Tell the stars of his name

above the india-inked sky
pinpricks of light tremble
as he takes his wordless fall
while the gods play on filthy floors
one last call…
one last plead…
for any kind of recognition
hear his sorrow, feel his pain
tell the stars of his name

Image from Unsplash

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In response to dVerse’s Quadrille: A Star (Poem) is Born hosted by De Jackson, aka WhimsyGizmo, who asks us to use some form of the word STAR and incorporate it in a 44-word poem.

Today, I’ve decided to honor Charles Dickens, one of the greatest novelist of the Victorian era, who was born on this day in 1812. This piece was inspired by a quote from his book, Great Expectations.

“I looked at the stars, and considered how awful it would be for a man to turn his face up to them as he froze to death, and see no help or pity in all the glittering multitude.”

Click here to join the prompt!

Writer’s Quote Wednesday – What is the meaning of life?

“What is the meaning of life? That was all- a simple question; one that tended to close in on one with years, the great revelation had never come. The great revelation perhaps never did come. Instead, there were little daily miracles, illuminations, matches struck unexpectedly in the dark; here was one.”

― Virginia Woolf, To the Lighthouse

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Sharing this quote from Virginia Woolf, who was born on this day in 1882. This 20th century literary giant left us these words reminding us once again that “the whole world is a work of art” and all these little things, moments in time—even the most unbearable ones—form the tapestry of life.

One again with the gods

It’s 5 A.M. when streaks of light start painting the sky with shades of pinks and purples. As we hike further, the sky turns from hazy burgundy to rose, then to rich yellow. Some of us pause to take that treasured snap; some just lovingly stare at the riot of colors. By the time we reach the peak, we are face to face with the sun. Everything the light touches turns golden — the grass, our skins, our hairs. And everything I do is stitched with its color.

Finally, I let go of my backpack and the worldly worries I have been carrying are no more. Money? Politics? Climate change? War? All gone. This is what I live for. To experience the feeling of returning home. Neither my labored breaths nor my shaky steps will hinder this renewal. I am one again with the gods.

Word count: 144

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In response to dVerse’s Prosery hosted by Lisa, who asks us to write a prose of 144 words using a given line from a poem. Today’s line is Everything I do is stitched with its color taken from W.S. Merwin’s “Separation”.

This challenge immediately took me back to my 2019 climb at Mt. Wiji. Sunrise in this mountain is still — by far — the best one I have witnessed. The low quality photo above which I took from my old phone may not give it justice, but hopefully these words will do.

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A wager with fate

one day she will get through these dystopian days
look at the mirror and see blue irises growing
from her painted bruise
she will take fortune out of misery—
make a wager with fate;
there’ll be no more sad mornings
or skeptical days

peace will propel this crepuscular creature
who no longer breathes
between alternate universes
and thousand ironies
this will be her renovation—
rebirth to the nth degree.

Image from Unsplash

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Written for MLMM’s Wordle #304. Picked 10 out of 12 words and came up with this little Monday motivation.

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Driftwood wishes and indigo dreams

Someplace else, I find myself mid-air. Suspended like a bewildered ghost; a half-read poem filled with hope. Here, there is no time or space. There are no relics of your presence leaving me disconcerted – breathless.

I am a a riot of color; a burst of light. I stomp my feet on pretentious laurels. I cut ties with sharpened tongue. Here, in the midst of the night, I am not a misplaced fragment. I am sought, not seeking.

But daybreak is such a jealous lover. It comes with ticking knives – stripping each layer of my disillusionment. I am back to my boring flaws. I plead for another second of peace; press my cheeks on the pillow. By no means. Reality struck me with all its hate.

And the stars weep.

I find myself on tiptoes. A danseuse on high relevé; the second half of a poem filled with woes. Here, there are no more tulips beneath my feet, and feelings don’t wilt as quickly as flowers do.

How do I marry dreams and reality? Can the laws of nature bend for a sappy miss who got courage as her only feat?

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Today, I found myself scrolling through someone’s IG account. She’s been one of my closest girlfriends and it’s a wonder how our different personalities kept us binded for many years. As I look at her pictures and read its captions, I am reminded of how bad of a friend I have become. I hid behind lame excuses (time zones and distance) but truth is I got too caught up in the troubles of the world that I fail to see the troubles of those most important to me. I feel sad that the strong person that I know she is, is fighting the emotional and mental battle on her own. And I feel worse that I don’t have the best words to make things better. This one is inspired my some of her captions.

A reminder after each fall

time may be a heinous thief
this blood-washed land is filled with greed
if mornings are without the song of birds
and men and pigs march in herd

begin again—

like the sun behind a thin cloud
reappearing, warming them
or the blue sea breathing in and out
along the pebbled verge

begin again—

like the green-cloaked trees after Odette
drenched in fresh, comforting warmth
or the butterflies and their dusted wings
dancing to the yellow sun

so long as there are seven of the same moon
and love roars and purrs with the same passion
until happiness leaks out of your very soul
begin again after each fall

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Today, I woke up to a notification from WordPress celebrating my seventh anniversary of blogging. I would not call the last three years “good blogging” as I have been in and out of WP most of the time. But I will forever be grateful for this very day when a naïve girl decided to pour her heart out through words for the first time.

May she find her way back to poetry one day…

slowly yet surely.

Vignette: Make-believes

I want to ask you to leave. To desert this open field that I am in before the flowers grow and wilt. But I can’t. I choose not to. Because deep within the chambers of this heart, a part of me begs for you to stay.
I want to believe that ours is like the coffee – bittersweet. That we can laugh and scream at each other but we will always end up cuddling under the night sky. You, tracing the stars. I, smiling at the moon.
I want to believe that we can sing our differences away and find common ground in love. That we can dance, barefoot, amid the prickly grass. My head on your shoulder, your arms round my waist.

I want to believe. I want to. I want.

There is no easy way to get to you, is it?

And yet again I let you slip between the gaps of my fingers. I always pride myself for having words as my sword and my shield but you — you always manage to disarm me. My lips are forged into a pair of frustration and denial; my tongue tied like a knot.

“I’m okay, I don’t care”, chants the unsung hero in my sleep. Another night of deep sighs. Another night of uttering the words I will never get to say. There is no easy way to get to you, is it? I was always a step behind your smile. Too close but not close enough. Now I’m a step behind the aisle. And you… you will always be the wind I fail to catch with these hands.

six one eight

i have watched too many sunsets in silence
silhouettes intensify against a blue-and-ocher sky
to this day, i still look for you in its changing color
my palms still grasp for the galaxy of dust suspended in the air

i call for the gods whose names taste strange in my mouth
my throat still refuses to abandon all yearning
would the heavens know of ways to letting you go?
tell me, how long do heartbreaks last?

out there, a child laughs,
a dog barks, and every lamp post in the streets is lit
august slips away in slow motion, and here i am
trying to write a good story before the dusk collects past’s due

what would the universe take this time?
for i only have this poem to offer or my life.