Life Itself

Lately a lot of people have asked me why I only post poetry on my blog. Each time I simply list out the advantages of ambiguity and abstraction. People always buy my argument.  But is that really it? Is abstraction really that important to me? Do I really need to hide behind vagueness? Also, isn't poetry specific enough to make me just as vulnerable? Perhaps it is. Then what is it that keeps me from posting my daily rants on this blog? Honestly, there is no real reason and laziness would qualify just as much as fear.  So today I am going to make an exception. I am going to write freely, without confining my thoughts to the structure of rhythm and meter. Today I am going to write just because writing makes me happy and releases the captive emotions that I so cleverly hide.  ______________________________________________________________ Love Poem As I sat there watching her rummage through her cupboard, find her things, throw them in a bag and walk out with my hand ...

You are a color on the horizon  sharp, diffused. You are a whisper in my silence heard, refused.  You are a shadow on the rearview cherished, used. You are a fraction of my deception mollycoddled, abused.

Wet lips quivered and said, “I’ll forget, you’ll forget.” Words left to resound in their heads. She turns He turns Knowing so well, they may never meet. A last glimpse their love, past tense. _________________________________ That was months ago. Today again, she sits and writes, but instead of words memories creep inside. The smile that was his the magic in the kiss the power of his hold the songs that were told the endless surprise the language in his eyes This time her poem is complete, words unsaid, on a tear-lined sheet. She whispers, hoping for him to hear, “I said I would forget but here I stand, drowned in memory. I said you would forget but here I stand askance, do you remember?”

I tip-toe down the stairs, trying hard to remain silent. Like every Friday, the house is enveloped in a wisp of chocolate air. I slide into the kitchen, she's standing near the sink. Hair smudged in flour, hands covered in sugar, busily mixing ingredients. I kiss her cheek without expectations. I tell her I am leaving, pick up my bag, and hurriedly say goodbye. I sit in my bus and close my eyes. I recollect Fridays gone by and each has only one thing in common, Chocolate. It's been twenty years now since her first chocolate. She was baking for him, with very little time, she cooked in her red chiffon dress. Even today she sits by the window chocolate by her side waiting for a man, long gone. and like her first mourning the chocolate is thrown away, uneaten.