Neither is time the creator,
Nor is silence the destroyer,
Distance wasn't the cause,
Words hold the weight,
Even the scale refuses to measure,
Yet they tear apart what was meant to stay.
The ones who chased
Each other,
Were broken,
Not by time,
But the words that still echo remain unheard.
The black box is so useless,
Its worth was shown
Only when disaster knocks at the door.
The only way to find the cause
was to recover it.
Voices may hold different words,
But they still hold the truth.
That time refuses to remember,
Once a flight takes off,
No one dares to stop it,
Unless the flight itself has other plans.
Time never chose the ending;
it only watched it unfold.
Words frame her face like fall leaves—
Some are green, still full of life,
Others are dry and brown.
They drift against her jawline, caught
In the quiet currents
Of breath and hesitation.
The green ones cling:
Tender promises, unfinished confessions
That still smell of summer rain.
The brown ones rattle when she speaks,
Edges curled, brittle enough to crumble
Under the slightest weight of memory
Old arguments, worn-out courtesies,
Griefs she has swept into tidy piles for years.
Between the living sap and the brittle husk,
An ember glow holds:
The copper syllables of truth,
Warm enough to survive the frost,
Waiting for a wind brave enough
To strip the branches bare.
She lets the dead phrases fall into the dirt
To feed what comes next:
Life, or slow death.
Dimples dance in her chocolate cheeks
Angelic hands flow so tan and gracefully
Neon nemesias around ankles at feet
Cherry lips laugh a silver soprano treat
Ebony hair with onyx pearls for eyes
Mahogany wings that match brown thighs
Uniquely gifted to grant whimsical words
Sonnets so inspiring flying me like bird
Elegant muse many hearts you’ve stirred
Contradictions
May suggest a
Between and seem
As emptiness
Appearing as
Contradictions..
I forget the bar sometimes
And offer up my honest rhymes.
No underlying meanings to puzzle through;
No flourishes to add more goo.
Just plain and simple is my way.
With familiar words, I'll have my say.
You'll get my message right away.
Why is Christmas Day or Valentine's Day RED?...Other than colors green, gold or yellow or white or pink, why red?
Christmas and Valentine's are red, very red in many representations. Manifested not just by its color, but by the sentimental message or warm thoughts being delivered by the sender, promoter or manifestor.
Blood is red and blood is what flows through you. Red blood cells or Erythrocytes are red because of Hemoglobin. Whatever your blood type is, it's Oxygen that gives color to it.
White blood cells or Leukocytes are part of human armor that protect the body from infections, viruses, bad bacteria and other foreign invaders.
The colors red and white can be seen in many occasions and places like anniversaries and shops, not just in the clothes worn by humans or in cars, buses, schools, hospitals, churches, theaters, stadiums, parks and houses. Red and white could mean love, purity, honesty and other positive things or attributes of the human kind. Even animals can sense what these colors mean to humans despite being color-blind.
Why are colors red and white so important to the human eye?... It's because of YOU.
It is the
Season with
The dark side
Gingerly addressed
In appearances
Of fright and comedy..
Trick or Treat!
It is a song of
Wholeness without
Exception..
you can let go now
I love you, Mom, I whisper
her hand rests in mine
noodle
doodle
why
fry
boodle
poodle
shy
guy
handy
andy
best
buy
randy
mandy
rest
rye
gray
play
deep
sigh
slay
bray
creep
dry
caboodle
radoodle
great
try
poetry style free verse
some words were spoken
some were not
the winter of words
entered the map of speech
body and love
entered too
earth, stars, mountains
i
discovered myself
inside the memoir
of a yellow-green
orangutan
sometimes
even the empty teacup
left on the table
becomes my teacher
and begins
to speak
then i
bow down
at the feet
of the tender diction
of a young
bottle-gourd vine
in the light
that has touched
the sea
i saw
jacaranda blossoms
in the schoolyard
there, on the crown
of the mahogany tree,
the clouds of sunset
A story
Is and
Is not a
Story when
Emptiness
Appears as
Storyteller..
Simply
Empty stories
But nonetheless
May be startling
Entertaining and
Scary for
No one at all..
There you go
mind like an accordion
with eyes aglow
and first to start
words pile up
into a pile of ashes
enough to fill me up
and smother my heart
was there a reason
for crashlanding
was it out of season
or just a mess
there’s rot in the bone
for so many say no
though prone
to the eternal yes.
‘A spark’ or ‘a tiny trace’
Barely more than a hint
The finest sparkling dust mote
The smallest piece of lint
A trace, barely perceptible
Scarcely carries through
An iota, wee, tiny, titchy
Minuscule, bijou
It is, by far, most certainly
The most magical thing I’ve heard
I present to you: ‘Scintilla’
My favourite poetic word
To Bee or not to Bee?
Oh, not that line again!
I can hear the buzz:
At least try to bee original!
Got to lose that bee-be thing --
Catchy, but a bit scratchy
(Same-old Same-old grove) –
Cute, honeyed words, sugary,
Seductive syrup for shameless
Tongues and cords.
Metaphorically speaking,
We all prefer sweet lick-text
As opposed to biting – tasting
Far more exciting. Perhaps time
To re-comb my hive
Of writing? – bee a bit more
Less refraining, or get used to
Stinging complaining….
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