Words.

Working in Dying Light
The light creeps lower and lower
behind my left shoulder
and I begin to feel my words
instead of seeing them.
Then my eyes will close
and complete darkness falls:
my work will have only been
considered a dream.

Days pass towards May,
treading across continents:
desired return.

As for those green eyes: captivate,
never seen before, a graceful
new freshing experience,
everlasting. Ah yes, Kulta,
move in step with me, a jazz dance
amplifying our senses, your
radiance lights up these words here,
in step ensemble, to out-fox them.

A bracelet given
bonds made forever
more than anything
a lifetime ahead
a bracelet received.

Between here and there,
an hour’s difference
makes all the difference
in the world to us.

Remember the nights of love? Those
whispered words glide gently on your
mind, quickened paces of breath drive
your memory. Feel your body,
emotion coursing through your blood,
closed eyes opening up the mind.

Tomorrow
I must prevent tomorrow.
No, I need to be more…
(The 21st of December 2007)
Precise.
Against the coming of the
time of 10h50!
Then what do I do?
What can I do?
The horses of the night!
Run slower, trot slower,
stop completely if you will,
you drag me behind in your
wake, my limbs are
falling out.
Stop earth, stop your rotations,
unwind clock, hold your hands
together!

And tomorrow will come.
Tomorrow had already started
more than a month’s
worth of tomorrows already.

I… resign.

After tomorrow,
I will live for tomorrow,
I will live quickly
the tomorrow of four months
into spring,
I will tell myself stories
night after night after night
to keep myself,
bring myself closer,
and closer,
to that very day called

Tomorrow.

Memory Creation
The whirring, the click…
no flash.
The rare photos that were retained,
Woman’s vainity and
self-satisfaction
the benchmark of each
and every occasion.
Past photos apart from each
other unknowingly shared
to piece together a collage
of memory.

The flipping, the scribbling…
non-entries.
Blank days never occured,
just empty lines summarizing
in memory
that can be recalled in the
very ways as we wished.
Referring back while
looking forward
the best prospects only lie
ahead in
memory’s wake.

As she sleeps softly
As she sleeps softly
calm breathing rising falling
she lulls me along.

To And From The Promenade
A straightforward route to
the Promenade
from Moorend Street.
Empty roads and walkways
echo the plodding of footsteps
and thoughts of the mind,
amplifying into the cold.
Rolling hills surround all the
town’s pathways that guide,
gentle persuasion of direction,
from Dorchester Court straight up,
a slight kink to the left before
lining up straight again
past Queen’s.
To the Promenade and back,
to the crowds and back
to undecided thoughts forming
themselves into concrete decisions.

All I Need
Reaching out
from myself,

my hand stretches out
to grab hold

of all I need
from myself:

A God and
a belief.

Train Ride
The train left the station
and brought me across
the Channel

back onto the continent
nearer to Paris,
nearer to the end of the year.

I heard rumblings as
the train travelled on
the rails;
I thought the ramblings as
my train of though
rumbled along.

My back faced my destination
as I thought of the past
noted the present
and dreamt of the future
which

eventually

becomes part of the past
behind all of us.

The train still carried me
along its tracks,
gliding swiftly forward

unchangin
unswervng
from the fixity of its rails.

When The Sky Cried
It was all still
at first.
The air not moving,
the wind was not
breathing very heavily.
Then, a quiet sniff or two
of thunder.
I looked, wondering if
everything was alright.
A drop fell.
Followed by another.
And another.
A slight downpour ensued,
muddying the soil
of the rose garden,
and I rushed to prevent
the garden from
turning into a mess.
I looked into my
sky and thought
that nothing should
fall like that,
save the morning
or night,
the times when people
yawn in waking or sleeping.
The rain did cease,
not without leaving its
trace behind,
but the roses benefited,
and blossomed even more.

The Sunday Rain
Spilling over from the night before, it continues, persists in trickling down window panes, vertical or slanted. The tapping of the raindrops a little softer now on my windows as compared to what I heard yesterday night, on the slanted panes, its lullaby lilting along lulling me into a shared sleep. I wait now. The silent drops glide down, blurring the border separating inside and outside.