2011.11.12 | poeir

Published in the Oct 2011 issue of SHSID|Times.

I spilt the sun and drank the clouds and slept among the winds.
I learned their songs and stole their hearts and locked myself within.

09.25.11 | An Ode

To love, or not to love?
That is the question—
Whether ‘tis nobler for the soul to suffer
The golden arrows of mischievous Cupid,
Or to take arms against a sea of passions,
And by opposing, quell them?

07.30.11 | we play our cards

Cometh.
Don't tell me
someone
taps
on the porch.
I don't want to hear
sudden touch
crosses slowly.
Don't ask questions.
The Cardinal's.
I see you,
we met before.
His name and
settled first
smiling for the photo.
We play our cards.
I may change,
I was doing wrong.
There was a mad dog.
We've been waiting.

06.02.11 | What I Should Have Done (But Didn't)

I saw what you did

with that unripe Persimmon.

It had fallen off its Tree,

wanted to be free,

but it shriveled up

and died.

You picked it up,

just as you always did

with all the other little things

that caught your eye—

but you didn't put this one

in your pocket,

to my surprise.

You cupped it in your hands

and walked to the side of the road.

You placed it there

in the fertile soil,

to return it to the Cycle,

fulfilling its dream

betimes.

05.20.11 | Image of Imago: The Cabbage White

From afar it looks complete—head, thorax, abdomen. The antennae protrude from the head proudly but limp, and the four fragile ivory wings look more elegant than ever, as they are motionless. The feathery scales are silky as my fingers skim over them.

What delicate creatures, butterflies are.

But this one's dead.

04.05.11 | Just the Two of Us

I dreamed we were geese. We were sitting there in the grass, just the two of us, neither of us talking, but both fully understanding the other, without words. The sea breeze smelled of tears that day.

04.04.11 | Just Shoot

She loved taking photos. Just for the fun of it. She didn’t care about how artistic her photographs would turn out or what she could do to make them “prettier”: they captured the teensiest points of time that would have otherwise slipped away, forgotten, abandoned, thrown into the realm of all the other things—whether joyous or tragic—consigned to oblivion, because she knew that behind every point lived a story.

03.27.11 | Like Sand through my Fingers

Isn't it just so damn annoying when you wake up in the morning and think that you did not dream, only to be proven wrong later during the day when something you do triggers a sudden memory of what you dreamed of the previous night, after which you, just as suddenly as the familiarity came, forget what triggered the memory as well as the memory itself?