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With a single red headed match,
I ignite,
burst into flame,
smolder,
burn,
flicker,
die out,
turn to ashes,
fly into the wind,
and settle
on your forehead.
It's ironic that it only takes a single red headed match
for you to notice my presence,
yet, brush me off
back into the wind.
A spark.
Then, a fire.
Everything is set; my cigarette is lit.
Shall I write about you now?
I guess I should. Surely, I can
easily whittle you down
into a perfect metaphor on paper
but in writing this verse,
I succumb to the greatest temptation:
words
mere maps that only approximate
and cannot dictate where exactly
in my heart the sun sheds light on you
or where it fails to reveal shadowy sorrows
you fervently endure.
Did you whisper your woes to me?
In the subtlest ways, maybe,
like the way teardrops dry up on your cheek.
Now,
rising but never drifting straight in the air,
smoke mimics how I contemplate
gazing at the red ember,
half-expecting epiphanies to fall,
like ashes from my nearly spent cigarette.
Say it softly
after cleaning the crystal cabinet;
While opening the door,
certain things drop
into consciousness. At every remembering,
ripples of sorrow stir the air.
Dust settles on glass and crystals.
It almost sounds like a prayer:
wiping specks off, using a rag moist with tears.
Softly,
try to forgive Forgetting
for trying to covet,
in layers, memories
stacked on shelves.
After restoring everything into the sparkle of grace,
turn to leave them all,
saying softly
amen.
March 14th, 2007Read more...
Flying through air,
posted on an envelope,
a butterfly pair
arrives in the mail.
Arhopala anthelus impar:
blue and black
and parantica danatti danatti:
white patterns broken by dark veins.
I held the letter and admired the stamps.
Tearing paper,
carefully unfolding letter
shows red ink
and cursive handwriting.
Wormed through
smudged words,
I peeled the stamps
off the envelope
and let the letter flutter in the wind.
I never thought that I would find the exact stamp that I was looking for. That blue one is really the stamp I wrote about. I just can't find the Parantica stamp. This poem actually came as a surprise from one of my really old blogs and I did not expect to find it yet again. It was written on May 17th, 2007. According to my notes, my friend Charisma inspired me to write it. I just forgot the circumstance that brought it on. Nevertheless, I think that it is a good poem.
Flowers are pretty on a vase.
Tortoise shell balls resting on the mantle looks shiny.
Crystals on the chandelier reflects rainbows
but each one will succumb to forgetting beauty
when dust settles thick.
June 22nd, 2005.
This is just a poem that came out of my weird play on words. I am not quite sure if I would really consider it poetry but I did decide to go with vanity and put it here. I think, based on my files at least, this poem was written around the time of June 8th, 2006. If I remember correctly, the first line I wrote was fingernail orchids. Doesn't that sound exotic?Read more...
By the way, who would've know that I could find a fitting picture for this post?! Initially, I posted this without a picture but I went and googled using the key word "alien salad" and the perfect image came up. I would like to thank Till Nowak for making this. I found this image in Scott Beale's Site, LaughingSquid.com.
Published June 21Read more...st , 2006.
yellow and green feathers
out-stretched wings grasping
air bridging clouds together
fanning away dust, vapor, smoke & mist
with the distraction of flight.
why do you droop like so?
you were spared from worms, earth & decay
be grateful you were plucked from mortality
and is now mounted on permanence.This is another old poem written by Richard. It was written published in his older blog on June 11
A dash of flash poetry:
suddenly
the world tilted
like a band
vertical horizon.
fire raining down
from the transposed heaven
on stone
scalded
i clutched the searing
red glow
and found my fingers
charred
and my chest
gaping
like a crater
smouldering.This was poem was originally written on March 29th, 2006. Originally, this was entitled Melancholic; that's because melancholy was the emotional weather at that time. Likewise, it says on the first line that this is just a dash of flash poetry. Who said that only prose can be flashy?
Open your cupped hands.
Fluttering away, you will see
the red wings & black markings
fade into the blue.
You will hear at every flap
clapping
from the light bright heart
of your liberated captive.
The wind will take the butterfly away.
You have no need to fret
because the memory will flutter back
whenever you find roses
- drifting in the wind.
Tomorrow, put a smile on & hold this fact true:
If you've held fast today,
you'll only have stains of red & black
- powdered wings and crushed body.
Something will be left - something sure
permanent, indelible, immortal
that neither time nor tears could wear or wash away.
This is still part of Richard's attempt to collect and collate most of his poetry to this blog. This is actually an old poem from March 13, 2005. He wrote this while he was at work.Read more...
Richard decided to post this in response to Cecille's comment on Emjay's photograph of a dragonfly.
tea steams in a paper cup.
the siren's song is defied by ears,
leaves and lips that refrain from coffee.
cigarette smoke swirls.
sipping from my cup, showing no fear of heat,
should encourage you to hold my hands.
breath is blown out.
my eyes encouraged your fingers.
tea leaves on cup-bottom already fortells good fortune.
tea steams in a paper cup. cigarette smoke swirls.
breath held back waiting for silence to break
and Starbucks resumes her song.
The inside of a deserted house:
from the window,
light illumines dust
settling to create a blanket
of forgetting over furniture.
Even if the air disturbs
the process, slowly
every particle finds its spot,
a place where it conveniently covers up
some distant memory - on a nearby table
a partial puzzle waits. One piece is still
a lost unsettled edge,indisposed.
The idea that it is the missing piece
completes its sadness.
In only one spot can the table top be seen.
Untouched, unfinished,
the puzzle succumbs
to slow forgetting
what is lost
while dust
fills
the
gaping
gap.
Read more...This is a poem I originally wrote on September 17th, 2003. I revised it after five years! It's been a long time since I last read this. I think I have forgotten enough of the emotions behind it so I am now able to publish a revision. Comments are appreciated, of course. Cheers!
How convenient for me the rain fell before your tears
affording me to share one last moment with you
under my umbrella.
Every drop, wet
dreadfully cold, taunting you to stay
under my umbra of tempting warmth and dryness.
Your vain effort to stop the rain from falling:
You reached out to catch a drop
on your palm. It still fell, heavy
embodiment of sorrow,
loss
-of the cloud that failed to hold on
-of the wind not being able to return the drops.
Words condensed on my lips,
waiting for the moment
when air gives way to thunder.
How convenient for you that the rain lingered on.
Every word that rolled off my lips
merely fell into the dark
glassy puddle the rain filled
to reflect my bowed head.
Finally, I managed to plead for you to stay.
You nearly did
but conveniently,
the rain went away.
(August 5th, 2003)
Read more...This was a poem I wrote way back in 2003. It was originally entitled, "How Convenient For Me The Rain Fell Before Your Tears," but it seemed to be such a long title so I decided to repost that as, "Convenience." As a project, I am starting to gather a portfolio of my works so that I can share my poetry with other people.
Emotional camouflage.
Wreathed in smoke
hair shrouds eyes.
I'm sitting pretty on a lounger.
Bar is full of entangled histories
about desires, frustration,
real & imaginary ecstasies.
I lost my capacity to suffer -
sadness. I blatantly show
red cheeks
when no glance intersects with mine.
My eye lashes bat,
hearts start to flutter
& then a warm hand on mine
takes me to Neverland
-November 11, 2006
Welcome!
Vintage photo?
The flight of two birds
called "Dream and Nightmare"
in a sepia sky.
Hour glasses?
The endless autumnal molting
of red maple leaves
or the vernal tears welling
down weeping willow boughs
that are barely visible
except on moonlight nights.
Balloons?
Giant ogres orbitting over our heads.
Looking glasses?
You - a pale fairy prince
pointy-eared with damselfly wings.
Me - a rain child with scarlet scales
and lionfish fins.
Rings?
A fin & a feather intertwined.
I'll take that, thank you.
You're welcome
and thank you for shopping.
-Marso 8, 2007
I've stared hard
at a glass of water.
Wanting to drown
in the wisdom it shares
with the deep sea.
I closed my eyes
and drowned in darkness.
Always in the periphery
- lampfishes
with hypnotic lights swim.
I try to follow
into the throat of the deep black.
Pressure is rising as I descend.
My heart tells me so.
My veins pulse
with dread of shades that swim
in the abyss.
Suddenly, I felt the feeling of mud
beneath my feet.
I have descended to Atlantis.
I opened my eyes
and i look at myself
reflected on the glass of water.
Every drop of water longs for the ocean.
Even lakes secretly wish to escape the strong embrace of earth just to return.
And humans, though only 70% water, with our sincerest efforts to find heat
sweat
still seeps onto skin, tears well up from eyes
and some even bleed to death.
At this point, the lost becomes the hunter.
Let the glasses shatter,
beaver dams break,
and in the end, a deluge
to reclaim the sea.
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