open palms, wet with
salt of sweat and tears,
reach out outside as
glass pane’s fog clears,
like a yearning new branch
of a house-caged vine
bending, sneaking,
reaching out for sun,
these palms, brined with
my excreted liquids stretch out
to feel the breath of
the cold December wind,
wishing this same
midnight breeze has
kissed your oh,
so, calm sleeping face.
in one brush of air, floating,
against my skin, waiting,
i can be with you,
at least.
take that cup, the
china one, dusting
inside the unlit
cupboard. pour
some notes of
G and D, let
your whisking
fingers swirl,
and swirl,
in the key of
C. see how
the dancing
strings strum this
stew of melody.
now let’s
sprinkle, sprinkle,
the lettered
honey dripping
from the flower
inside your
chest, rest
not, rest not,
those inked
fingers, let not
this batter
end up a mess.
patience, more
patience, stir,
stir and stir,
until this mixture
of tune and
rune form your
tired soul’s
much needed
soup of song.
cheers for choked up tears,
cries without list’ning ears.
cheers for wistful dreams
caught or lost in raging streams.
cheers for days of cavalier
where lone strength perseveres,
cheers for named fears
fin’lly found courage sears,
cheers for ‘nother year,
lost hope grows, reappears.
Whenever I look back, I see the zigzag road of twists and turns, of ups and downs, my once proud heart has been through. I was a decorated student. My dad won’t walk with me in graduation ceremonies without a medal. His standard has been my fire. To excel. To be the best. To aim higher.
Whenever I look back, I realize those golden necklaces did nothing but bloat my ego and tire my soul. After college, they became more like a baggage than an honour. I was a Cum Laude (with honors) who can’t land a job for almost a year. A bright student who can’t pass her (many) final interviews.
Whenever I look back, I remember how His hands so holy carefully crack my pride and douse my smoke of arrogance. I remember the pain as my narcissistic temple crumble. I remember how with bowed neck, medals removed, feet blistered, heart surrendered, I learned His goodness and grace as I waited for Him to transform me into a humble, pure gem.
Calloused rock battered,
crushed, melted with brutal flame.
Gold birthed in waiting.
Softly part my
curtain thick
with innocence
preserved by
conscious choice.
Brick by brick,
please gently
chip, my wall
of fear—
to be charted
by a pair of
searching hands
detached from
my own
wheat arms,
by loose lips
longingly yearning
to take what
has always
been mine,
by unknown,
foreign organ
aching to reach the
so soft cave, I
have guarded all
this time.
With cheeks red,
chest raised,
breaths too short,
skin so warm,
stripped and bare,
“oh, my love,
you’re welcome.”
Faint, fainter, faintest,
goes the winky cars
passing by.
Dark, darker, darkest,
goes the moonless
November sky.
Soft, softer, softest
goes the notes
of lullaby.
Sleepy, sleepier, sleepiest,
goes the tired city
whisp’ring goodbye.
Soon, sooner, soonest,
I’ll be near,
as another day dies.
Once upon a
blue blood moon
the mighty Kanchenjunga
said hello, too soon.
Over 7,000 feet
above the earth’s
conquering sea,
before the final farewell
of 2018’s only January,
the midnight sky made way
to let the snow-clothed peak
take a silent peek
to two pairs of eyes waiting,
freezing in almost zero air,
yet warm with awe
of God’s hands
oh so holy flair.
One year ago I dived into another job, left the comfort of the four corners of a white room filled with the smell of fresh news and sweet scent of deadline sweats. With closed fists and shut eyes, I took a leap away from comfort to embrace the unknown new.
Now here we go again.
My soul sifts the autumn’s apple fume slowly succumbing to the mint breeze of winter. My bare feet moving inch per inch towards another cliff too stiff for me to see the bottom cloaked in dead black pitch. My ears can hear the soft crackles of January crackers and a faint love song of June’s giggling sea.
Dry calendar leaves
falling with each dusk and dawn.
Brave breaths ebb and flow.
High-pitched
giggles of sparrows
no longer echo
inside the cave
of my ears
before the kraa kraa
of your crows
disrupt your evening’s
fiction dreams.
Yet what a gift
that despite
our clock’s
different schemes
your early
and my early
daily meet
in between.
Unfinished coffee,
void of warmth,
aching for last touch.
Oh, the daddy.
Spilled sauces blots
on canvas, wait,
it’s kitchen table top.
Oh, the mommy.
Crumbs of cookies
paved roads for
the hard working ants.
Oh, the eldest.
Traps made of Lego
too tiny, too tough,
barefoot left scathed.
Oh the youngest.
Bedroom scented
with the musk of
used pair of socks.
Oh, the middle child.
This map of mess
proves a house is still
a living,
breathing
home.
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imagination knows no limit
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