sunflowers bloom, sun shines
holding hands together, her head on my lap
as these moments pause, ignoring all her flaws
as she smiles with her eyes filled with 1000 daises
as her cheeks become red, she shines brighter than stars
nightingales jealous of her voice
vision blinded by love, memories filled with her
in this world filled with darkness she’s my only light

I see her in school some times
no lipstick, no fancy clothes
even in these boring uniforms
dim lit lights and stressed minds

her face shines
like the necklace she always wears
her presence
brings warmth like class’s fav teacher

when I hear her laughs
the school turns into an orchestra
I go to school everyday
not because I study well
just to see her
to get lost in her eyes one last time

outside the chauffeur waits for her
while I run behind the bus
heard that she has traveled the world
while I struggle to visit a nearby hill

she’ll never love me
I won’t stop loving her till I die

when I’ll have enough money
I’ll buy not some luxury gifts
but a bouquet of flowers and a book

As it’s because of her
I write
I feel love
I want to live

i don't agree all at once,
having to visit the spiritual corners of this earth,
for they make me see a hope—
one that's been long since buried,
one that i dropped like a crushed piece of paper
aside, a random evening.

and yet, every time i find myself surrounded by the presence of his,
the almighty, the gods that these people cherish,
i look at them, feeling withdrawn—
yet somehow, they call me back in.
(almost like a pied-piper, am i being hypnotised or beckoned forthwith?)

every time i wander,
find myself surrounded by his devotees—
multiple gods, yet just one single feeling:
devotion.
i'd add the adjective 'blind' before it,
but i wouldn't want to disrespect—despite all that i carry.

they cherish him,
surrender at his feet,
beg him for forgiveness,
plead to him for their wishes,

almost like carrying hopes resembling bells ridden with stars,
twinkling, resounding the beats of their (often rotten, mostly pained) hearts.
there's a mix, i know, in their crowd—it's a mix of all those who walk the ground,
except they're equal in here.
perhaps that's one of the powers he carries,
visibly hidden in the plain old sight.
i'm sure he'd be a lot too merry,
seeing them murmur the same chantings,
despite all the differences, they still harry.

my mundane self, surrounded by the divine—
here's what i saw with the same eyes that once shined:
i wonder if the steps of the temple know
who walks upon,
who waits for his own.

i could capture it through the camera,
but to write it down would make me feel seen.
so here it is, kind of like a monologue—
i'll pray upon him, so you won't hate me.

alive with color, motion, scent, and sound—
isn't that the four senses working around?

the man behind the sweets,
who knows which ones vanish first,
which are opted the most—
and the ones people go for.

those who buy—
i, wondering, watching my own family enter,
are they getting the sweets to offer to their gods?
should i too try to please him, to make him listen to me?
is it bargaining—being too cheap,
or is it silently offering him a price to make him believe in my honesty?

there's a child—i'm sure he doesn't even understand.
he spins, in circles,
creating illusions of dreams and stars in bundles,
not knowing why he's happy,
only that he is.
i miss when my innocence had me still.

a father—hair tugged gently by tiny fingers,
trying to steer him through the crowd.
of course, he knows better,
but he'll listen to his son
and his own memories of being carried around.

the same way—
a mother who lifts her child,
the one who carries the world within himself.
he's her world, yet to know his own disguise.

a priest, giving into the glowing screen
while sitting in front of the one he preaches day and night.
i'm sure that's considered minimal,
considering the world out there is built up
of more such people, giving into the illusions
of what the ones around are to offer.
i wonder if they realize the grave truth in its simplicity:
their bodies, which their souls inherit,
are also rented as temporary.

there's many more
that surround—children, aged, middle ones—all of them around.
to zoom out and narrate from their perspective—
i wonder if i seem to be fake?

i look at the feet of people,
showing ways they've walked,
ways they've lived,
and ways they've continued to trot
to find their peace in this world.

as they climb up the steps, in crowds,
holding hands and not missing anything out,
i see it in their eyes.
as they dream, almost child-like,
their hope symbolizes their life.

and to put it in the entirety towards one single entity—
the one who sits at the top,
is flowered, crowned, gifted upon.
i look at him in the eye,
and something about the moment makes me smile.

"alright," i whisper, as if i'm talking to a friend.
"i'll wish this once, once again."

and i ask for something simple, something that i've needed,
something i'm sure he'd understand and agree
and listen to with an intent:

"keep my hope alive,
to you, and to the life alongside.
and i'll return again and again,
be one of the ones surrounding.
i'll pray and hope to you again."

and that's how i leave—
calmer self, lighter chest,
a bit better than before,
maybe with a newly found hope.

i turn around one last time,
knowing i'll be back before long,
and i smile.

instead of waving, i touch the steps
that have carried thousands, including my own.
"i'm leaving for now, but i'll return—
right when i need to be with you, not just by myself."

this was all from the eyes of a hopeful ordinary.
i walk among you. i am one of you.
the lord does reside within me.

A leaf finally falls, with path is guided by the wind.
Neither can it go far away, nor near the tree.

An apple doesn't fall far from a tree.
And I assume the leaf is jealous for it only goes where the gale lets it be.

i ask him
what’s wrong

i tell him i’m here
that i will always support him
and the silence stretches
like fabric
thinned by too many washes,
too many wears

i say
i want to be there
but maybe the door is locked
or maybe it’s not a door at all
just a wall
painted to look like one

sometimes
i feel like a ghost in his world
hovering,
wishing he’d see me
noticing how often i check
if he saw
if he’s there
if i still matter

funny
how love turns your ribs into cages
and makes you ask questions
you hate yourself for asking

like
does he think of someone else
does he laugh harder
with someone else
does he hold
someone else closer
even when no one is touching him
does someone else make him
the happiest boy

he once said
i was too much
too close
too everything

and i try to be less
to shrink,
to vanish at the right times
but it still hurts
when he disappears before i do

there are gaps in our messages
and i read them
like tea leaves,
like grief,
like maybe he’s just tired
or maybe he’s tired of me

but still
i would sit in silence forever
if it meant he didn’t have to hurt alone
if it made him
the happiest boy

and i would leave his life
you know,
i would go in a breath
if it made him
the happiest boy

if it meant
he wouldn’t feel the way he does now
whatever way that is
whatever ache he won’t name

but i wish he’d let me stay
and i wish he’d tell me
and i wish i knew
whether i’m still
someone he’d wish to stay too

because even through all this
he is still the one
i would choose to care for
over and over again
even if it leaves me
nowhere at all

I spoke with two people at the party Saturday.
A young police officer, short-haired, fit,
chiseled face who had two young children.
He felt constrained by the law, without discretion
to question mopes (perps) aggressively
or to let go those who were obviously no threat.
Even at a family function he seemed straight-backed, correct,
devoted to his role as our protector (and his children’s)
yet I thought perhaps too deeply in debt, indentured
to the rules and laws of legislators and destined
to be disappointed (or worse). I thought his courage
and devotion (to whom or what?) would surely
be poorly repaid and that this lesson
was necessary to ready him with wisdom
for death or further living. I worried like a brother
about the unpredictable dangers, even terrors,
he must daily face, and the pleasure he takes in facing them.
How will he return to the fragility of family,
of the soul alone, after wielding the force
of the state, the blind, combined will of us all?

Next a business exec, retired from a well known
global investment firm. At first we talked about
the lush beauty of the northeast compared to the arid west
(although he loves every inch of the west, too).
Then somehow we got beyond light conversation
when he complained about the perceived decline in values
for instance how the Ten Commandments can’t be publicly
displayed. He said we can all agree on God
but I said I have a mechanistic view of the universe
(although the unknowable always sits just out of reach
of the known). I told him my dad’s theory of reincarnation,
a good man and a corporate seeker of God also, whose shoes
I could never fill unless I swore belief in a supreme being.
No hard feelings. Then he told me the story
of his dying friend, an atheist, not even a deist
like the founding fathers, who opened his eyes for the last time
to correct the exec’s misperception that now he’d meet his maker.
Having exceeded the bounds of acceptable conversation
I went looking for my children. Nothing more to question.

I Should Have Followed You  

"Can I still call you Dorothea?"—even though the black and white lines in the paper reduce you to the habit you wore, arrange you into silence, a name and surname surrendered to the cloistering of lilies. Somewhere beyond this obituary, the grown children you once taught trace grief into their office desks, their minds recalling your half-remembered lessons. The others—those who once marched beside you—remember the compadre who chose devotion over struggle, who vanished into the ghost dust of old revolutionary dreams.  

Once, you were a believer who marched along Che and Fidel, a woman with a true north compass. You were never reckless, never a ghost in Havana’s dusk. You spent your nights writing, sealing letters to revolutionaries. You drank in hope like sugarcane.  

Then, the cause hardened. The slogans lost their breath. When Fidel called the people gusanos (worms) in a moment of drunkenness, you knew you must leave the revolution and Cuba behind. It was a certainty.  

You rooted yourself among the Miami exiles. We met on campus, arguing over a political opinion piece you wrote for the college newspaper. I argued that the Bay of Pigs operation was necessary. You wrote that it was a stupid exercise in democratic colonialism and was doomed to failure. And it was.  

Our love was a bickering affair. My adolescent jokes, mocking what I thought were your misplaced beliefs, chipped our foundation. I believed I was never lost. But I was orbiting a center I refused to name. After the revolution betrayed your faith, you retreated into a steady, quieter certainty—Jesus. He told you to press your palms into the smallest child’s hands. "Teach them lessons in your authentic voice," the command.  

I should have followed you. I could have stepped over the doubt that swelled between us, made a church of our mornings, sheltered in your certainty—if only you laughed more. If only I’d prayed less in jest.  

Now, my fig grows stubborn at my window, its roots strong, its love silent, and I, too, am nearing the end. I would light a candle, Dorothea—but what god still takes offerings from men like me? I will leave a hundred dollars in the box instead, fold your name into my palm, and call this devotion.