Write!

Every one of us is handed a pen;
and that pen is our will.

Every one of us is handed a page;
and that page is our life.

The only sin in life is not to write.
– To fear too much of making a mistake,
that we never dare to try.

Write!

write

Mr. Potato-Head

I imagine that every one of us,
on our deathbed,
will realize that we took “ourselves” too seriously.

– That the “I” was a fiction of my own imagination.
A nothing. An idea. A cartoon character;
a Mr. Potato-Head.

And I imagine that every single one of us;
once we come to terms with that reality;
the mutability of the self;
will say, with some regret:

“why did I not dare
to create something more of this Self?
Something bolder?
Something richer?
Something more distinct?”

bolder, richer

After A Night Of Being Sick

I sit on the grass,
cross-leged and shirtless,
in the sunshine.

I see a honeybee,
hovering over a flower.

My body waves
with the melody of the music
in my ears.

Pigeons wait patiently
for crums.

Trees that shed their skin
sway overhead.

Thank you for last night.
Now, each breath tastes sweeter.

The Morning After Sickness

The Words He Never Learnt To Say

He lies, dying, in an unfamiliar bed,
surrounded by familiar faces.

He strains for the words
he never learnt to say.

He pissed away precious the time
on people, things, and actions
that meant nothing.

Mortgage. Work. Cancer.

“Tomorrow.
Tomorrow.
Next year.
When I retire.”

And now, he strains for the words
he never learnt to say.

None come.

the words he never learnt to say

Hurried

I hurry my life.
Seldom feel peace.

Why?
What good comes from speed?
– From having the list completed?
From saying, “I did this, and that?”

I do not know.

I know that a life unsavored
is a wasted life.

But I cannot seem to stop.

hurry

Keep At It

Keep at it.

It may not look
like others are doing
what you are doing.

You are alone.
– Every one of us is alone.

Trust yourself.
Trust the need within you
that gives birth to words.

Compare as little as possible for now.

Eventually you will compare.
But not now.

Not until you can work
without even noticing whether or not
others are watching you.

Trust the process.
Trust the page.

Keep at it.

keep at it

Slipstream

Allow yourself to merge;
to be pulled by the slipstream;

where ice cream gets its taste
and the dawn is stored at night;

where every memory and every experience,
is stored and kept in bottles;

where blue was introduced to red,
and together they bore purple.

where every taste is tested;

where children keep their secrets.
Where sunshine keeps its warmth;

where candy keeps its sweetness;
where old men keep the fuzzy-greyness of their socks.

where lovers meet in daydreams;
where the silhouttes of trees are drawn.

slipstream

Open or Closed

There are two ways to live life:
open or closed.

Open is:

to let be and let go
to release and relax
to take in and give out
to give and to receive
to reveal and be revealed
to hide nothing and fear nothing

Closed is:

to fight and shut out
to cut off and not allow
to close and contain
to force out and hold back from
to be unreceiving and inhospitable
to conceal and hide

open or close

The Clarity Of Death

I scream across the abyss of time,
trying to tell you;
trying to show you what I see now,
what I feel now.

Death is near.
The illusions have shed
like accumulated fat.

All the walls and masks and safety nets
abandon me in a moment.

I am alone.
I finally see everything so clearly.

Hear me.
Hear yourself.
Shed your layers.

clarity of death

Possessiveness

Possessiveness is an ugly,
consuming thing.

It turns us into smaller people;
people of darkness.
Unable to let in light.
Unable to grow;
to broaden, deepen.

Root out posssessiveness.
Pull it out every morning,
as a weed.

Nothing is really yours in the end.

possessivenes

Hang On

Red-faced.
Drips of sweat.
Quivering.

Do not give up.
Another few seconds
go deeper into your strength.
Hold tighter.

The mind let go long before.
The will holds on.
Its fingers grow weak
but refuse to let go
of the bar above its head.

hold on

In The Land Of Know-It-All

In the land of know-it-alls,
there ruled a stupid king.
He did not read, he did not write,
remembered most nothing.

Each day upon a throne of gold,
in dumb silence he sat;
politicians, philosophers,
asking this and that.

His answers to the questions posed,
would always be the same:
a far-off gaze, a silly smirk,
a few words ’bout trees or dew.
Then left his guests, full of wonder
at the things this wise king knew.

In the land of knowitalls

The Pen

With you, we whisper,
with you, we long,
with you, we feel.

And prick.
And pry.
And open the wound,
then sew it closed.

You are the bridge to new places,
to new sights,
far away things.

You are the doorway,
to new, imagined lands.

pen

Ocean Wave

The smooth curve grows,
widens and thickens,
shows its strength.

Boasts of itself
to the world.

But see:
even before reaching shore,
another overtakes it.

Replaces it in an instant,
drowns out its voice.

wave

Infinite Crossroad

This moment,
you stand at the infinite crossroad;
forks, uncountable.

Life unfolds one way;
one alone.
The movement right
destroys the possibility of left.

The path before you,
once malleable mud,
turns to stone as you step.
Closes behind you.

But see: another infinite crossroad
has come.

crossroad

The Joy of Writing

Just give me some public spot
to sit and watch.
To observe, learn, and describe;
to taste with my pen.

Connecting with this world through words
feels good as anything I have ever felt.

This music.
These people around me.

Just feeling it all.
Sewing it all together with words.

No agenda.
No plan.
Just creating.

That is my joy.

IMG_2051

I Am Not

I am not white, black, or brown.
I am not fat, skinny, or athletic.
I am not straight, bisexual or gay.
I am not American, Indian, French, Italian.
I am not Muslim, Christian, Buddhist, Atheist, or Agnostic.
I have no name.

I am every person you ever will meet.

racism- water fountain

Green Leaf

Slow down.

Slow.
Down.

Cherish this twilight.

This time when you are green,
ripe, strong.
You can bend without breaking
in storms
and cold sharp winds
do not tear your edges.

Cherish this time;
when you draw warmth
from the sun;
life from the air.

Slow down, little leaf,
For soon your blood will darken,
then turn to brown.

And then you will fall,
And then you will return to the dust.

Slow down, green leaf,
slow down.

green leaf