Tag Archives: content

Small Universe

Ignorance was the smile on my lips

And blue cosmos—the smile on yours

You took dead stars from my eyelids

To birth their light with a solar force

.

And I was content in your constellation

Giving way to gravitating hearts that adored

The brightest nebula in the galaxy—you

As I spun wildly with electricity and fervour

.

Yet the day grew dim when a black hole came

And took all your eternal radiance back to claim

I couldn’t breathe—oh how I tried rather madly

To take for myself some of your losing energy

.

But ignorance were the tears on my eyes

And blue cosmos—the phantom tears on yours

Cursed with a beauty so brilliantly displayed

That this dying light couldn’t ever be your only star.

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waves of whimsy

I’ll be your optimistic black hole
Full of love I can’t control
Let’s keep each other safe from the world…

~*~

happiness

comes in little waves

of sipped hot cocoa

and marshmallow bits

warming quiet souls

on a rainy sunday morn

.

happiness

comes in little waves

of day-old biscuits

and mouthfuls of chocolate

and a faint bite of pink

in strawberry and caramel

.

happiness

comes in little waves

of melancholy songs

and purple boys wrapped

in twinkling fairy lights

resting beneath telephones

.

happiness

comes in little waves

of such lone-star musings

huddled under covers and

writing epistles for sunrise

as ink stains the skylines

.

happiness

comes in little waves

of whimsical contentment

and peaceful nothings

amid beating quiet hearts

on a rainy sunday morn.

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A Child’s Laughter

It’s the fact that you are entertained

For virtually no proper reason at all

Only finding your fickle amusement

When I’m laughing so out of the blue

Because you’ll never have to find any

No, you’re merely content with seeing

Happiness in others, and your innocent

Soul finds that as all the more reason to

Smile in this solemn, humourless world.

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Weekend Hymns

“If you call me at all, don’t tell me that I’m ordinary, ’cause I won’t be passing you, please don’t leave…” serenades the familiar strains of a soothing voice, interlacing delicately with the quaint glassy chords of a softly-strummed guitar, and dissipating behind the skeletal mist of the hazy whorled coffee smoke. Spongy traces of a cold jelly roll melt and shiver in my tongue, leaving traces of a sweet sensation to tease these anticipating taste buds of mine. On my right side lays a Fantastic Beasts colouring book opened on a page of Newt Scamander’s luggage, abandoned coloured pencils scattered everywhere, and a half-finished unwritten postcard with vibrant pastel shades complimenting each other in mild, careful strokes; and on my left side a battered notebook overstuffed with scribbled papers and a slightly-chewed black pen, waiting patiently to bleed words into blank parchment.

Turn off these lights, call my name. Don’t talk, just drive… Another potent vocal joins in with the tranquil music, rhythmic acoustic strains and deep baritone timbre sending quiet shivers pleasantly down my spinal column. The rain has come to a cradlesong refrain, and, time being, has ceased from thrumming a metronomic pitter-patter against the fogged-up windows. I pause, place a cat bookmark on page 12 of John Steinback’s Of Mice and Men, and take another sip of my tepid milky drink and huddle further underneath my delicate blue blanket, starry night socks rubbing against the creaky bed mattress as I do so. After partaking in such a short interlude, I indulge zealously in my awaiting literature once more, losing myself against the mollifying song and letting my imagination run away and be caught between George and Lennie’s frolicsome bickering and humbler conversations.

“Red and blue and green rabbits, Lennie. Millions of ’em.” George concluded drowsily as the chapter came to a finish, synchronously alongside Jonny Craig’s flourished crescendo of And baby, honestly these teeth won’t let you go…”, and I thumbed down on the page and set down the book once again, lost in a silent reverie. This day seems to be nothing but a lucid woolgathering, and in a momentary splinter from reality, I am quite unsure which is a fact, and which is nothing more than a mere dream anymore. It left me slightly confused whether I had actually been chasing musicians through a cornfield full of bedraggled zombies in Southern California, or if my grandmother had actually been confined in the hospital after an unfortunate slip and needs three months of bed rest to recover, or whether any of those were even real, not just derogated fantasies of an inured mind in dire need of a proper rest. Perhaps I’m simply tired. I had, after all, been looking for my exuberant nephews for a good part of the afternoon. But this is a good tired, unlike the draining emptiness of a tired stress that I have been beleaguered with the entire week. And this time around, I’ll sleep not to forget the memories. Rather, I’ll sleep to remember them.

“If you call me at all, oh if you call me at all…” The mellisonant sincerity of his lilting assurances envelopes my weary and aching bones tangibly, as if the xanthous stars had personally touched down from the lavender-blotched sky and given me a synesthetic embrace from the gentle cosmos. The final coda of the song falters and fades against the distant monsoon, washing away every worry, every qualm, every cynical thought and nightmarish daydream of mine, washing me away under the horizon’s encore performance of dying sunshine and inchoate moonbeams alike. I breathe deeply and finally close my eyes, listening to the hymn of the rainy weather and halcyon weekend continue to play around me. I’ll be alright. For now, at least…I’m alright.

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Filed under Prose

Nightfall Notes

You remind me of a former love that I once knew
And you carry a little piece with you; we were
Holding hands, walking through the middle of the street
It’s fine with me, I’m just taking in the scenery…

~*~

Residues of a timeline leisurely spent

Promises breathed easy, given to vent

Turnpikes taken and sick forced down

Traded daydreams by the gilded crown

Unexpected rejuvenating fells of shower

Courtesy of an erratic downpour weather

Music humming past veins of a blue moon

Wish I didn’t have to go home quite so soon.

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5:48 a.m. downpour

Believe in me, I’m sad and blue
Left with nothing but a picture
Third or fourth weekend in June
December seems to come too soon…

~*~

the rain comes parading

like an old friend comes to visit

in torrents of cool greetings

and sweet altruistic mornings

.

the rain is contented jubilance

like yellow smiley faces pleased

on a blue patterned umbrella

entrancing me with pure peace

.

yet the rain never stays for long

like the fleeting kiss of an autumn leaf

perhaps that’s why i cherish it more

whenever it arrives and leaves.

~*~

Quilted in our hands
And keeping you tucked in too deep
Struck in the shot of two
Twenty-four hours in June
Will you wait until tomorrow?

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Quiet Reeducation (in the dead of the night)

There is a fancied quiet reeducation

Borne by the dying ember flames

In a gaily evening of dull recreations

To which the knocking cloudburst dare pertains

.

A strange set of ponders came visiting that night

Rapping sharp within the chamber door of my mind

And this began the lesson, a slight shift of vision

By the obsidian visitors out on their mission

.

The softest glance at a faded polaroid

A swift knowing glare at the ceiling paint

Is my active mind rushing to simple paranoid

Or am I just dumb enough to be a saint?

.

A plaintive sip at scalding liquid black

To which my unkindly thoughts wish to hack

A finger burns, dipped in the grey shadows

Until in the butter candlelight it mellows

.

An absentminded stare at the leatherbound book

All tan pages and copper lines and senseless hooks

Yet dare that crepuscular midnight filled with stars

Entertain my empty heart of flurry jagged scars

.

Those enchanting lights dance fickle and merry

That moon of mirage winking back like a fairy

And doth faithful silence hold my whispered nevermores

Trance frozen till that slipping book falls upon the floor

.

The whistling train of thought nay stops for rundown stations

Wonderful whimsy intertwining amidst aberrant abominations

Yet, I lean back, sighing, and content my mollified soul with this quiet reeducation

Borne by the dying ember flames, and snuffed out with rest like all my troubling notions.

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