
earth’s coating on late autumn (a
yard of naked trees open for the
early frost) not death but a promise
stamped on your irises’ bows.
—
I write because I read. I read because I write.
earth’s coating on late autumn (a
yard of naked trees open for the
early frost) not death but a promise
stamped on your irises’ bows.
—
You are asking why
I haven’t been writing
lately about love,
well, it’s because
you do not utter
a wish every night
once you can already
hold it with your
bare hands. So why
I haven’t been
writing about love
it’s because I
already have
you.
Tonight, I want to stay.
No, I won’t go away.
Your midnight scent I will inhale.
Until the moon breathes another day.
Tonight, I want to stay.
Oh, let not distance take me away.
The sun will smile, either way,
so please, just let me stay.
My left-hand hangs incomplete,
without your right.
The space of seas between our souls
just doesn’t feel right.
So please, don’t be astray.
Tonight, with you, I’ll stay.
I heard the
hushed melting
of the last flake
of winter on the
drying road bathed
with the first infant
rays of spring,
I felt the
spinning earth
waited a bit,
I saw a
second lasted
more than a minute,
when you smiled at me
for the first time.
My clingy heart
has never been fond
of the dawn’s pending fog
everyday sitting
outside our window,
drinking its daily
sunrays-made tea
as it waits
for the official ending
of our last night’s
nectar-sweet tryst.
Another day,
another sun,
I have to wait
for another moon
to inhale your scent
again.
But you arrived
with the blushing
sunset, you clothed
me with shared bravery.
As we heal, hand
in hand with the
balm of every tomorrow’s
morning dew,
let me tell you,
I didn’t know
this heart, this heart
could carry this
much love
before you.
Amazing is the God
who brought you to life,
for He has honed you so perfectly.
With every passing day,
I come to realize, when He was making You,
he was thinking of me.
I remember how your photos would spark the poet in me, how your shots are like muses that breathed life to my poetry. How you sprinkled my poems with your kind words, generously.
How in each exchange of message I’ve got to know the man behind the camera, the man so composed and so inspiring, and the hiding inside a shell, truthfully hungry for love but acting like it is the last thing he needed.
Feet on the edge of a cliff,
hanging, hanging,
just one more push Mr. Wind.
Yet sweaty hands
cling, cling,
to unseen twigs,
not willing,
not willing,
to dive, deep, deep,
into the pit of love.
I have always been
brave, blunt, honest,
but I cannot leap,
else I’ll be a mess.
Yes,
I am scared, afraid
to fall… for I know you will
not catch me.
You are asking why
I haven’t been writing
lately about love,
well, it’s because
you do not utter
a wish every night
once you can already
hold it with your
bare hands. So why
I haven’t been
writing about love
it’s because I
already have
you.