Poetry
Telling my story through verse and prose.
The Same View
Trees, blue skies and a lamp post—a room
with the same view, a sanctuary
of drywall and glass, an illusion
of invincibility.
I’m weary of my escape route, fearful
of the uninvited guest or letting it out.
The world outside beckons, oblivious
to the invisible enemy lurking
on a door handle or an elevator button, or
in the staleness of the air.
My thoughts betray me, spreading like the virus
to where the frontliners live.
Where’s my courage? Maybe
that was an illusion, too.
I am grateful for another day, with
the same trees, blue skies and a lamp post.
Nature's Mosaic
Crimson oozes from their long, gangly limbs.
Some are still dripping with green,
the feisty ones in the pack.
Others are on their way to joining their fallen comrades.
So many shades of red, amber and green,
intertwined with browns and oranges.
A mosaic of nature’s traffic lights.
I wish I knew their names.
I only recognize the maples and the pines.
That’s a feat for me, considering my thumb
has never been green.
They all blur together anyway with the moving train.
There are other colours, too—
violet, white and bright yellow.
They sit on the tips of tiny shrubs that
line the train tracks and trunks of the trees,
like paint brushes splashing more autumn
into life sprouting from the ground.
Sporadically peeping through the jumbled hues
are chain-link fences keeping the trees at bay.
Behind their protective metal is an assortment of everyday life—
sheds, picnic tables, lawnmowers, children’s toys, tractors.
Brown-red and black shingles pop up over the treetops,
curiously peeking at the speeding train.
Or perhaps peeking at me.
I am, after all, intruding on their privacy.
My eyes wander to the plant life divided by the tracks.
So close yet forever apart, dysfunctional, like my family.
Their melancholy multiplies with every breath,
their branches heavy with burden,
always reaching out but never making contact.
On the horizon, more yellows and reds,
mixed in with purples and oranges,
tucked behind the vast expanse of farmland.
Cornfields in full bloom remind me I’m hungry.
The rumbling train and my stomach are in unison.
Time to eat and then get lost in a fictitious story.
I sneak one last look at the moving canvas.
Death is almost as beautiful as rebirth.
The Courting
The morning light peaks through the clouds,
eagerly searching for the flowing waters of the river.
They’ve been apart longer this time,
And now the clear skies fill them with hope.
Long shadows from trees and passing sailboats
shield them from curious eyes.
Sometimes they meet on the western shore;
sometimes it’s where the river flows out to sea.
Dusk slowly creeps up like an anxious father,
looking for the sun to call it home.
The last few rays of light unite with the river one last time,
each ripple pleading “just a few seconds more.”
Darkness sets in, the sun all but forgotten,
cascading light on some sea.
When dawn comes to free the sun,
it will be as though the day never did cease.
Visibly Invisible
I wasn’t bothering anyone, but
they still made me leave.
I'd been sitting quietly drinking my coffee,
taking in the smell of food from all the vendors.
It’s as close as I get to a meal most days.
The security guards—they didn’t seem to care much about that;
they were bent on “subduing” me.
I know what I look like,
but I sure as hell don’t need to be subdued.
I’m what you’d call a book judged by its cover;
matted gray hair, skin covered with grime and a stench around me.
Must be hard to imagine the inside would be different.
My coveralls are the only thing that don’t match the rest of me,
being new and everything.
I saw a commercial once at the shelter.
I think it was for one of those charities, where
a homeless man tears off his worn-out threads
and underneath's a pair of new coveralls,
like he’s shedding his horrible life for a better one.
I guess mine don’t have that sort of magic.
But I can’t complain. Living on the streets isn’t easy.
It just is what it is.
I looked up from my coffee and there they were—the four guards.
They surrounded me at the table where I was sitting.
One of them was a woman.
She was pretty and smelled like soap.
I bet she thought I could use a bar or two.
She’s the one who convinced me to leave,
after the other three guards, all men, got me all riled up.
They didn’t threaten me or get aggressive—nothing like that.
It was the tone they used I didn’t care for.
They acted like they’re better than me; maybe they are.
I still had a right to be there.
The woman put on rubber gloves
and helped me with my things.
It didn’t take long.
Then they “escorted” me out of the building.
“Good for nothing bastards.”
Not sure if anyone heard me, we just kept on walking.
I saw a young woman nearby staring at me; I stared back.
She had no fear or disgust in her eyes, it wasn’t pity either.
More like sadness.
I should’ve smiled or something.
Lost
There is a man in the crowd
turning in deliberate circles.
He looks lost and intimidated
but doesn't stop for directions.
He’s not lost in that way.
His eyes search the streets,
bouncing around like beads on a chain.
Time has worn away his face;
he’s travelled a long way.
Layers of dust and dirt
conceal the rags beneath.
A button, pinned
on the remains of a lapel,
reads, “The Lord is my Shepherd;
I shall not want.”
Funny how he’s lost.
Instruments of Love
Your heart is an instrument of love,
the tunnel through which my light travels,
the chord that brings my soul to life,
the source that turns energy into matter.
Your eyes are the strings of a violin
that flicker when struck by the bow,
that entice with their sweet, wicked melody,
that dissolve my body in one sweeping flow.
Your fingers are the keys of a piano
that rhythmically pound my tone-deaf skin,
that conduct a full-scaled musical,
that fill my flesh with the sweetest sin.
Your lips, oh, your lips conduct the band
that bring to life all the instruments,
that set aflame with a gentle kiss
the fiery passion burning deep within.
Beats and rhythms, pulses and tones,
a look, a touch, a heart without mercy.
Instruments of love playing me until the end,
a solid performance, no need to curtsy.