Endings

Not a poem, just words as I think them this morning.

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There comes a time
when the sweetest of musings
inspired by the prettiest of muses
must end.

There comes a time
when the lull is just too long,
the silence, past golden, is unbearable,
and her laughter sounds much like derision.

There comes a time
when I realize
the dream I dream
despite the promises
will never come true.

There comes a time
when hurting from love
outweighs the joy from it
and breaks the fine porcelain
that is my heart.

I wonder if that time is upon us.

---

I'll see if this is the final version of it. As of now, it feels so.

Hanna's poem

This city of love,
friendship, seasons,
hopes and heartbreaks,
without you, it's nothing.

This city is just hollow bricks.
These streets are just cobbled stones.
These windows are just glass panes.
Without you, my friend,
they don't have a story to tell.

With you,
              I have seen this city
              and filled the empty streets
              with our laughter in the fall
                     and hope for spring in the winter.

With you,
              these windows, streetside,
              have borne witness to our life force
              shaking these streets,
              bringing the cobbled stones alive.

One day,
             when I return to this city,
             after many a mile,
                     many a path,
             and many a night,
you may not be here.

Though memories of our time together
will remain vivid, with me;
without you,
                  this city will just be hollow bricks,
                  these windows just glass panes,
                  and these streets just cobbled stones.

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This I just wrote for Hanna. She was feeling sad as we, the friends at Las Cruces that she's made, will disperse after this summer and she may not feel the same here at this place. So, I wrote this for her. Thank you for listening when I recited these words, Hanna.

Lovers and poems

Maybe poems are like lovers.

That when you meet a new one,
you forget about the old?

The tingle you feel from the novelty
of this meeting, of this romance,
makes you oblivious to
the thrill and depth of passion
you felt for the last.
The new expression of love
somehow makes the old
redundant, although the old still rings true.

Maybe lovers are like poems.

The new one demands that
you love her just like
you loved the previous one, if not more.
The new one demands that
you create new dreams with words
and forget the old dreams
though they also were of truth and beauty.

With you,
I can't ever know
if I am your old lover

or your new poem.

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This just came to me. I'm sitting at the lab at Las Cruces, away from my favored fountain pen and stack of uncreased, fresh white paper. I'm partial to those trusted tools for my creative writing. I guess the urge to write this particular piece was so strong that I typed it on the computer. It wasn't the nice feeling of fountain pen writing on plain paper and giving birth to a poem that'll sing to me for a while yet. I think, despite all that, I enjoyed writing this piece.

A poem about a heart

The first in a trio of poems about two hearts.  Again, Aura is the muse.

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1.
Where have you moored your boat?

Where have you anchored your ship?
Where will your caravan stop after crossing the desert?
Have you found the center of your soul?
Will you share the center of your soul with another,
to lovingly safe-keep and grow?

Where have you found your peace?
Where have you found your love?
Where have you known joy and laughter?
Have you known calm after a wild tempest?
Will you share the core of your being with another,
in remembrance of the promise and love that you felt?

Will the remembrance be lost?
Will the promise not be given?

2.

Will the
"words softly spoken,
poems casually written,
heart mercilessly torn,
embrace longingly forlorn"
not count for anything?

It's your moment to decide.
It's your hour to know.
It's your day to grow.
It's your season to flow.

Price your heart well, my love.
Price your heart well.

A tale of two hearts

Second in a trio of poems about hearts. I will post the other two at some point. Like I said in an earlier post, Aura is the muse for this poem.

---------

A tale of two hearts

You had a golden heart:
polished,
adored,
sought after,
ready to withstand the test of time and not diminish in glory.

I offered you a heart of clay:
reddish brown,
once soft,
then dried and perched in the strong sun,
then burnt in the fire,
now brittle.
It still smells of the earth
and the rain that soaked it long ago.

A heart of clay:
a heart of the commoner,
with common aspirations,
dreams and desires,
beating in the common beat of the land
that reverberates through nature.

Fool me, foolish me,
audaciously thought,
if I offered my clay heart,
I may gain a piece of that golden heart.

Greedy me.
Ambitious me.
Yet you let me touch my clay
to your golden heart.
Who knew what you were thinking!

In my oblivious joy,
I didn't notice how the touch
of that metallic heart of yours,
shattered in thousand pieces
this clay heart of mine.

Two Warriors

Written earlier this summer. The imagery came to my mind after reading the Wheel of Times, although the final version ended up being different than any image that the series conjures in my mind.


------

Two warriors,
body of stone,
heart of iron,
mettle of steel,
face each other.

One clad in red armor, in the color of blood,
the other black, in the color of hopes and dreams broken;
they stare at each other.

They bleed,
blood of red, blood of black,
from the corners of their eyes.

The ground rumbles in rage beneath their feet.
The thunder threatens in rebellion far away, but so distinct.
The world holds its breath.
The creation feels its destruction.

In the locked swords of the warriors,
lightning dances.
They fight evenly,
drawing on the deepest of their reserves to find strength.

It's as much a contest of will as it is of strength.
Worlds will be remade in the image of the victor.

You and I,
by the arena,
hold our breaths.
To know.

Who will budge first?
Who will give an inch?

Symptoms of love

This is taken from my cousin's facebook feed. He's getting married and is understandably excited about love. On the other hand, I'm divorcing and still am excited about romantic love. This poem captures how I have felt recently.

------

Symptoms of Love
by Robert Graves

Love is universal migraine,
A bright stain on the vision
Blotting out reason. 

Symptoms of true love
Are leanness, jealousy,
Laggard dawns; 

Are omens and nightmares -
Listening for a knock,
Waiting for a sign:

For a touch of her fingers
In a darkened room,
For a searching look.

Take courage, lover!
Could you endure such pain
At any hand but hers?

Trepidation

I notice in me
            trepidation
in the prospect of you.
Is it from broken wings
              of broken dreams?
Or is it the holding of breath
      --anticipation--
before fireworks fly
to light up the night sky?

Eolyn

I'm reading my friend Karin Gastreich's book, Eolyn.  I find the dialogues to be at times a bit forced. But Karin certainly has a gift for descriptions. Sometimes lyrical and sometimes majestic, her descriptions in the book alone make it worthy of reading. Here's a gem that I read this morn:

"After their first midwinter’s offering, many nights came to pass in which Eolyn sought the warmth of aen-lasati in Tahmir’s bed. Each encounter revealed another undiscovered path across the solid contours of his body. Eolyn delighted in the response of his sun warmed skin to the curve of her palms, in the silky fall of his black hair between her tapered fingers, in the sensual pull of his lips upon her breasts, the curve of her abdomen, the sacred mystery of her sex. Over and over she cultivated the flame of his desire inside of her and lost herself to the pleasure of his strength until the ecstasy of the gods bound them and abandoned them, leaving her nestled against him in sweet, exhausted satiation."

( Gastreich, Karin Rita (2011-07-06). Eolyn (Kindle Locations 2969-2975). Hadley Rille Books. Kindle Edition. )

Golden!

In the desert

In the desert

by Stephen Crane

In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hand,
And ate of it.
I said, "Is it good, friend?"
"It is bitter--bitter," he answered;

"But I like it
"Because it is bitter,
And because it is my heart."

------

And inspired by In the desert:

Of all the dreams
we could've had,
you picked the one
in which this heart
was shred to blooded strips
by your bestial claws.

Reminiscing

I've met Aura only recently and have really not spent much time with her. I've been writing a lot this summer and it feels as if, despite the short time I've known her, she's my muse. Here's a piece, reminiscing the last time I saw her.


------

There was a time
when we didn't worry as much.
Do you remember, dearest?

We didn't worry
if you'd be mine,
or if I'd find you beautiful.
We didn't worry
what'd happen the day after,
the week or month or year after.

We didn't worry about
our contrasts
our frictions
our pains
and our aspirations crushed by the other.

It was an innocent time.
There was not a care in the world.
There was not a worry in the world;
only happy, juvenile joy
in each other's company
as we sat by the river
watching time while away.

There was not a worry,
but only silly romantic joy,
when the moon rose,
I sang for you,
and we held hands.

You and I deserved a few more of those days
of just joy without worry.
Heaven knows I had waited
for those days long enough,
and burnt and charred
my heart often enough,
to deserve some respite
with your soothing touch.

Life, chance, fate, choice
cut those days short
and threw us apart
to distant shores.

Now all we have left is worry,
interspersed with
the memory of the sweet nights
that early summer
we spent in each other's shade.

Untitled

I know you won't want to let me go.
One day though,
time will force your hand.

Will you let me go on a bright spring day?
Will you let me die, lying beside
the emergent plants on the forest floor,
as the soft spring light shines on me?

I will nourish with my energy
all things that will grow that spring.
My essence will dissipate
through the spring among living things
and make them ready for a vigorous summer.

I want to go away
on a full moon night, in the new spring.
The soft light will wash away my pain
from being let go.
Silver hallow will surround my body.

I will remember our last kiss
as I rejoice in embracing death
like a long lost friend.

----------

Death, its dark beauty, has fascinated me in recent years. Phil's passing and then, the death of newborn twin granddaughters of Lidieith (a good friend at Las Cruces) has made me think about death, how it is to die and how I want to die.

Emanated the preceding from all that.

Phil's poem

My friend and mentor Phil Druker recently passed away. He left a list of places where he would've liked his ashes to be spread to. Along with the list, he left the poem below.


-----


Will I try to find all these spots?

Will I become a raven or an eagle or a robin or a finch or a hawk?
Is this just a way to help you remember me?

These are the places I want you to remember me.
Maybe this is a mistake. Maybe I’ll spend eternity wandering the hills
looking for myself. Well, that’d be better than planted under a tree
and then someone comes by and cuts down the tree.

Some say that when you die, it’s like turning off a computer.
I don’t believe it. I am here in the wind of the ponderosa pines, in the
snow falling in the mountains, in the hoarfrost glinting in the
moonlight, in the shooting stars blossoming on the rivers’ bank, in the
roar of the rapids, in the quiet of the pools, in the crackle of the fire,
in the laughter of friends, in the tears and smiles of lovers,
in the sigh of mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters.

Let me go. Move on.
I have always been here for you.
I always will be here for you.

-Phil Druker

Words for Alex

Followed is a piece I wrote after having been touched by Alex's (from El Salvador) writing.

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Unison

The harp that is the world
plays many tunes
in its many strings.
Some strings resonate
and some vibrate
in creation's bliss in living.

A discordant symphony,
a grand aria
all this blissful noise is!
Each note in each movement
is a poem and a dream unto itself.

Some rare moments though
strings far apart
on the harp that is the world
reverberates, in unison,
of a happy song.

You and I,
far apart,
strings we are,
create these rare dreams,
these rare songs,
together, without knowing.

Words from Alex, El Salvador

I have been absent from doing any blog entry for a long time! With recent changes in my life, I feel my writing has received a boon! I'll post some of my stuff later. Below is a nice piece by a friend, Alex from El Salvador, of a friend, Susi from Germany. The writing, the style of it, really resonated with me as did her other pieces that Susi shared with me. I only made some minor changes, to make it flow better (in my opinion). I also added the last paragraph, as the piece seemed needing to be completed. Most of the writing and thoughts though is Alex's creation. Happy reading.


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I went on a date last night and then you texted and asked again when I would come over. You asked when we can start our days with coffee and end with you making dinner. Forever I feel myself tug towards you; and then I remember why it will always be no with you and me.

There are people in your life who are going to love you for all of the wrong reasons. They will love you for the best part of your face, the best part of you naked, the best mood on your best day, the best story you ever wrote, the best outfit you ever wore.

They are going to miss the scar on the underside of your nose from the time your older brother dared you to run across a pile of logs. They won't know that you fell on a hidden nail just as you completed the challenge. They will miss the scar on your finger too, from when you were seven and closed a Swiss army blade on it. They won't understand these are two of only a handfull of things you can remember about your childhood. They will notice that you have great tits, but they will miss that your thumb tucks into their palm when you are walking together and that your eyes have darker circles when a migraine is coming. They won't get to know your migraines. They won't ask where the story you wrote came from, so they will never know it was true. They will love it because it feels real to them. They will miss knowing the sweatshirt full of holes that they criticized you for wearing was your dads. You might tell them one of these things along the way, but they will remember the best things instead.

They will love your good moods, your energy, your sense of humor, but miss that you never turn to them, but rather to a shower or a pillow or the back of your throat to shed tears. They won't ever consider you strong.

When the parts that are your best come out, some people will shield their eyes as if you have just forced them to look directly into the sun for hours while their iris burnt. They will silently make you promise to never show them that again. Those things are not to be shown. They say to you: "Be at your best so I can love you. I would love you more if only you never show me those things."

And you do not marry those people. You do not sit and sleepily drink coffee with those people. You don't share your most crazy ideas, inner thoughts with those people. You leave those people and you remind yourself that they missed the better parts of you.

-

In between passages, in between people, you think of me, you remember of me. You wonder why you chase those that don't cherish your deep, striking, sometimes dark, beauty. You wonder why, despite my cherishing of that beauty in you, despite your love for me, you don't come to me. I don't know why you don't. I, too, wonder why and wonder what marvel, what tapestry, what epic  we could've created together. But then you move on and I cry on. So, when I get your text asking if there's an evening of you and me, I remember the broken promises. I remember me longing for your parts that no one cared for. And I remember how the last time went, with me begging from you those parts of yours and you hiding those parts from me just out of habit. I remember all these.  And I remember why it will always be no with you and me.

What if our truest beliefs don't hold?

I believe that what I study and what I want to work on will contribute to making this world a better and terminally sustainable place.  I am sure that I am not the only one who feels that way.  My fellow ecologists and other folks from all sorts of discipline--who are concerned with understanding the ways of living in an equilibrium with available resources--I think, do hold it in their hearts that our work will contribute something substantive towards sustainability.  Oftentimes, during my readings or in the middle of a sleepless night, I feel concerned about the direction our planet is heading toward.  But even in those bleak moments, I feel an undercurrent of hope and optimism that what I do, what other concerned workers do, will resolve the eternal conflict  between human prosperity/existence and sustainability of resources/environments.  What gives real chill in my spine though is to think what if we fail to deliver.  If the concerned few--concerned with the shortage of resources coupled with decimation of human and natural populations alike in near future--cannot deliver on their hopes, promises and intentions, what will happen?  

I also wonder if the responsibility solely depends on the people who feel concerned, though it is all of humanity who will be responsible for any impending calamity.