monuments...

I call such experiences monuments;

gentle verses that eyes not yet created shall o’er read.

Tales that I hope will cause revolutions in history from the ripples that persist in the present.

It was just four days after the second moon had set in; on the sixth day of a week.

These are Moments when reason doesn’t count, and faith beats logic.

Memories glide softly yet painfully across my mind, as i implore softly in prayer that I may never forget.

Not the loss of souls but the sweet memories we shared; not the heartache we bore but the courage that made us overcome; not the pain we went through but the healed scars that make us victors.

My thoughts allude to the courageous one who request to stand, with layers of cast wound around each foot, she begged to get up; the fighter I know lived on; Our own courageous herald to stand strong even in the midst of great uncertainty; our harbinger to use our current situation as a platform to rise higher.

I present ellipses as a final statement.

Life Robbed Her...

Winding courses, sinking boulevards, swallowed avenues, unsure trails;

The new moon…

Long hours of darkness;

The haunting silence of the night

Not a ray of light, not a star in the sky.

The full moon…

Scarce traces of life,

Echoes in the night

Fingers of light here and there.

And it strikes me again….

People need people... yet not everybody has a shoulder to lean on,

In happiness or in strain, we need someone to share and abide.

Everybody has a story, yet very few set their ears to listen

And as I paint the backdrop, I begin to understand this state.

Behind the scenes are stories not yet told, words not yet spoken, paths not yet trod, countries not yet lead, files not yet opened, battles not yet fought, the list is endless.

But when I look deeper I see it in a different angle: perhaps this is pride not yet overcome, secrets not yet told, insecurities not yet surmounted, lives not yet lived!

Fear, pain, regret, mistrust, pride, vengeance, jealousy…

Shadows; leaping shadows, crawling shadows… not an ear to listen.

The noise of toils, woes and struggle; survival...

In the dark of the night, sniffs and moist eyes grace the darkness: stress marks on the foreheads of many.

Another day, no ear, no shoulder: a smile deceived by the strain of their curves

But, the silence prevails.

everybody has a story..... how it all began.

She lived to see yet another sunrise. It hailed her and presented her with the new script upon which, she’d etch the tales of her new voyage; its history first, then the tale of the new ground beneath her feet.

 She would inscribe about how she’d walked in circles: the grains of sand endlessly sieving down the hour glass as the chimes of time haunted her stagnation, and the hours, days and moons snared as they fleeted.

Each time belle hid behind outbursts of forced energy and confidence, it seemed effortless to others but deep inside it drained her very existence; deep within, she was as timid as a kitten.

She’d also write about each shut eye, how they stung with stronger uncertainty, about the shrinking heart and an overstretched tempted soul. About the paths she had made simple treads on; walks of poise, short gentle steps upon grounds of great surveillance, she wouldn’t forget how one day it felt like a runway;  the other, like a pirate’s plank.

When she finally began to write she said,

 “Roses are red, some are black; not from a sooty tale but from its mystery, destiny and beauty…”

 That was her tongue, (poetry, I mean) the only language she could speak, her knack and flair, some called it her gift and swag. Many times her muse would wonder, but anyone who knew her personally would tease that it was mostly a self inflicted break… but when it ‘came back’, she spoke on.

Belle still remembers how it all began.

With every struggle, she felt a stronger tangle. Belle found herself trapped in a foreign web; Fear limited but the heart grew anyway. That was the time when all in mind was the star. Across the sky, they were all alike, to the eye, only one appealed. The only star that shone in pride despite the brilliance of the sun.

That’s the first time she questioned the real essence of such complexity. That is when she started on her almanac of voyage….

“Once upon a November... “ Ellipses followed her inscription, alluding to the magical flashbacks that loomed in her mind. That was when she’d go into a trance and her tongue would take over.

She wrote some more, “Now thoughts of you brighten my day, more and more, what more can I say? All priceless in my heart, nothing I can pay”

 Fear crippled her as she wrote, it put a shield around her heart, but they say her star melted it down and left it unguarded. She opted to make a wish upon her star, hoping she’d break from her shell to one who truly deserved.

“Whatever results from us, I will always treasure what us was, is or will be, because enough is already engraved in my heart.”

 How true is her word? That’s a question we leave to fate.

the old man by the shore... (part one)

A tale not yet told; the tale of the old man by the shore…

He knew her from her cradle, a lifelong friend of three generations of her family. Maybe even beyond that, because He seemed to defy age. She was only eight when she’d rush, to sit at his feet; somehow He’d always be there.  

She loved the tales he’d tell her, “friend,” she’d start with a wide smile after a tale, “did grandpa really do that? Papa too?”

He’d smile and nod gently.

 “I want to be just like them!” she’d finally say.

She’d put her tiny hands in His large downy hand and in the splendor of the sunset, they took walks together. Her mother and father used to take the walks with them when she was younger, but now she was all grown up.