Solstice

I am salved with the galvanic rhythm
of silent rivers
insubstantial shadow, a night.
The oar is a heart,
untying the mouth of waves
The wind wavers still.

Petaled in a lotus.
I traverse ungrounded
as it fathoms a diffused dusk
a twilight as lucid as oblivion


And somehow if you were not mine,
What I would not have endured?

And some day the wind will carry us

to a certain hollowness, apart.
we will not know to breathe,
we will not fathom words
we will not sail with the leaves
Someday unmindful, sorrow will carry us
meandering through the eternal fog
with empty spaces forming banks
rivering us into shape
before
all goes to ashes
before lines are blurred
and faces forgotten.
into the last uncharted land
where neither of us can sing
into the forlorn residue of our mind.

An ode to my Grandma

I cannot begin to write about life
For it is short.
Summed up neatly in a few memories
Like a bundle of old newspaper
Stored aside for occasional reference.
You lived.
And it ends.
Like that.
Neither can I write about death
Death is too long.
Smoked in hazy absence.
Like the mouth of a river
Seared and forsaken by the desert sand.
You died.
And it begins.
Like that.
I think I shall bury you in my unconsciousness
Or my childhood.
You can bring me to mornings.
Or fan me with a hand made bamboo fan
on humid summer nights.
Like you used to.
And you will remain.
A mist my eyes dread to part with
A quietude
this sable night brings.

A journey through stillness

A thousand marches of umbrella feet
Mark me in
A thousand quaking journeys
And as many halts
amidst waving tides and a divide.
Counting the whims of
fleeting consciousness
collecting like rain
every dark
that petals into the night.
The morning, however,
does not listen..

The heavy mist sets sail and
my closed limbs
bid farewell to the
dusky haze of nameless clouds.
But I do not drizzle.

Sometimes in vibrant
threads of life
and sometimes
In the paraphernalia of dreams
I am closed tight
neither dead nor alive.