vision of the future

The day is as blind as a bat,
the night too, as we sleep inside
the storm we never really leave,
as we never really leave,
since you’re never really sure
it’s really over.

We sing the same lines over,
the heft of words, the lilt of tunes
that keep us through the night.

What keeps us going depends on
chance bringing us to another
fork in the road, so it feels as if
the storm is over, but of course,
you’re never really sure.

These are the lines we sing, like birds
on a wing. It’s like the blind needs
the braille of words, the musician
the braille of melody, the painter
the braille of colors. We are all
the world’s lyricists needing
a plug for the metaphorical storm,
to keep doing these things over.

There’s only one vision, I could think of,
it’s to sit here with me, watching the ships
that go by, passing each other in the night.

Process notes: Sadly, the title is Writer’s Island’s last prompt, at least for a while. I feel the poem is kind of apt, don’t you think? Keep on writing! All together now.

Protected: life is incomparable

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Protected: the green designer

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the sea & the music

The sea contains two thirds of the world,
and faltering dreams, where
creatures sometimes go to
send aerial smoke signals, like
the wings of god unobtrusively
working, a shrug first,
and then a huge and wide lift
into indelible space.

She goes there when there’s
a latent need for foamy feet
touching little rays of hope,
in a mirage of confusion,
wings staying almost motionless,
listening for the music inside waves,
and the big bass plucking
the exceptional splendour
of her oracle heart.

Process notes: Intriguing surreal art, from the shores of Writer’s Island. You can read other responses here.

Unlimited by daily death

Photo credit: Jaime Lluch

The future is fire and ice.
A cliffhanger, a door.
A small dead fly, beside my mouse.
Early ribboned breath.
Origami crane for Japan.

The future is fire and ice.
Decomposing, a smell unknown.
A small dead fly, beside my mouse.
Early ribboned breath.
Origami crane for Japan.

Unlimited by daily death.
A cliffhanger, a door.
A small dead fly, beside my mouse.
Early ribboned breath.
Origami crane for Japan.

Unlimited by daily death.
Decomposing, a smell unknown.
A small dead fly, beside my mouse.
Early ribboned breath.
Origami crane for Japan.

Toothbrush, in a red mug.
A cliffhanger, a door.
A small dead fly, beside my mouse.
Early ribboned breath.
Origami crane for Japan.

Toothbrush, in a red mug.
Decomposing, a smell unknown.
A small dead fly, beside my mouse.
Early ribboned breath.
Origami crane for Japan.

Soap bar, wilting in paper.
A cliffhanger, a door.
A small dead fly, beside my mouse.
Early ribboned breath.
Origami crane for Japan.

Process notes: The prompt over at Writer’s Island is “Unlimited”. Barbara pointed to this tool called a Sentence Builder. Experimental, viral, addictive. Saying it again and again. And again.

tribute to a noodles cook

Days had become weeks.
Did anything profound struck?
I mean, deep wisdom.

As we gawked, the flames leapt around
the gigantic pan, doubled for cooking
to make twenty orders of noodles.

He used a small saucepan to ladle
beaten eggs, then sauces, then stock,
lots of noodles simmered into broth,
measured to combine in perfect proportion,
generous sprinkling of beansprouts.

I’m with him in every scoop
saying yes, yes, prawns, squids,
scallion in strips, red sliced chillis,
bits of fried lard, a precise taste,
a food memory. The final touch,
one lime a portion, by the packer.
We’ll squeeze lime for tartness,
attack noodles with chopsticks.

The cook filled my plate with gratitude.
Years gone by, daddy long gone.
All I taste in these yellow noodles,
he had brought home to me.

Process notes: My serving of a food memory poem, in response to the “tribute” poem over at Writer’s Island.

mystery

The trees bear beautiful flowers.
The big storm comes, shatters the trunks.

That is how nature is,
unreasonably strong.
That is why we cannot foresee

how love moves, how one thing is part of
another. The eternal dark.

When we close our eyes, we dream. The story makes sense
only within, not when we step outside. Truth flickers.

The future, the present and the past are all jumbled
when we dream.

The ache of not knowing contains our human essence.
The mystery of broken barks.

Process notes: A crystal ball? What do you wish to see inside? Good tidings? Bad tidings? Prophesy or heresy? Is there a reason for everything that happens? Surely the reason lies in simple cause and effect? If you can tell the cause, can you tell the effect?

Hands up, those who admit defeat! Read other responses to the “foretell” prompt at Writer’s Island.

epiphany

They’re no peas in a pod. Actually
quite the opposite, like one side
of the moon is dark, the other side’s fair,
one smooth to touch, the other rough.

Beyond the skin, too subtle to say,
where one will articulate
on the world’s stage, script in hand,
say ever so clearly,
the other would blush with red eyes,
choose anonymity, recede into
imagination, speak in monotone.

The one more intense,
the one raining reason,
washing over surfaces of
the same moon.

Process notes: We’re often amazed at how alike our children are to us, and also how different they are from us. This sense of amazement keeps us on our toes, trying to figure out our kids’ destiny, having the natures they’re born with, like strokes from the same brush. Mostly we wish not to visit our own limitations on them, if that’s holding them back. The real epiphany? It’s that they come from the same tree, but really it’s the soil, how we nurture them, that makes all the real difference. Read about other epiphanies over at Writer’s Island.

sea breeze

There’re no pelicans or seagulls,
only big ships, starry fireworks
lighting up the night sky.

A sea of pitched campers
convivial with coke and
grilled chicken wings.

The bump of essential sea salt
beguiling in the air, buoying
my heart over the moon.

Process notes: In response to the “beguile” prompt at Writer’s Island. There’s something truly therapeutic about the seaside air, that sends me into raptures.

worrying illusion

You get the feeling sometimes,
sitting in an empty lot, isn’t life
sort of patchy, even downright
shitty, like work eat sleep
is all you ever do?

Hell, isn’t the future obscure,
vaguely worrisome? It’s enough to
send you straight into depression.

A portly cat sidles up fueling
unreserved affection.
The phone rings loudly
wanting attention.

You’re suddenly meaningful,
talking with exuberance.

Process notes: I guess this is about talking to yourself into a depression. We’re guilty of that aren’t we? Then our mood shifts and all that negativity becomes an illusion. We already know that life is delusional. It’s a question of whether you’re in a positive or negative illusion. Or is that too difficult a question?