A Pinch of Salt

He was a simple mind reader,
I was a simple book lover.
He liked to read poems
So I snuck up on TS Eliots.

The next day I shook
His hand and spoke
“Footfalls echo in the memory,”
I whispered the next few lines.
I swore his breath I almost took
In recent times he made moves
But mine where such a glory.

I looked back and his gaze to mine
He chuckled a little and gazed at the heavens.
He said ‘oh how I wish this was fine.’
Then he came closer and said,
‘Bless my soul, but I’m a heathen.
I do not wish to have your heart,
Nor do I want to beat it.’

And with that he fled,
The next thing he said,
‘I fell in love with you before
Until I realized I love him more.’

Yellow Pages

We like looking back
At things that aren’t necessary.
We try to look for streets
That no longer exist in maps.
Old numbers in yellow pages.

We like moving back
To old places that aren’t necessary.
We pursue dreams
In random places to fill gaps
We feel passion in lost ages.

We breathe, we exist
In old torn up books
Music that has been repeated over
And over and over again.
We wear fashion not from this decade.
We’ve lost our innocence
But not memories of the past.

I feel you coming on to me.
Do you feel me too?
I worry you feel much better
Wearing that gaze
Sharing it with someone better.

Memories are powerful.
But they loose meaning as we grow older.
I’m over you now
But I’ll remember you sooner.
I’ll loose you in the process.
How long ago have you lost me too?

How Difficult Is It To Write Fiction

What is so difficult about fiction writing?
One, you have to make up about your feelings.
Two, you have to create a perfect world quite parallel to your own.
Three create characters from your own world, change their names and add strange details about them.
Four, think about the structure of your story.
Five, think about the audience.
Six, Is this Young Adult? Romance? Sci-fi? Suspense?
And seven, the fact that that one person who inspired you to write might read it. And feel great instead of feeling ruined by having his penis chopped off in the story and the book becomes a bestseller. Or something like that.

A Look At My Window

When I was sixteen years old, I remember staring at the window and looking over fields and fields of rice that my father and all the other farmers in our village had worked hard for all rainy season. I remember telling myself that one day when I do have my own family, I will do my best to work hard for them and give them the life I had always wanted for them, God willingly.

Several decades later, at 53, I stared at a different window with a different view. I saw trees that I remember my own mother planting it for me, two cheerful but solemn dogs awaiting for their rightful masters to come home and play with. I feel pain but I try my best not to show it. For years of suffering from whatever stressful situations I’ve been at, I never imagined that I,  that young sixteen year old who never did anything to harm her body, except abuse it with years of hard work, would be rewarded with pain. Is this how it’s supposed to be?

I see two young girls come running towards the two dogs. They look excited and very young in their uniforms. One of them looks at me and smiles and says something to her sister. They come rushing towards my door, they succeed in opening it and one after the other kisses me on the cheek and give me this warm hug that feels sweet and gentle to my bones.

I felt a pinch on my knee but I ignore it. Moments later a young man perhaps in his early twenties arrives and kisses me in the forehead. I look at them and I feel an overwhelming sense of excitement and joy although the pain is tugging in my heart.

One of them takes me to the room as I plan to rest for the next few hours. They seem responsible and I feel content that they are. I have several hopes for them, for their dreams to come true. What are their dreams? I close my eyes and relive mine.

I opened my eyes and although it feels as if I’ve slept forever, it feels heavy and distraught. The pain still tugs inside, at several points in my body. I can see myself standing though, in a night gown I have never imagined that I owned. I’ve lost memory of the things that happened earlier, but my senses seem heightened.

I can see a future that cannot be imagined by any writer. I hear a sound that not a single note can play. I taste a certain flavor in the air that I don’t seem to remember tasting, it’s like pain mixed with confidence and fear. I smell the beauty of it all and at the same time the crudeness of it.

Will there be a light at the end of all this?  I’d want that. I’ve seen too many dark hours in my lifetime. Should I be expecting something indifferent when I plan to close my eyes or should I not? I guess I shouldn’t.

All I ask, all that I want is for the world to matter. For the world to make sense to them three. I hope that they find out who they are and what is laid out for them. I pray for a peace of mind, and I think I got what I ought to. But why this early?

I apologize if I have too many questions. I think one would have too many questions at this point. I look back and realize that I have loved, been loved, been hurt, been mistreated, been rewarded, been complimented, been taught, been learned from. I don’t think I could ask for more.


A Letter From The Past

A letter from the past
Has made its way through boxes
from shelves.
The familiar strokes, words that only
He would use in writing
But some that he could never admit
when asked.

I read it slowly
all previous hopes and dreams
Fears and doubts are answered.
This man of whom I asked
‘If the earth was round,
Wouldn’t it be easier for you
to come home in the evening?’

This letter from the past
Had come back from boxes and shelves
It made its way just in time for healing.
But its too late to amend
All other wounds and feelings.
All I know, all I knew, all I didn’t know
Had meaning, some reasoning in this
Letter from the past.


I Cannot Fathom

One day I ate,
a couple of salted flakes
Mom and dad were joining me
and my brother too.
I wondered where my other brother went?

One day my master’s slave
Opened a crack on the huge wall.
Another human being came
She carried daddy’s old pink house.
I’ve never seen this person before.
But mom and dad purred at her
Like she knew something I still don’t.

She looked at me with brown eyes
They were kind, they were unsure
I knew I had to hide somewhere.
She knelt and caressed my brother,
but she looked at me as I looked at her.
She’s onto something that I don’t know.

But alas! My brother was done with breakfast.
But he hid under the “couches”.
The human looked at me
Eyes unsure, lips assured.
“I want him” and pointed to me.
Confused as I was, she picked me up.
Put me in dad’s old house

There was darkness, and then light.
There was noise! And strange scents!
The house was shaking all the time,
Who was this human?
Where am I going?
Mama? Papa? I can’t find them anywhere.
Their scents I can’t smell anywhere.

Can they find me? Will they find me?
Where is this human taking me?