Versified

I did not take a breath

2011-11-26T11:23:00.001-06:00

I am staring into the dark swirl,
inside the white skull of cup,
to get a glimpse of something magnificent,
or maybe reflection of the sky above.
Someone might be peering down, lifting
the curtains of the white clouds. You might see
an eye perhaps green like the emerald pond
fed by the underground spring, running in between

the sharp mountains
of stalagmite. My gaze is fixed on the black ink
of this murky abyss; maybe there will be a pinhole
of light, white and unmistakeable, traveling at the
speed of light, of course; and it will reach my head,
land in between my eyes, gently summoning
with the necromancer's magic;
to wake up any neurons, that had grown tired and stale
in their long wait for something big to happen.

2011-11-11T20:55:00.001-06:00

My childhood provided such a fodder for so many stories. Amazing how I never realized that until today.

The Spirit of Poe Anthology

2011-10-14T10:33:00.000-05:00

One of my poems will be featured in The Spirit of Poe, an anthology comprising of short stories and poems in the spirit of Poe. This project was born out of the desire to save the Edgar Allan Poe museum in Baltimore which faces cuts in the city's funding. The proceeds from the sale of the books will go to the Poe museum. There was a call for submission from Literary Landmark Press, asking for poems and short stories, and I submitted a poem and was chosen. Here is the complete list of contributors. This will be my first poem ever to be published in print, and obviously I am very excited about it. What makes it more exciting is this is for a good cause.

The pre-order of the books is being accepted now, and the shipping date is slated to be early November. If you want a taste of my writing as well as other talented writers, please go to this site to place an order.

The history of the house is found HERE:

For your enjoyment, here's one of Poe's poems:

ALONE

FROMchildhood's hour I have not been
As others were — I have not seen
As others saw — I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I lov'd, I lov'd alone.
Then — in my childhood — in the dawn
Of a most stormy life — was drawn
From ev'ry depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that 'round me roll'd
In its autumn tint of gold —
From the lightning in the sky
As it pass'd me flying by —
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.

Tell me if I owe you still

2011-10-13T17:40:00.000-05:00

I tell you what,
I see you but I don't
see you. I like your voice
but I hate how you
treat me or how you set
your eyes only to yourself.

Respect. That's the issue here.
You think you could say the things
you say, do the things you do,
disregard others like scraps of garbage,
and then think the world owes you
happiness.

Twenty five men were found yesterday,
face down in the dirt, hands tied behind
their backs, bullet holes in the back of their heads.
You think, the world owes them something?
anything? everything? nothing?

We did not even have to dig deep;
the men with guns never bothered to
hide their handiwork. Blood is not red
a day later, when smudged by brown mud
splattered with rain.

Theory Of Prosody

2011-10-07T22:47:00.001-05:00

By Philip Levine

When Nellie, my old pussy
cat, was still in her prime,
she would sit behind me
as I wrote, and when the line
got too long she'd reach
one sudden black foreleg down
and paw at the moving hand,
the offensive one. The first
time she drew blood I learned
it was poetic to end
a line anywhere to keep her
quiet. After all, many morn-
ings she'd gotten to the chair
long before I was even up.
Those nights I couldn't sleep
she'd come and sit in my lap
to calm me. So I figured
I owed her the short cat line.
She's dead now almost nine years,
and before that there was one
during which she faked attention
and I faked obedience.
Isn't that what it's about--
pretending there's an alert cat
who leaves nothing to chance.

Philip Levine's quote on poetry

2011-10-06T20:24:00.003-05:00

"The assumption that you could give the absolute truth simply by observing is nonsensical," Levine says. "It is, in a way, in almost obedience to my emotions that I shape the experience so that I can express how I felt and what it was I felt about.

"It is the imagination that gives us poetry," he says. "When you sit down to write a poem, you really don't know where you're going. If you know where you're going, the poem stinks, you probably already wrote it, and you're imitating yourself.

The real challenge is when language, instincts, technique and practice come together. Then, he says, "you have to follow where the poem leads. And it will surprise you. It will say things you didn't expect to say. And you look at the poem and you realize, 'That is truly what I felt.' That is truly what I saw."
- Philip Levine

What Work Is

2011-10-06T20:17:00.003-05:00

We stand in the rain in a long line
waiting at Ford Highland Park. For work
You know what work is — if you're
old enough to read this you know what
work is, although you may not do it.
Forget you. This is about waiting,
shifting from one foot to another.
Feeling the light rain falling like mist
into your hair, blurring your vision
until you think you see your own brother
ahead of you, maybe ten places.
You rub your glasses with your fingers,
and of course it's someone else's brother,
narrower across the shoulders than
yours but with the same sad slouch, the grin
that does not hide the stubbornness,
the sad refusal to give in to
rain, to the hours wasted waiting,
to the knowledge that somewhere ahead
a man is waiting who will say, "No,
we're not hiring today," for any
reason he wants.

- Philip Levine

Puzzle

2011-09-27T20:34:00.002-05:00

Round and round I go;
tear, join, unscramble
all the pieces in a pile;

upside down
inside out, jumbled up mess.

Sort it out, they say,
presenting the heap to me on a plastic plate
I stare, incomprehensible:
They shrug,
their heavy shoulders sag,

with eyes cast onto the next in line,
they yell, "When life gives you lemons
make some God damned lemonade."

They had it too easy, I mutter
while walking away; at least they know
those big yellow round things in their hands,
with sharp scent and unmistakable citrus taste;
were the orchard picked lemons as the stickers indicated.

I hold this lump, shoved into my outstretched hands,
this spiny and scentless round thing:
Beats me what I can make out of this abomination.

Time to go home

2011-09-24T11:35:00.000-05:00

Late and starting to rain,
it's time to go home.
We've wandered long enough
in empty buildings.
I know it's tempting to stay
and meet those new people.
I know it's even more sensible
to spend the night here with them,
but I want to go home.

We've seen enough beautiful places
with signs on them saying
This is God's House. That's seeing the
grain like the ants do,
without the work of harvesting.
Let's leave grazing to cows and go
where we know what everyone really intends,
where we can walk around without clothes on.

~ RUMI (from: Open Secret, translated by Coleman Barks)

(found the poem at perceval press

THINGS SHOULDN'T BE SO HARD

2011-08-15T22:29:00.002-05:00

THINGS SHOULDN'T BE SO HARD

A life should leave
deep tracks:
ruts where she
went out and back
to get the mail
or move the hose
around the yard;
where she used to
stand before the sink,
a worn-out place;
beneath her hand
the china knobs
rubbed down to
white pastilles;
the switch she
used to feel for
in the dark
almost erased.
Her things should
keep her marks.
The passage
of a life should show;
it should abrade.
And when life stops,
a certain space—
however small —
should be left scarred
by the grand and
damaging parade.
Things shouldn't
be so hard.

- Kay Ryan

Trust

2011-08-14T16:26:00.001-05:00

Oh we’ve got to trust
one another again
in some essentials.

Not the narrow little
bargaining trust
that says: I’m for you
if you’ll be for me. -

But a bigger trust,
a trust of the sun
that does not bother
about moth and rust,
and we see it shining
in one another.

Oh don’t you trust me,
don’t burden me
with your life and affairs; don’t
thrust me
into your cares.

But I think you may trust
the sun in me
that glows with just
as much glow as you see
in me, and no more.

But if it warms
your heart’s quick core
why then trust it, it forms
one faithfulness more.

And be, oh be
a sun to me,
not a weary, insistent
personality

but a sun that shines
and goes dark, but shines
again and entwines
with the sunshine in me

till we both of us
are more glorious
and more sunny.

D. H. Lawrence, 1885 – 1930

Muse, Stockholm Syndrome Live @ Kanrocksas 2011

2011-08-12T20:43:00.001-05:00

Epic laser show with the most awesome song. I am so glad that I was there in person to experience such an amazing night.

About Me

2011-08-01T11:48:00.000-05:00

My name is Aye.

I was born and raised in Burma, and by choice and circumstance, was transplanted to America. I am a lover of words: written, spoken, singing, mumbling, whispering, and even shouting. Words of power, words of love, words of beauty, words of anger, words of pain and suffering, and words that awaken the world make impact on me daily. I read and write poems as my way of finding the light which so often eludes me.

This site offers my words as well as words from others who dazzle me.

"I would hurl words into this darkness and wait for an echo, and if an echo sounded, no matter how faintly, I would send other words to tell, to march, to fight, to create a sense of hunger for life that gnaws in us all." ~Richard Wright, American Hunger, 1977

my playlist for the novel

2011-06-17T18:30:00.000-05:00

It's a work in progress.. but these are some of the songs I thought they might go well with some scenes from the book I am writing. Needed a place holder so here it is.

infidelity by This American Life

2011-05-22T19:19:00.002-05:00

The Warning (from For Love)

2011-03-27T10:32:00.001-05:00

For love—I would
split open your head and put
a candle in
behind the eyes.

Love is dead in us
if we forget
the virtues of an amulet
and quick surprise.

-Robert Creeley

My Chemical Romance - Planetary (GO!)

2011-03-22T14:02:00.001-05:00

view from the blue

2011-02-06T20:35:00.002-06:00

What could be so wrong that
you want to get drowned?
Was there blood on your wandering hands;
were there bones crushed under
your careful steps?

What could be so wrong that
you want to disappear from this loving earth
and fly away to wherever stars are dying?
I slip your skin on and look through the slits,
wear the color of blue in my eyes and
see that the world is indeed still and barren

but as the night grows
under the glow of the old moon,
the world as blue as it is,
appears soft and unspoiled, wants
your presence, eyes and lips
with the desire of a virgin's hips.

lost

2011-02-06T20:23:00.000-06:00

I don't know how to bridge the gap;
All I know is to dig up other people's
words and quote them excessively,
fling them around the room as if
they could save me, save you,
bind us together into a hardcover book.

I don't understand you
however I have tried -
Lord knows how I have tried.

Weezer - I don't want you to let go | New Album 'Raditude' |

2011-02-05T17:07:00.000-06:00

Because I need a Viggo fix

2011-01-23T23:43:00.000-06:00

The snow sits on the ground
the colors are all wrong -
I need the world to be warm and green
pink and red, purple and blue
yellow like daffodils and the sky
holds promises that the wind
would bring me the soft sea
and the hot sand.

It is clear that I need a Viggo fix
on days like January 23 in the year 2011.

photo found from www.viggo-works.com.

Poetry as Insurgent Art [I am signaling you through the flames]

2011-01-22T17:28:00.002-06:00

Poetry as Insurgent Art [I am signaling you through the flames]
by Lawrence Ferlinghetti

I am signaling you through the flames. The North Pole is not where it used to be. Manifest Destiny is no longer manifest. Civilization self-destructs. Nemesis is knocking at the door. What are poets for, in such an age? What is the use of poetry? The state of the world calls out for poetry to save it. If you would be a poet, create works capable of answering the challenge of apocalyptic times, even if this meaning sounds apocalyptic. You are Whitman, you are Poe, you are Mark Twain, you are Emily Dickinson and Edna St. Vincent Millay, you are Neruda and Mayakovsky and Pasolini, you are an American or a non-American, you can conquer the conquerors with words....

The Trouble with Poetry by Billy Collins

2011-01-22T17:07:00.001-06:00

The trouble with poetry, I realized
as I walked along a beach one night --
cold Florida sand under my bare feet,
a show of stars in the sky --
the trouble with poetry is
that it encourages the writing of more poetry,
more guppies crowding the fish tank,
more baby rabbits
hopping out of their mothers into the dewy grass.

And how will it ever end?
unless the day finally arrives
when we have compared everything in the world
to everything else in the world,

and there is nothing left to do
but quietly close our notebooks
and sit with our hands folded on our desks.
Poetry fills me with joy
and I rise like a feather in the wind.
Poetry fills me with sorrow
and I sink like a chain flung from a bridge.
But mostly poetry fills me
with the urge to write poetry,
to sit in the dark and wait for a little flame
to appear at the tip of my pencil.
And along with that, the longing to steal,
to break into the poems of others
with a flashlight and a ski mask.
And what an unmerry band of thieves we are,
cut-purses, common shoplifters,
I thought to myself
as a cold wave swirled around my feet
and the lighthouse moved its megaphone over the sea,
which is an image I stole directly
from Lawrence Ferlinghetti --
to be perfectly honest for a moment --
the bicycling poet of San Francisco
whose little amusement park of a book
I carried in a side pocket of my uniform
up and down the treacherous halls of high school.

flit

2011-01-22T16:56:00.003-06:00

You went everywhere except here, to the place I stood,
where I could have seen you, memorized the texture of your smile,
and picked you up tenderly in my hands.

These wings of yours -- soft, gossamer thin, transparent as air--
must have been full of grace and allure;
you swung them effortlessly, gliding over town, eyes on the horizon

while I waited, with jagged rocks of anticipation held inside my throat,
you passed over me, without glancing down.

muse - map of your head

2011-01-20T08:55:00.000-06:00

I'm freezing
losing my way
I don't want another
map of your head

A Conceit

2011-01-17T11:21:00.000-06:00

A Conceit

Give me your hand

Make room for me
to lead and follow
you
beyond this rage of poetry.

Let others have
the privacy of
touching words
and love of loss
of love.

For me
Give me your hand.

Maya Angelou

My Chemical Romance - Planetary (GO!) - Live from LA: Killjoys Make Some...

2011-01-15T12:57:00.000-06:00

My newest addiction. Try staying still listening to this song. Impossible feat!

COLORS

2011-01-15T12:33:00.000-06:00

I had imagined your world
in gray and black, shades of
charcoal nights; where mist
hangs above the mournful river
and the clouds moan with longings
for the missing sun.
There you sit alone by the dark wood table,
Your head bent, thoughts somber,
fingers curl around the coffee mug while
your house finds silence;
uneasily accepts the wind
nudging at the porch screen.

Never had I thought, you would live
and breathe, in the vibrant red
and green, bright orange walls and
happy dandelion sun, that can be seen
through the sheer white cafe curtains.
Instead of a dingy corner,
hidden, unseen, concealed, inaccessible;
you are seated center-staged
in a cheery round table, where
flaky pastries are shared,
coffee tinged lips are kissed
words are embraced, and
hands are tenderly held.

values

2011-01-11T22:14:00.000-06:00

Sometimes, I let things go straight to my head - the superfluous compliments and heart wrenching throw downs. I let the words float and permeate my skin, cross the blood brain barrier and soak inside my brain cells. I tend to forget that people throw words around, sometimes just to get a reaction out of you or just being "nice".

They don't often consider the effects and the consequences of their words. I too have done this many times but now that I am aware of how some words are meaningless shells, I am careful with my words (or should know to).

Love means nothing to some. Love to one is superficial recognition to some. I am fully aware. I project my own values onto people and I see my reflection on their faces instead of their instincts and fears, love or lack of love. I mistake gratitude for love, kindness for affection and that's the biggest mistake I can make.

I am bewildered and broken when my values are not their values. One of these days, I will learn to accept that.

My new favorite quote from my old favorite man

2011-01-11T22:08:00.002-06:00

I always tell you whatever I'm thinking without considering the danger.
-Viggo Mortensen

Coldplay - Yellow (Live Tokyo 2009) (High Quality video) (HQ)

2011-01-10T22:20:00.001-06:00

Look at the stars
Look how they shine for you.

Muse - Citizen Erased - Live @ Wembley Stadium 2010 [PRO-SHOT] (christma...

2011-01-09T10:30:00.000-06:00

Unforgettable night. I was there..way back there but enjoying this blissful night.

Muse - Uprising - Live @ Wembley Stadium 2010 [PRO-SHOT] (RE-UPLOAD)

2011-01-08T18:39:00.000-06:00

Have no envy have no fear

2011-01-08T08:28:00.000-06:00

"No Envy No Fear"

Some are reaching, few are there
Want to reign from a hero's chair
Some are scared to fly so high
Well this is how we have to try

Have no envy and no fear
Have no envy and no fear

Brother brother we all see
Your hiding out so painfully
See yourself come out to play
A lover's rain will wash away

Your envy and your fear
So have no envy and no fear

When your sister turns to leave
Only when she's most in need
Take away the cause of pain
By showing her we're all the same

Have no envy and no fear
Have no envy and no fear

Every day we try to find
Search our hearts and our minds
The place we used to call our home
Can't be found when we're alone

So have no envy and no fear
Have no envy and no fear

Time Is Running Out - Muse HD

2010-12-16T11:38:00.001-06:00

My Chemical Romance - Planetary (Go!) - The Pageant - St. Louis, MO 12/...

2010-12-15T08:06:00.000-06:00

From last night's MCR show. It was awesome.

Mumford & Sons : Thistle and Weeds & Dust Bowl Dance : Rough Trade : 4....

2010-12-03T12:14:00.000-06:00

amazing song. Absolutely LOVE it.

NaNoWriMo Goal Achieved!

2010-11-29T22:20:00.000-06:00

I've reached 50,000 words tonight and my quest for the 50K is now achieved. The novel is not that great (okay it's less than respectable) and it is nowhere near the ending but I've made it to the goal and I am so happy about this. One thing November has taught me was that with a lot of time and unlimited supply of (virtual) ink, I can pretty much bullshit my way to a whole heck of words --plot optional.

I sat on my ass for twenty nine days crunching and counting numbers and what do I have to show for? Why, this most coveted badge of honor and (butt) sweat, of course! See..how pretty?

But of course, the journey continues as the true destination has not been reached. In December, I'll be adding and editing the story as well as hitting the treadmill to work off the extra squishy parts that I have acquired during this month. Am I happy? Yes. Well, sort of. Maybe. Is it anti-climatic? Absolutely. Do I feel good? Without a doubt. Without a doubt.

Mumford & Sons - Winter Winds

2010-11-29T17:14:00.000-06:00

2010-11-23T23:45:00.000-06:00

Writing a novel is a tiny candle in a dark, swirling world. It brings light and warmth and hope to the lucky few who, against insufferable odds and despite a juggernaut of irritations, find themselves in the right place to hold it. Blow it out, so our eyes will not be drawn to its power. Extinguish it so we can get some sleep. I plan to quit writing novels myself, sometime in the next hundred years.
--Lemony Snicket

2010-11-13T22:43:00.002-06:00

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Robert Frost

NaNoWriMo end of week two slump

2010-11-12T21:36:00.000-06:00

Word count is there but the spirit is not and definitely my gluts have long given up supporting my ass. My butt hurts sitting on the bed, back propped up against the pillows which lean against my headboard. This is not the way to write a novel, that's for sure. My meatless behind is being ground into the mattress night after night of spewing thousands of words.

Day 12. I am still here, pretending to novel. Almost half way there. I hope to get 25,000 by end of this weekend. Today, a friend gave me Christ Baty's No plot? No problem book in which he advised us just to have fun with it. And that's what I am going to do. Just write whatever comes up for my characters. if the girl wants to curse every five words, let her have the foulest mouth. If nothing makes sense, then so be it. It will be the book about senselessness. I'll do another update at the end of third week (next week). Let's see.

2010-11-11T23:22:00.002-06:00

Go spit in the face of our inevitable obsolescence and finish your @#$&ng novel.

John Green (NaNoWriMo pep talk).

2010-11-03T21:29:00.001-05:00

All I want to do is to write poems all day
Good or bad, short or long, rhyme or not,
all I want to do is to write poems all day.

REMEMBER ME

2010-11-03T21:16:00.000-05:00

When my day comes and I'm gone
To the place where I truly belong
Don't cry for me, wish I'm still here
Just smile everytime you remember me,

To those who share my tears and joy
Kept memories that can't be destroyed
Never let your eyes fool you and weep
Just be happy everytime you remember me,

I have nothing to give in this world
Except some words that I wrote
Wanting from you all when you read
just feel joy every time you remember me,

Time will make some people forget
As if we hadn't even met
In a dark grave I will be
While few people are remembering me.
—Mirna Riad

Muse - Stockholm Syndrome Live (HAARP) HD

2010-10-19T23:19:00.001-05:00

Song of the day: Stockholm Syndrome by Muse.
I so love, love, love it.

Something is better than Nothing/ A tribute to Muse

2010-10-14T19:53:00.001-05:00

Timing is everything.
A passing through of town
a shout out to meet
a chance to dream
missed by mere minutes.

The huge wall clock I bought on Sunday
is missing the second hands
the colors were all wrong
my children observed when I hauled it in
and mounted on the wall that barely held.

The bus rolled into town.
There they went to play
a game of football
while I sat crying in the parking lot
I held my breath then too.

The huge clock ticks away,
without its second hands
Last I glanced up, it still holds
it still is two minutes fast.

We still compare and notice
criticize and squint about
how it does not quit fit,
how it is not like the old clock
which lies dead in the garage
next to the trash bin.

Muse - Uprising (Live @ Fuji Rock Festival 2010) [PROSHOT]

2010-10-14T19:44:00.000-05:00

Such a fun show. Muse is the best.

Muse - Starlight (Live @ Fuji Rock Festival 2010)

2010-10-14T19:40:00.000-05:00

Incredible quality. I am awestruck by the lights, sights and (the best of all) the sounds!

Muse ACL 2010 Star Spangle Banner/Hysteria

2010-10-14T19:33:00.000-05:00

I wish I were there. I can't get enough of Muse.

Viggo was here In St Louis

2010-08-19T12:18:00.003-05:00

I think I know (or I can speculate with some confidence) why Viggo was sighted here in St Louis last Sunday at August 14th. He is slated to play the Old Bull Lee character in the currently on location On The Road film. This character was based on William S. Burroughs, a St Louis native, and a fascinating writer/poet. I can't help but wonder if Viggo was here doing his usual detailed research on the movie and the character he is supposed to play. I bet he was. When a coworker told me that Viggo was at the Apple store in St Louis Galleria mall -- to get an apple laptop in fact-- I was thrilled as if I had seen the man walking down the street myself. Can you imagine, me walking into this mall and seeing Viggo there? I could just die if that were to happen. Now, all I could dream was that he walked through the aisles and the halls of the mall that I have been to.

Wish I had seen him. Although I don't know what I would have done if I were there. Probably just gawked and became speechless, I bet. You know, do the usual dorky fan moves. Still, I am so looking forward to this film.

Ah, Viggo. There's no one like you. For me.

Love, Mommy

2010-08-16T21:47:00.003-05:00

There is nothing in the world
that means to me than the two of them.
Her smiles and gentle nature
his laughs and bouncing stature
they drive me crazy with love,
uncontrollable, all consuming,
ever growing love.

How will I ive without their company
their voices, their chatters and fights
their "Go away, Mommy", or "Huggie, Mommy"
their fingers clasping into mine, their faces
lighting up with the glow inside their hearts?

My purpose. My place here on this earth
my children are my teachers
my guides to this winding path ahead
with gloomy forecast.

Don't ever stop loving me, I want to say to them.
I let go, so that they can live, love, learn to be
good people that they are, they will be.

Don't ever put out the light in you, I want to draw
a path out for them. But I don't. I won't. I can't
because they are much more than I will ever be, I ever was.

School starts tomorrow. My big growing teens, May you carry
that happy bubbles always.

Have a great first day of school, babes.

Neutron Star Collision (Love is Forever )by Muse

2010-06-02T20:55:00.001-05:00

So so awesome..Muse.

cutting ties

2010-06-01T00:05:00.009-05:00

I release you
to the colors of the sky
where the air flies like
the bold waves of the sea.
I release you
from the clutches of my heart
where I pry open the bars
and show you the way out.
I release you
to love the open window
and the green grass outside;
Look at the banyan trees
for you to perch and gaze at
what you have been missing.
I release you
from my substandard love
and sweaty grips;
Feel the sun on your face
Inhale the air and say you own it.
Reach far to all four corners of the hemisphere

Fly my little bird
spread your wings in the sky
and roam the world like
you don't remember how to rest.

One Art

2010-04-29T23:17:00.001-05:00

This poem is so brilliant. I love it. I am going to have to look up more of her work. One Art
Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn't hard to master; so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster. Lose something every day. Accept the fluster of lost door keys, the hour badly spent. The art of losing isn't hard to master. Then practice losing farther, losing faster: places, and names, and where it was you meant to travel. None of these will bring disaster. I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or next-to-last, of three loved houses went. The art of losing isn't hard to master. I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster, some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent. I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster. --Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident the art of losing's not too hard to master though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

I cannot live with you

2010-04-25T10:55:00.002-05:00

I cannot live with You –
It would be Life –
And Life is over there –
Behind the Shelf

The Sexton keeps the Key to –
Putting up
Our Life – His porcelain -
Like a Cup –

Discarded of the Housewife –
Quaint – or Broke –
A newer Sevres pleases –
Old Ones crack –
I could not die – with You –
For One must wait
To shut the Other’s Gaze down –
You – could not –
And I – Could I stand by
And see You – freeze –
Without my Right of Frost –
Death’s privilege?
Nor could I rise – with You –
Because Your Face
Would put out Jesus’ –
That New Grace
Glow plain – and foreign
On my homesick Eye –
Except that You than He
Shone closer by –
They’d judge Us – How –
For You – served Heaven – You know,
Or sought to –
I could not –
Because You saturated Sight –
And I had not more Eyes
For sordid excellence
As Paradise
And were You lost, I would be –
Though My Name
Rang loudest
On the Heavenly fame –
And were You – saved –
And I – condemned to be
Where You were not –
That self – were Hell to Me –
So We must meet apart –
You there – I – here –
With just the Door ajar
That Oceans are – and Prayer –
And that White Sustenance –
Despair –
By Emily Dickinson

2010-04-24T23:16:00.002-05:00

So we must keep apart,
You there, I here,
With just the door ajar
That oceans are,
And prayer,

And that pale sustenance,
Despair!

~From I cannot live with you by Emily Dickinson~

Lea Goldberg's poems

2010-04-10T23:57:00.003-05:00

I read a poem by Lea Goldberg in Viggo's perceval press. And it touches me so much that I looked up other poems by her. That's how Viggo rocks. Through him, I have learned so much, since I have no other way to have known these beautiful poems by poets unknown to me. Here are the work of Lea Goldberg who was spectacular.

from 'PRAYERS OF ATONEMENT'

You came to me to open my eyes,
your body a glance a window a mirror,
you arrived as night comes to the owl
to show him in darkness all necessary things.

And I learned: a name for every eyelash and nail
for every hair on flesh uncovered, made light,
and the fragrance of childhood, of resin and pine,
was the sweet fragrance of our bodies' night.

If there were torments – then they voyaged toward you
my white sail on course toward your dark night.
Now, allow me to leave, let me go, let me go
to bow on the shores of forgiveness.

This was featured in percevalpress.com
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

The following Poem is called Pine, and this hits me square in the chest, for it is me.

PINE

Here I will not hear the voice of the cuckoo.
Here the tree will not wear a cape of snow.
But it is here in the shade of these pines
my whole childhood reawakens.

The chime of the needles: Once upon a time –
I called the snow-space homeland,
and the green ice at the river's edge -
was the poem's grammar in a foreign place.

Perhaps only migrating birds know -
suspended between earth and sky -
the heartache of two homelands.

With you I was transplanted twice,
with you, pine trees, I grew -
roots in two disparate landscapes.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++

This next one makes me want to weep.

TO A PICTURE OF MY MOTHER

Your picture is so calm. You are other:
Proud, a bit, and embarrassed at being - my mother.
Accompanying me with a tear and a yielding smile
You never ask: "Who?"

You never wondered, never raged, when I came
To you daily demanding: "I need!"
With your own hands you gave all
Only because I am - me.

More than I, you remember today
My childhood's sorrows, and what your soul knew then:
The day your grown daughter would come to you,
She would bring with her grief that had grown up too.

Yes. I'll come broken, and not ask how you are.
I'll not cry in your arms, not whisper: "Mama!"
You'll know then:
He who left me was dearer to me than you,
And you'll never ask: "Who?"

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

According to israel.poetryinternationalweb.org, these poems were translated.
© Translation: Rachel Tzvia Back
From: Sooner or Later [Mukdam Ve-Meuhar], 10th ed.
Publisher: Sifriat Poalim, 1959, 1978

Unprecedented cancer research project begins at Washington University

2010-01-25T12:08:00.001-06:00

Unprecedented cancer research project begins at Washington University

Posted using ShareThis

The first dream by Billy Collins

2010-01-08T16:38:00.002-06:00

The First Dream

The Wind is ghosting around the house tonight
and as I lean against the door of sleep
I begin to think about the first person to dream,
how quiet he must have seemed the next morning

as the others stood around the fire
draped in the skins of animals
talking to each other only in vowels,
for this was long before the invention of consonants.

He might have gone off by himself to sit
on a rock and look into the mist of a lake
as he tried to tell himself what had happened,
how he had gone somewhere without going,

how he had put his arms around the neck
of a beast that the others could touch
only after they had killed it with stones,
how he felt its breath on his bare neck.

Then again, the first dream could have come
to a woman, though she would behave,
I suppose, much the same way,
moving off by herself to be alone near water,

except that the curve of her young shoulders
and the tilt of her downcast head
would make her appear to be terribly alone,
and if you were there to notice this,

you might have gone down as the first person
to ever fall in love with the sadness of another.

-Billy Collins

++++++++++++++++++++++

This makes me fall in love all over again - goose bumps, chills, and all.
Found this and other treasured poems scattered throughout the articles of interest, at Viggo's percevalpress.com.

Thank you.

budding interest

2009-12-03T23:26:00.002-06:00

Flip through the catalog,
and choose the shape, the incision,
the size, the texture.
Desire can be manufactured,
with the right price, and
a little bit of luck.

Oh, how I want those C cups.

2009-12-03T20:20:00.002-06:00

I love you now, and I loved you then.
everything else is transient.

2009-11-27T22:16:00.001-06:00

Lonely is the lost.
Find yourself and you find happiness.

thought for the day

2009-11-27T22:06:00.002-06:00

How easily hearts are broken, and healed? We have to move on, we say with firm determination. Whatever happens, we can't linger and dwell, we must move on. In a hurry, we stitch up our open wound and doggedly carry on. Find a date, sweep the floors, make love in haste because we have early meetings in the morning. Did we ever stop and wonder about our scars? Do we hate ourselves for our failures?

You con me, once again. And I deserve it one hundred percent. My ghost in the mirror maybe as ugly as my soul. Did I ever consider that possibility is only too real?

On 'The Road' With Viggo Mortensen

2009-11-17T12:53:00.000-06:00

On 'The Road' With Viggo Mortensen

Art

2009-11-15T14:25:00.001-06:00

There is an art to everything. Like lovemaking or tea brewing. Someone will inevitably tell you the way to do it right or at least properly. I sit through the instructional video of Karma Sutra the other day, thinking there has to be many more ways than what I knew. Twelve minutes and thirty poses later, I had to stop the DVD. Lotus and the wheel, the tiger and the dog, the cow and whatnot all merge together at this point. I was afraid I would create a Frankenstein of Kama Sutra, if I try to recreate the scenes.

Place the teabag in the cup. Scoop up two teaspoons (less if you like) of sugar and drop it on top of the bag, then put the spoon on top, making sure the bag stay planted on the bottom of the cup when you pour hot water. Let it brew for 2-3 minutes, depending on how strong or weak you like your tea. Then take the tea bag out, squeeze with the spoon on the side of the cup to make sure all the tannins are out. Discard the bag. Put some milk in if you like your tea with milk. That’s how you make tea, you said.

Art is how you make of it.

2009-11-15T12:52:00.000-06:00

Flying Inside Your Own Body

2009-11-13T18:52:00.000-06:00

Your lungs fill & spread themselves,
wings of pink blood, and your bones
empty themselves and become hollow.
When you breathe in you’ll lift like a balloon
and your heart is light too & huge,
beating with pure joy, pure helium.
The sun’s white winds blow through you,
there’s nothing above you,
you see the earth now as an oval jewel,
radiant & seablue with love.
It’s only in dreams you can do this.
Waking, your heart is a shaken fist,
a fine dust clogs the air you breathe in;
the sun’s a hot copper weight pressing straight
down on the think pink rind of your skull.
It’s always the moment just before gunshot.
You try & try to rise but you cannot.
— Margaret Atwood

Found it at percevalpress.com and love it.

judgement day

2009-11-13T13:59:00.002-06:00

Don't apologize to me, man in the jail house.
The terrible deeds were done, while you stared at me
with open eyes and parted lips.
The tears on your letter smudged the ink
you willingly penned, as if you have just now realized
the piercing invasion you inflicted day in and out was
just an accident.

Don't you dare find God or Jesus or whatever prophets
you think would accept, and help you waltz into whichever gate
that guards the Kingdom of your fuzzy dreams.
The arms that brought together to summon your God
are the same devices that held the innocents down,
and you think you could somehow forget that.

Don't you express false remorse,
and suddenly become a real man.
Don't say now that you have a problem
and that you are sorry for every deviant act.

Stop your lips from moving.
Freeze your hands in paraffin.
Chop off your prized manhood.
Bow in silence and pray for forgiveness.
Save life by donating your rotten organs.
All of them combined will never make
the wrong become right.

Don't you
ever forget
that.

Spain for dinner

2009-11-13T13:55:00.002-06:00

I want to smile because
I am in Spain, like the advert
suggests.
Sitting in the convertible, with
wind blown hair and a scarf
that flies out, I think I would laugh
and giggle like a little teen girl.

Empanadas and shepard's mamas
farm chicken cooked slowly, in
red pepper stew, beckon me
to come their ways.
Mario should have taken me
instead of that Bitman dude;
He's got travel log up his ass,
but for me, a step in Spain seems
so far out of reach.

acceptance

2009-10-31T21:52:00.004-05:00

If it's in the wind, you can't stop it from
blowing in.
If it's in the stars written from afar,
you have to let it move beyond your
grasping wishes.
What's inevitable is unavoidable,
let it go, may it be.
You will be alright, once the storm has passed.
You'll make it, with less affliction than you think.

Go, baby, find your fate;
it's okay to let troubles fade away.

Sing song Wednesday

2009-10-14T08:45:00.003-05:00

Good morning Wednesday!

It was the rain that woke me up this morning at five o' clock. Three hours later, I am sitting at the kitchen table looking out to my soaked backyard and feeling simply marvelous. Today is a blessing, enjoy, said the handwriting on the wall of Barnard Cancer Center that I visited yesterday. No matter how wrong or right this day will turn out to be, I have this moment of tranquility. What more can one ask for at 8:47 am on a wet Wednesday in October, where leaves are lemon yellow, rusty red, and fiery orange; grass is lime green, still, and red roses bloom five feet tall against the wall. Even the sky with its dreary gray hue or the bone chilling cold the wind now carries will not dampen my spirit.

I am home today and that's better than any gift anyone can give.

Stalk

2009-09-30T13:36:00.002-05:00

They are just stories, sprouted from the scattered seeds, glimpsed at the corners of my eyes, while I am driving down the interstate, sometimes, or sitting in the office, looking out into the sunny day, like today. They are the people, I meet in the elevators, the lobby of the office buildings or during a brisk walk taken at noon on the weekdays. Sometimes, I am the people, other times, they are the images opposite of me. Some days we are moody and heartbroken, but we live on love as if we need no further sustenance. Up or down, good or bad, every post, I obsessively pore over every punctuation, every spelling, every arrangement of sentences and paragraphs before I can let go and move onto the next story.

I live through them, and they live for me. They are mundane and banal, redundant and unique, magical and ordinary. My stories, their stories, dance through the virtual pages in the virtual world that I love so much and feel so protective of. Sometimes I hear the words of my mothers echo inside my brain, You will understand one day, when you become a parent.

I look at the words like a proud mother with piercing critical eyes. A mother's job is never done.

roots

2009-09-28T11:03:00.001-05:00

Not knowing is worse than knowing.
Worries are like bricks
they tend to build upon the unseen fate
which acts as solid foundation
Stay calm, the logical self assures
the rabid illogical parts, bouncing around inside the brain.
They do not listen to reason.
Is he okay? instead they ask each other.
How bad is this situation? they flutter and shake
unable to settle down or think straight.
Soon, the imagination reigns like the mad king
dictating the calm logic to go away.
By the time noon rolls around,
the entire body will have been taken over
by the insane troops from the anxious town.

40

2009-09-27T10:31:00.002-05:00

For my fortieth birthday, he sent me away,
A weekend retreat, he said, to get away from the noises of the house.
Go find yourself, find your passion and the meaning
you said you have lost, he urged me then.
That night, I went in the ice storm, alone, on a winding two-lane road
in search of myself, that I apparently have lost.
The fog descended from above, as if the heavens
did not want me to find what I was supposed to look for.
From the river that ran alongside the sharp edge of the cliff
where the little road wound around, pale mist
rose up to greet the fog from the heavens.

All fifty miles, I squinted my night-blind eyes
as if making them smaller would make
the white blanket ahead transparent.
The sharp needles of the freezing rain
spluttered against
the windshield, the roof of the car
and the rear-view mirrors on both sides.
They drummed onto the car with the fast tempo from Africa,
no matter how hard I prayed to the Gods,
the same Gods from the heavens who sent the fog to engulf me.
Every sharp turn of the road and every sliding of the tires
robbed a little more air out of my lungs
and added a few more lines around my eyes.
While looking at my knuckles
clutched around the steering wheel,
I told myself, I would laugh about this
on my fiftieth.

23

2009-09-26T08:42:00.000-05:00

On my twenty third birthday, they all came.
One was pregnant with her first child,
another engaged to be married the next month,
the rest of them were there because I invited them
to say goodbye, so long, farewell, Von voyage.

I wish I could say that I remembered what we ate
or what we talked about. We must have laughed,
I knew that for sure. We must have joked around.

We gathered in front of my mother's house, when
my father told us to form two lines,
the taller five on the front row kneeling,
the shorter five on the back standing. While he fussed with
the light and shadows, the sun and the backdrop,
I stared into the lens, my lips parted
to form a tight little smile, understanding even then
that the moment would peel away the instance
the camera clicked.

stimulus

2009-09-19T22:36:00.003-05:00

Weep onto my cheek
let your tears trickle down,
and pool into the valley
between the mounds.
I taste the pre-dawn from your smooth skin

as if I swallow it whole,
take it all into my pores
one drop at a time.

On my tongue, you leave the taste
of eucalyptus leaves.

Muse Uprising MTV

2009-09-19T20:13:00.000-05:00

Muse |MTV Music

Album review: Muse "The Resistance" - Entertainment

2009-09-18T10:57:00.000-05:00

Album review: Muse "The Resistance" - Entertainment

Matt Bellamy is my muse. So very versatile and talented.
I love love love Muse.

Uprising by Muse

2009-09-13T23:18:00.000-05:00

Muse - New Music - More Music Videos

Oh, how I love Muse.

Musing For Muse: Setlist in Teignmouth, Devon

2009-09-04T21:54:00.000-05:00

2009-09-04T10:05:00.001-05:00

"To the world you may be just one person, but to one person you may be the world."

2009-09-01T21:53:00.001-05:00

I think the impulse to express yourself has to do with wanting to record your feelings at that moment. I know my feelings may change, and what I painted or wrote, or how I performed, I may look on later as quaint or odd.

Viggo

2009-08-31T15:01:00.001-05:00

Times is so short, there must be something more

~Coldplay~

2009-08-23T22:37:00.000-05:00

The hardest part is letting go
and not taking part

~Coldplay~

freed

2009-08-23T22:22:00.003-05:00

free me from the tangle.
help me fly away from the snare.
Put me on an island
devoid of the dreaded eye rolls
sarcastic Oh My God,
dismissive "Forget it"s
and especially,
where I will never hear another utter of
What the hell is your problem?

inspire

2009-08-23T20:09:00.003-05:00

A glimpse of inspired thoughts is all I crave.
A sentence, a word, a letter, a thought, a spark,
to ignite the old rusted neural net.

He has given me all ideas of love, lust, and hope
What of you, then? What have you given me, aside from
frustrations and crushed hopes mixed in with a hint
of long preserved guilt.

That's still inspiration, isn't it?

past lives II

2009-08-22T10:06:00.002-05:00

We are all worn out by the daily hassles, and the piled up tasks. At night, when I lay my head on his shoulder, I feel his thinness towards life, towards us, towards simple joys.

He used to be the most patient kind loving person I have ever known. What attracted me most about him was his gentle nature (so reminiscent of my father) and unassuming but intelligent mind. He is headstrong and unyielding at times, but never too rigid to consider perspectives of others. These days, I have to remind myself how he used to be, so that I can look through how he is now. Somewhere inside is the man I used to know, now coated by corporate grime.

What of me then, I wonder? How have years eroded my sense of self slowly in ways that I have not had a chance to notice? Like evolution, we change and evolve, sometimes for the worse, on rare occasion for the better. So slowly we transform, into little intolerant monsters with small angelic features. On weekdays, we forget to laugh and are too bent on scowling. At times, we are too tired to argue, even. We sigh and go about our ways, in each corner of the room, sweeping things under the carpet, closing doors behind us quietly so as not to disturb whatever hides beneath us.

Good night, I whispered to him last night. Good morning, he grumbled to me this morning, when we passed each other in the bathroom. On the wall of the bedroom, I caught the sun reflecting from the framed picture of us wearing leis and ridiculous grins. He rushed past me to catch a meeting which would start within half hour.

Do you remember Maui? I wanted to ask. Do you remember the winding road to Hana where we drove all morning on that sunny day in 1996? The way the huge rock wall rises on one side, and the sharp steep edge drops on the other in that one lane dirt road beats out any amusement park ride. Do you remember how we laughed instead of pissing in our pants when another car recklessly came towards us, without making room? Do you remember the cows (oh, lucky cows, how we mooed at them) grazing that lush grass grown on volcanic soil, and how they stood stoic against the backdrop of the deep blue ocean? Wait till we told the Iowa cows about you lucky bastards, we told them then.

Do you remember?

+++++++++++++++++++++++

Even before I opened my eyes on that morning in April, I sensed his presence beside me. His breathing was soft and regular, his arm draped across my waist casually as if it had always been placed there for the last thousand nights, when in fact, it never knew me until last night. Lying curled up next to him, I tried to match my breathing to his, soft and regular, but I soon had to give up because mine was too erratic, too jumpy, too irregular, too jarring, too forced.

He was as lovely as the moment I set my eyes on him, and young. Oh how young he looked sleeping peacefully with a half smile. I wanted to reach out and ruffle his soft brown hair, untouched by a night of rough and tumble. Instead quietly, gently I stretched my legs, my mind raced a mile a minute. I imagined myself being made in a factory, and my makers scrutinizing every corner, angle, mound, and valley of me, before making him side by side. See the contours of her? They said. Mould him the exact complement, they huddled over us. I visualized them carefully planning, drawing, marking, chiseling to make the perfect match. My perfect mate, my soul partner, my ying to his yang, my down to his up, my smile to his lips, all lined up to create impeccable balance.

He stirred as if my thoughts seeped into his dreams, and opened his blue eyes. His smile lit up his sleep-filled face and he reached for me under the red duvet.

Good morning, baby, he said.

Yes, I remember.

2009-08-19T22:01:00.001-05:00

Love is blind, deaf and dumb.

Two For One

2009-08-17T21:25:00.003-05:00

Maybe you are the one,
maybe you are never the one,
at least for now, you remain
one and only, to incite riots
inside my nerves.

Maybe I am the one,
maybe I will never be the one,
who gets to hold you in the sun,
away from the darkness we have
lived in so long.

Maybe we are the ones
maybe we will never be the ones
sharing sunrises and sunsets
under the same sky standing on the same soil.

The future is ours, or maybe
it will never belong to us,
for now, we talk and dream
as if we are the ones.

seven sacred pools

2009-08-14T20:48:00.003-05:00

There is a place in Maui, where cool water falls along the smooth rocks, and flows into the pools below. Big green leaves spread across the trees, along side the pool; they are huge like elephant ears. Ridiculously colorful parrots talk incessantly on the trees, watching the people gingerly tiptoeing into the cold stream.

I think of this place when I am trapped in pain. I close my eyes and imagine myself walking in the pool, my skin bare and dark, absorbing the warmth of the sun on my face and feeling the iciness on my toes. I walked through these waters in times of need, remembering how they had calmed me so long ago. I walked through these waters during the child births, and numerous migraines. With each contraction of my womb, I counted the trickle against the rocks. With each pounding inside my vein, I had dipped below the surface.

My sacred place always managed to soothe my nerves and breathing to return. That is until, I've found you. Now I trace the lines on your face, feel the soft hair on your chin and dip below the surface of you to search for my safe cave.

Maui has nothing on you, babe.

Go

2009-08-08T23:20:00.003-05:00

Is there no place, that is secure and sacred; granting anonymity if I wish?

Why do you follow me, my shadow? I need some peace, a place to be who I want to be: real or imagined; fiction or autobiographic, whichever I need to play, work or reinvent myself.

Go away and leave me be. Scatter your footprints somewhere I can't see.

bouncing back and forth

2009-08-08T09:19:00.004-05:00

It would appear that I have forgotten the sweet sound of silence, the calm and satisfaction only the muted state could bring to my mind. Of late, too many back and forth chatters have clouded my senses; drowning that part of my brain which needs a quiet place.

So many things I do out of habit. I write because I can write, I speak because the words come without thoughts sometimes. I am without restraint; charging out to the field like a wild mustang of the West. Unlike the beauty of a wild horse, my spirit does not soar by acting on random thoughts. I crave for freedom but I thirst for structure. I want to roam but I love my home. I say I am not for money and things but I enjoy shopping.

Sounds and sights. Noises and clatter. Peace without wars. Love without fear. I wind around the paths, following the signs; just because I can.

mocking bird will smile

2009-08-05T11:33:00.001-05:00

I am consumed by the passing lights,
reflected shades blurry faces.
You walk along handing out words of affection
acting amorously without serious intentions.
My senses tingle when you come my way
I grab with greed, drink in haste. Your words
sink into my nerves, where they flourish into magnificent dreams,

as if, they are meant to live into eternity.

By the time, I digest and absorb your gestures
your every word, fragment by fragment;
you have already moved away
to dispense another dose of love into
another girl with accepting gaze.

I laugh at myself, I am only too eager for
a man with an empty vessel of a heart
and lips that part to kiss every willing flirt.

mate

2009-07-30T08:39:00.004-05:00

If in this world, there is one person made for every person, I would have to say that I have found him.

His smile would bring smiles to my lips. His voice sends shivers along my spine, from the base of my skull to the end of my coccyx. The look in his eyes will start small trailing fires inside the warm center of my core. His fingers, long and slender, are meant to hold my hands. I would remember the scent of his skin long after I have left him. And when he sheds a tear for me, my heart will disintegrate inside my shattered chest.

He talks and I memorize his words. He sings and I simply immerse. It matters a great deal when I think of what the final goal is in this relationship; but it does not matter enough to weigh in on my decisions. When his words are untrue, my world caves in and I fall to the ground, crumbling into tiny pieces. He says, I love you, baby and all is healed within me.

That's how I know, I have found my mate. The one who is made for me, because every facet of him incites surging tides of love.

Forgetfulnes

2009-07-28T09:34:00.000-05:00

The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,

as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.

Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,

something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.

Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.

It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.

No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.

—Billy Collins

++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Found it at percevalpress.com

2009-07-27T23:26:00.000-05:00

What goes around, comes around.
I deserved to be lied to.

by the sea

2009-07-27T07:03:00.003-05:00

Sunrise above the blue
a new start to a selected few
I am here, against the tides
above the shoreline, in a high rise
looking for love.

Will you come if I ask?

clutching my pillow

2009-07-23T22:14:00.002-05:00

I am scared. The top of my head feels heated as if the wild fires have decided to spread, my heart is coated with lead, ready to drop to the ground at any second. In the morning, I fear bad news waits for me, and I cannot bear to see the pain crawl across your face, masks your voice, bring your knees to buckle.

I feel helpless, hopeless, joyless. Please. We need a gap in the sky, in between the stormy clouds. Give us a glimpse of what's beyond, the sun, radiant and warm reaching across. I send my love to you, doctor. May your heart be filled with peace and kindness. May his heart be filled with feeling of success.

Is it time yet, to relax? It's not for me, can't you let it be?

triviality

2009-07-23T19:20:00.001-05:00

I would if I could,
but would you if you could?
Promises, given so freely,
retracted back in reality.
I said, I didn't care,
and it didn't matter in the end.

I lied.
It hurts to see you go back to her.
But if you ask, I'd say it again,
It doesn't matter in the end.