Do you remember
The water lilies
On Henderson's pond?

Were there lilies there,
I cannot recall?
Sure, you remember,

We came with the boys
To fish and gaze. Boys?
What boys were they?

My mind's just a haze.
Our boys, young Jacob
And John, remember

Them? John and Jacob?
We had two sons? Sure,
We did, way back then,

Years before. Where are
They now? Are they here
About? No, don't you

Remember? They died
In the War. You cried
For days and for years.

Poor dears; don't recall
Them, my mind's a haze.
You must remember,

How can you forget?
Who are you, then, dear?
Have we ever met?

Snow covered rooftops
rise to meet the sky this morning-
with the same grace that they always do,
But this morning,
There is no difference-
No difference of where the rooftop ends
and the sky begins,
This morning,
they are same muted shade of white...
This morning,
Those rooftops are washing out my dreams
sending them into the night.

Peter built a paper boat
Which he could float about the sea
To hidden spots of lonely coast
Where not a ghost or man would be
He painted words along her bough
That soon would plough and skip and trot
Between the waves that rose and falled
The boat was called 'Forget Me Not'

He bid his wife a fond goodbye
The tide was high when he embarked
He drifted from his tiny cove
While weather drove and seagulls larked
He set his course horizon bound
For solid ground of ****** shore
As darkness came he made a bed
To keep his head above the floor

The voyage took him straight and true
Across the blue, toward the sun
But soon a tongue of lightening spat
And thunder rattled like a gun
The waves encircled hungrily
And angrily about their prey
The tempest heaved with no regret
It blew Forget Me Not away

He found himself all caked in sand
And on a strand of desert beach
Forget Me Not had run aground
But safe and sound from tidal reach
He folded down his paper yacht
And found a spot to build a home
But saved the sail and rudder strings
To forge some wings and daily roam

He glided high and long and wide
Past mountainside and shore to shore
And through the night he forged a blade
And with it made a lumber saw
He felled the trunk and snared the beast
And cooked a feast to celebrate
The rain it sought to disagree
But quick was he to remonstrate

The moonlight waxed and waned apart
And on his heart a longing formed
For home and his beloved bride
For fireside and there be warmed
And so he took the house he'd made
From humid shade of seldom oak
He set the island to his aft
And cried and laughed the words he spoke

They matched the words he'd lately hewn
Beneath the moon in shady spot
He carved into that seldom tree
'Remember me, forget me not'

Beyond the oak and silver hills the day nestled in
soft breeze about the land, lily white moon
to light a sky of sparkling starry flowers
Whispers woke the sleeping one
and spoke the night to follow
Owl flew ever high  
beneath a Perseid's shower
A dream - you awoke
to watch shooting stars fall quiet
passed your window
til morning came with birds and stars
peace upon your pillow

I remember the last time I went surfing.
I loved every second of it. I loved running out into the icy water, the chill taking a second to hit the vulnerable skin under my wetsuit. Those fleeting seconds of running ankle deep in the water before realizing how cold it is, and the moments following where I just kept running anyway, my body and board becoming dispersed in sea froth. I loved feeling my feet sink into the grainy sand as I gradually reach a depth that touches above my waist, then, bracing myself for the numbing cold, diving onto my board, immersing my top half in the crisp temperature the water holds. After the piercing cold is absorbed by my skin, and I am lying flat on smooth fiberglass, I see a wave forming in the distance. In a hurry, paddling madly, grazing my hands on the fiberglass sides of the board, desperate to get deep enough to catch the wave. I turn the board around and feel the wave coming behind me. This is the moment. The moment that feels like waiting for your plane to take off, or waiting for a raffle to be drawn, hoping desperately to hear your name called out. I feel the swell behind me, and continue paddling, facing the shore this time. I can feel it as a powerful but consistent surge brings the nose of my board up, and I hurry to lift myself up. I am crouching. My hands nervously let go of the sides. I am bent over. I am straightening. I am standing. My palms are flailing madly, but feel free in the warmer air. Within seconds, I lose my balance and the rush pulls me under. I fall off the board and take a mouthful of seawater. I emerge, laughing, trying to stabilize my focus and figure out whereabouts on the beach I am. As I drag the board back to shore, the salty sea water is already drying in my hair, fingernails and skin. I feel the familiar crunch of dry sand, and collapse, laughing, into the soft grains. I could do this again.

I was so excited to finally have my own surfboard. Brand new, I just hadn't had the chance to take it out yet. My brother asked to borrow it one day, and I couldn't see why not. He helped me attach the fins and leg rope, and I watched him walk away with my latest investment.

I was going into the garage to find something when I saw it there, in half, the fiberglass peeled towards the nose, the insides stuffed with sand, lying in a pile. The next day, my brother came home to find me waiting for him outside his room. "I have good and bad news! The bad news is, I broke your surfboard, the good news is, you now have two boogie boards!". I am sitting.

I've watched as my leaves changed
from emeraldgreen
to jaundiceyellow
and tumbled from their blood vessels,
for my body could no longer support them.

I've witnessed petals descend from blossoms:
a flowergirl tossing the colors into the air
to pave the way for a father to let go of a daughter.

I gazed at buildings and bridges
buckle at their knees
as cornerstones and foundations fail-
Atlas crumbling under the Celestial Sphere.

I've seen many things fall.

But I've never gazed upon a girl,
fear as heavy as millstones
eclipsing her overcastgrey eyes,
ghostwalk off a ledge,
waving a whiteflag
as she plummeted to the ground like a bomb.

A Poet’s pen speaks of poetry
Spoken under the moonlight of scattered nights
Writing cascading emotions of depths and reverie
Felt by countless stars and the endless sands of time

They are of words of absolute truth
An enigma of echoing thoughts
with the passion of smiles and tears
A puzzle in pieces of life
yet to be unraveled by untainted eyes
and souls beating of true heart

They are of verses of dramas
A hanging Light within the bounds
of magic and reality, of dragons and fires
Forever floating like drifting mist
carried by the everyday wind
never touching the mind of the stagnant stream

They are of tides of the setting sun
Rising and falling with man and the Moon
They speak of sunriseof a new dawn
aging like the Sage, with the wisdom of the Crone

And tonight…
A Poetry speaks when a Poet pens
Beyond the night of scattered lights
In the time of a burning candle
…the setting of the dusk of the sun
will cast light upon the shadows of truth and dramas


Mek
Oct07