymore. It’s been so long, I miss you.

I remember the time I called you after school;
I had you confused and looking like a fool
by guessing the one place you could have gone to
and saying I crossed the country just to see you.

Looking back, that was very mean of me; you were
and still are the best of people I could ask for.
We became friends when I tried to console you,
but now I run to you when I’m feeling blue.

I remember when you went to the museum with me
so I won’t be alone and now how could I not see
how good a friend you’ve been to me. It seems
you’ve done more for me than I could dream.

I had only been asking for favors and advice
without asking how you are, and not realize
you have burdens you carry that I’m not helping
and maybe my own burdens even contributing.

We’re both ill; we’re both in need of a friend
—and you’ve been that while I’ve been absent.
I didn’t even know your worries, your pains
...until recently. I wish we get to talk more again.

after Falling Into Place

An accident is difficult to plan.

You lose people; close friends
become distant, and strangers
seem more familiar.

You can decide how, where and when.

You lose touch; who you are
and who you’re supposed to be
blur until you can’t see.

You’ll crash and spin over.

People lose you; unnoticed
strings chain you together
and with you, they suffer.

You’ll be found and cared for.

They will wait; until you see
them once again, they will stay
by your side and each day after.

Sun Flowers

The sunflower always faces the sun;
down-crested when it’s gone, only slowly
raising its head from horizon to horizon.

Amidst the early vestiges of the day
the morning glory opens itself to the sun;
and fades before the sunset paints the sky.

It’s good I’m neither; no sun to define me.

NaPoWriMo 2023. A poem on a specific plant.

When people say they love the rain

When people say they love the rain,
they really mean they love the cold weather;
the pitter patter of a light drizzle
on the window, the concrete, on things that don’t quite matter.

When people say they love the sun,
they don’t mean the scorching heat of summer;
they mean the possibility of all sorts
that would have been for naught if not the wonderful weather.

When people say they love the wind,
they mean the breeze not what ruined their hair;
a gentle caress as if a lover’s embrace
instead of a gale that tore through their life asunder.

So when people say they love you,
to what extent can you believe that be true?

NaPoWriMo 2023. Catching up to last week’s Sonnet Sunday.

On time travel

It’s not
real.

It is
now. Tomorrow,
next week,
year.

It’s not
what should be
the past; it’s what
the past should be.
Not the last, but
should have been
what was.

It is
all that I
hoped had not,
or that it be not
what was
—is.
That it never be
, or today be a lot different.

But as much as I want,
what has happened cannot
be changed. What is
will remain what it is.

NaPoWriMo 2023. A poem built on negation