steam rises swiftly
from a metal colander
filled with moist soba,
echoing the unspoken
grievances of yesterday
Tag Archives: creative writing
Cinquain/LXX
lush grapes
line the pathways
that we aimlessly traipse
along, beneath sun’s thrashing rays
today
Rituals of August
The King has departed.
Spotted peach blossoms
unfold their fragile wings
in front of sun-melted
faces, kissing the wind
in the darkness as they
journey away towards
the mountainside.
I pray that we shall meet again.
:::the disintegration of memory:::
When my Mary was four years
old, she loved wearing a particular
red dress. It had white and pink
butterflies embroidered on it. She
wore that dress until it fell apart.
Grandma Elliot bought that dress
for her.
When my Mary was four, maybe
three, she loved wearing a particular
red dress. She wore that dress
almost every day. Grandma bought
that dress.
When my Mary was little, she loved
wearing a particular red dress. She
sure did wear that dress a lot!
When my Mary was a girl, she loved
wearing a red dress.
My daughter loved wearing a red dress.
A long time ago, I knew a little girl who
wore a red dress. I can’t remember
her name.
:::nocturne for a rising body:::
atop an ocean of sky-blue
feathers, I lay coiled like an
infant, fresh from mother’s
womb, fists clenched, ready to
strike, with tiny toes tucked
tightly in twos, impatiently
waiting to be told what to do
and who to become, all the
while listening intently for the
persistent yet loving whisper
that shall provoke my
shrouded eyes to open and
smile upon this vast universe
Racing the Darkness
The hour of eight is almost nigh
and as I gaze up at the sky
the sun is sinking in the west,
to make space for our nightly guest.
But, when I set out for this day,
I brought no torch to light my way,
and so I journey with great haste,
for surely there’s no time to waste,
as feet march over mountainside
to reach green meadow, flat and wide.
:::country party:::
Clear off the cobwebs!
Clear off the mold!
Do it right quick,
just as you’re told!
The guests have arrived!
The guests are all here!
Now, let’s greet them warmly,
with wine and good cheer!
Image Credit: Philip Gerrard
http://www.originalpaintings.com/philip_gerrard.htm
:::last rites:::
My city
My pride
Shall we wail for the
seraphs who float down
the river, soaked
in the
tears of God?
My city
My heart
Shall we bury the visions
which led us to
wage a war
that could
not be won?
My city
My life
Shall we close our eyes
and conjure a morning
that will never
encounter the
veil of night?
neither/nor
I am just a body,
framed neither by
light nor by darkness,
flowing through long
corridors with sweet
beasts of burden
while shouldering the
ashen narratives of
faces who have
already fallen.
I am merely a hand,
neither open nor
closed, beating
steadily against a taut
bolt of time, in spite
of myself, trying to
keep pace with the
all-embracing rhythm,
which shall undoubtedly
break me in the end.
:::the road to no:::
in one deliberate, confident
stroke, move down towards
the radius, driving to
the left with assurance
that you shall uncover
yes at the end of
the U-turn
with a swift and
awkward flick of the
wrist, once again, you
have arrived at no
sundry folly 