Poetry

The Pilgrimage

I gave you my best
You saw my worst
I was crazy, you said
But all I ever did was
lose my mind over
your drunken promises.

We stood there
Crying at the dead
Pledging to carry on
Oblivious to the cracks
in our foundation and
our inability to love.

I’m gonna walk out
of your halfway house
abandon your divided care
secondhand emotions
Hop on the next bus
back to myself.

I don’t want you
Not anymore
Gonna pack my wounds
in a prayer boat
Let the wind bless it
to the end of the world.

I wish you well
and send you off
on your pilgrimage
Forever searching
With a foot in the now
and an eye in the past.

I don’t want you
Not anymore
Gonna pack my wounds
in a prayer boat
Let the wind bless it
to the end of the world.

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Poetry

Back to Dreaming

Before I met you
I harbored dreams of love.
Now I’m back to dreaming
Of a faraway promise
Which I can’t unlearn.

Shackled by rose-colored glasses
I evanesce as I falter
Through the adult world.
My child-like heart just won’t quit
A skip, and a hop at musings past.

How do I break my religion
Soothe the naked gash
When I still believe
That in some future
We would be One.

Days when my faith is limp
I chance you in my mirage
The little fire reignites
The prophecy, and hurls me
deep into the Never-intended.

Buy me a map out of the maze
Back to Feeling, Living, Smiling,
Walking, Running, Twinkling,
Resurrected by myriad wonders
Of the Sun in my dogged path.

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Poetry

Unchain Your Love

I could learn to live alone
if only you could unchain my heart
from memories of your love
flashes of your smile,
vignettes of your guitar.
I’m locked in our glory days.

My heart wants to be set free
from your indecision,
your doubts of us.
Unchain your love
Set me free.
Without me, you’ll be ok.

I could run to the end of the world
and you’ll still be there
‘Cuz we’re chained together
for better and for worse
Just give me the key,
and set yourself free.

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Musings, Short stories

Night and Day

A Short Story Written A Life Ago.

I loved it when Billie Holliday sang it. I loved it when Ella Fitzgerald sang it. But it was Sinatra’s rendition that made my heart swell, with an ache that beckoned a deep nostalgia, trailed almost immediately by a flustered panic.

What was her name again?

I could never pronounce those French words and suspect I would never come close to understanding what it means to be French. He always poked fun at his own people — one of his kneejerk phrases was Sacré Francaise!, which I would later recall frequently when I think of our time together.

Yes, Marci Deschamps – a jazz chanteuse from Dijon, the city in eastern France famous for its sharp mustard. She carried herself expectedly, with the grace of what you would expect from a jazz singer. Often in a slinky, sequined black dress – classy yet sensual – carrying an understated elegance in the mist of the night. Her voice – husky – added a tinge of sadness to the otherwise spirited classic.

“When the jungle shadows fall…
So a voice within me keeps repeating you, you, you…”

“Hmm. Keeps repeating you. You. You. Night and day, you are the… Oh, hi.”

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Poetry

Peas, and Things

She lays herself on a bed of eggshells,
As sleep tiptoes away from her,
Her head weary with feathery realities,
Faces off with unwise dreams.

Love who once nourished her inner piths,
now sends a chill down a sloped spine.
Pretend she will, smile she will,
To a life of immeasurable roofs.

Day and night, day and night,
A punctured soul leaks peas, and things,
into a closet lavish with mold,
through, through, with foggy truths,
As day engulfs the exuberant night.

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Short stories

A Season to Die

I could not bear the agony of knowing I was still alive. Why? It was a pain greater than any I had ever known. To live without Love, to know that everything I have learned and worked for become invalid, to see through the centre of the earth and discover the many layers that weighed down on top of one another slowly corroding the surface – what then was I left with? Something within me shrieked so loud that it was almost deafening. Yet the greatest mystery was no one could hear it. Was it my soul? Was it my conscience? Whatever it was, it screamed for me; perhaps even a little for humanity. A casual observer once said to me, “Que sera sera.” Is that really possible? Que sera sera? One part of me broke into fits of laughter, almost in hysterics. I broke into tears, almost in hysterics. The wind whispered in my ear “Que sera sera.” My soul bawled in exasperation. She did not agree; neither could she understand the inertia to her misery. She became brusquely out of touch. I could not see her anymore. All I was left with was the immeasurable darkness.

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Musings

You Can Handle the Truth

It may be that queasy feeling in your mouth, or that heavy, bruised sensation around your chest. We all instinctively know when something makes us uncomfortable — when something makes us stop for a second to think about the situation we are in.

When you have the flu, you stay in bed, you get a flu shot, you take flu meds. You try to solve the problem. However, when it comes to something more abstract, like our feelings, needs or desires, we often take a backseat, stick with unscientific diagnoses and seek solace in self-fulfilling prophecies that reinforce “comfortably uncomfortable” familiar routines.

Routines and habits that, if broken, mean the world as we know it will change, and for some people, it’s easier to walk into a war zone littered with blown up babies and ghastly body parts, than to sit down and have an honest conversation with their estranged family members.

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