Sunday, 24 June 2012

Volume 17: The Cityscape Horizon

The silver moon breaks
The cityscape horizon and
Illuminates my dreams

Waves crash on a shore
The moon is my only friend
Conversations fade

I rest my fingers
On the familiar keys
Of a midnight moonbeam

The city's night sounds
Fade from beneath my wings
A heartbeat in the night

Eyelids fluttering
Like my silk bedroom curtains
I let my dreams in

I reach for the stars
Like skyscrapers around me
And almost succeed

My four-poster bed
Is a smorgasbord of dreams
Called New York City

Train leaves the platform
At  reality station
For a world of dreams


Volume 8: The Silence That Follows

Waves crash on a shore
The moon is my only friend
Conversations fade

It's a silent scream
Of frustration and of hurt
The tear hits the ground

A single tear falls
Silently mixing into
The pool of fresh blood
Shadows on the wall
Remind my restless dreams
That they are not alone

Volume 39: Grace

Repeat after me:
"I will not cheat on Larry"
Ice cream is so good

Volume 88: Melodies

My open window
Lets in a breeze that plays
On my piano

I rest my fingers
On the familiar keys of
A midnight moonbeam

The harp string's last chord
Resonates into the clouds
Welcome, new angel


Volume 10: I Punch In The All-Too-Familliar Numbers

Eagerly waiting
Dial tone breaks the silence
Answering machine

Volume 9: First Day Back

The old chalkboard groans
Tortured by merciless nails
I hate my classmates

Thursday, 14 June 2012

Volume 1: Frosted Glass


A floating figure cloaked in translucent brilliance
Glides over the land, crowned in glimmering silver.
She dances a graceful duet with her own shadow,
Then descends over the land in practiced silence,
Her every step quieter than the whisper
Of a pin as it hits a floor made of glass.

She reaches out her fingers to a stained glass
Window, admiring its polished brilliance.
To the glass she offers the slightest whisper,
Which clouds it, transforming it to icy silver.
She stares at the mirror in awe, barely noticing that silence
Had fallen with the night, leaving her in cold shadows.

Realizing the truth, she touches her crown, then turns to the shadows.
“Is this what I am crowned for?” She asks the looking glass.
But only her reflection in the ice stares back, silently.
Suddenly, her mind, once free and filled with brilliant
Thoughts, feels trapped underneath her wreath of silver,
And she is overcome by the sudden urge to chase the wind’s whisper.

She flees her thoughts, flying past branches whispering
Desperate warnings as she plunges into the shadowy
Night. She doesn’t know she leaves behind a silver
Streak of frost and coats bare branches with glass.
She doesn’t know, until she turns around to a brilliant
Snow globe scene, her doing, standing in frozen silence.

It dawns on her that her coronation is not a gift, but a silent
Curse, to steal the breath of even the most cautious whisperer
And from everything else around her, to turn nature into a brilliant
Picture, but only coloured in with white and shadows.
Beautiful as it is, it may as well be carved of glass,
Captured and drained of life, with only a dusting of silver.

As her cursed fingertips turn the entire world silver,
She can find no words to fill the silence
Left by everything around her. The rose-coloured glasses
She once wore have disappeared without a whisper,
Leaving her alone in a land darkened by her own shadows.
To think she could have been something brilliant.

With a sigh, her glassy eyes turn towards the land of silver;
Sparkling, brilliant, crystalline, icy, cold, motionless, silent.
“Winter has come”, she whispers, then vanishes into the shadows.

Volume 4: Chinese October


The veil hid her face
But the flash in her eyes was
Unmistakeable

Volume 11: The Photograph




That photograph looks better

Lying on the floor,

Dangerously close to the fireplace,

Trapped inside its chipped wooden frame,

Topped with a sprinkling of glass.

There, it is a better representation of

Who we are.

Everything about that photograph is wrong.

Who are those smiling people?

They are certainly not like that now.

They are strangers to me,

And strangers to each other.

And that unblemished white background?

It shouldn't be white at all.

It should be stained with midnight tears,

Cut up with sharp words,

And clouded by the silence that hangs in the air,

The aftermath of a huge mistake.

I would much rather have taken a pair of scissors,

And cut those people apart from each other,

And scattered them in the blizzard

That whips hungrily outside my window as I speak.

I would rather sacrifice the photographic shreds

To the claws of that ravenous beast

So that it may snatch them up

And take them far away from this place.

But I can't.

So I just let the frame fall from my hands

Onto the fake laminate

And hope that, by shattering the glass,

I can give those people a chance

To breathe

Instead of suffocating beneath

Their smiling masks.


Volume 18: Are We Memories Yet?


On the far side of camera lenses, a furl of leaves
Catch the wind and tumble to the ground like coins of gold
Catching their last glimpses of light as they are tossed into a treasure
Chest and sealed away to dusty attics filled with memories
And the fading whispers of gossip and sworn-by secrets
Locked away in diaries, guarded by old wooden window frames.

Under the cracked glass of delicate picture frames
Lies a collage of smiling faces still living beautiful memories
Of years past. If they were scattered outside into the golden
Sunlight, they would happily dance with the ensemble of leaves;
They would give every single one of their secrets
Away to the wind, and share the joy that is their only treasure.

But they are immobile, sitting patiently on top of the old treasure
Chest. The last streaks of sunset glow through the withering window frames
Falling on a ring of intricately designed keys, their majestic silver and gold
Bodies no longer sparkling; dulled by a sprinkling of dust left
Behind by years upon years of chaperoning secrets
Carefully bound with locks whose locations are now faint memories.

A small ballerina in a corner of the room, as if remembering
The season, pushes away the antique hand-painted framework
Of her chamber and begins to spin. She was once a treasured
Heirloom, but that was long ago, and the only audience she has left
Now is a room full of objects of the past, nothing but lonely secrets.
Nonetheless, she dances, sighing deeply in her heart of gold.

The sun’s rays flicker outside, and for a single golden
Moment, like the feeling of anticipation before hearing a secret,
The room lights up, glowing like a coin in a treasure
Chest. But then it fades, the glimpse of hope so quickly turns to a memory,
Tucked away in the depths of the attic. And the cracked picture frame
Meets the settling dust the way the ground meets falling leaves.

Once secrets have been whispered, their precious golden
Contents no longer contained, they become memories that are left
Behind to be treasured; seen only through lenses and frames.

Volume 147: The Rage of June


There’s a maiden nigh who lives in the sky
Named for the month of June
The goddess fair loved playing there,
Above the cold lagoon

Her hair of gold down her shoulders rolled
Reflected by the moon
As smooth as brass was her looking glass
Her lovely silver moon

One night, she remarked, was especially dark
Over the cold lagoon
For not in the sky, she soon realized,
Was her shining silver moon

In wild dismay she searched the bay
For a trace of her beloved moon
She froze in shock, for the moon she sought
Had fallen into the cold lagoon

Like a deck of cards, tossed were the shards
Of her beautiful silver moon
Too far to save from the cruel waves
Of the hateful cold lagoon

From its place in the sky, it was stolen by
Water nymphs from the cold lagoon
Their laughter filled the air, for they did not care
As they played with her precious moon

As she glared down with a scornful frown
Into the cold lagoon
The nymphs still played on the swirling waves
With the ever sparkling moon

Her eyes glittered with spite, much to the fright
Of those near the cold lagoon
The sky turned grey along the bay
Everywhere dark clouds were strewn

They began to fall, and the high winds called
Down to the cold lagoon
“A storm is due!” A sickly hue
Stretched o’er the cold lagoon

At the screaming gale, the nymphs’ faces paled
Inside the cold lagoon
Gloom filled the sky and down they dived
Taking with them the silver moon

“Come back here fools, you curs├Ęd ghouls!
And give me back my moon!”
She shrieked in vain, “I’ll have thee slain
For stealing my silver moon!”

None could revolt, she drew a bolt
To launch at the cold lagoon
But then she stopped, for she saw a dot
At the edge of the cold lagoon

“My lady, please, listen to me!”
Called the dot from the cold lagoon
For in the sand there stood a man
On the shore of the cold lagoon

The knight with a net said “Please don’t fret
My dearest goddess June
With a fisher’s skill I promise I will
Retrieve your precious moon

I’ll have nothing above your undying love
In exchange for the fallen moon
So promise me this, seal it with a kiss
And you shall have your moon”

 “Alright” said she, “but pray, hurry,
Bring back my silver moon!”
And she blew a kiss to the abyss
That was the cold lagoon

So the knight agreed and vowed to succeed
In his quest to retrieve the moon
He gathered up all his might, and in the cold night
Dove into the cold lagoon

He was brave and tough, but not enough
For the waves of the cold lagoon
He looked about, and then reached out
But found but a wat’ry tomb

She watched in shock ‘til he appeared on the rocks
On the shore of the cold lagoon
His face looked ill, and his heart went still...
And he did not have the moon

From her place in the sky, with a hopeless cry
She cursed the cold lagoon
“Vile waters blue, oh why did you
Take away my love so soon?”

And so she grieved that summer eve
In the fateful month of June
When her love disappeared, just as she feared
Into the cold lagoon

She cried each year and thus her tears
Filled up the cold lagoon
On summer nights under dim starlight
She wept... for her silver moon

Volume 26: The Robin


I open my eyes to the sounds of the city.
Yawning, I unfurl my stiff fingers.
They are a little blue at the tips, but I am used to it by now.
We both are.
A breeze brushes swiftly past us,
Probably hurrying off to work, Starbucks in hand.
There is something different about the air this morning.
A small bird hops across the sidewalk;
It has ordinary grey-brown feathers but its chest in a bold shade of vermillion – a robin.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, the gentle voice of a kindergarten teacher tells me that a robin is the first sign of spring.
Just the sight of it chases away the bleak memories of winter.
I watch as the bird opens its wings and takes flight, carrying the heaviness of my heart away into the sky.
My smile fades when I notice that the small figure huddled beside me has, after a long, harsh winter, stopped shivering.