Eye Contact (Hour 12)

Eye contact becomes virtually impossible

yet my breath speaks aloud from where I sit.

Easels of my sketches are filled with your alluring outline.

 

Congenial company is all I want,

on roads paved with sweets scents and deep sighs.

Nothing else will matter, so let your amity circuit light up my senses.

 

Tons of obstacles will end up amplifying my breath

as my eyes scuffle, itching to speak my desire

caught now behind your bars

 

to remain, until the floor releases your face,

until your eyes meet mine.

Auckland (Hour 11)

I dream of my one thousandth poem

So the end of the world would be nice to see

That’s what comes to mind when Auckland creeps into it

 

For a whole weekend that won’t ever end

I can live there to scribble

My one thousandth poem

 

I will invite organic plants to whisper sicknesses away

Condition the air to be served as wholesome meals

Halt the communication networks and let essence speak to me instead

Ask my ink to stop producing blank manuscripts

 

These are stuff that come to mind when Auckland creeps into it

So the end of the world would be nice to see

 

Will you come too?

So you can ask love not to ever take to its heels?

So you can see my exhibitions of snow cold, desert heat, and wild rain?

All bottled up and served only when needed?

 

I dream of my one thousandth poem

And end of the world would be nice to see

That’s what comes to mind when Auckland creeps into it

 

 

Indeterminate (Hour 10)

I should walk beside my shadow; it is mine

Not minding it should be the one walking beside me

Dark on the lane, it ought not to be seen

Entrails of the road finds a blend with it

To claim I do not know my shadow is to disrespect poetry

Engendering a war not worth fighting

 

Redolent of a time hanging in the balance

My senses comes to a consensus, seeking meaning in all fine influences

In search of what should be the definition of time

Not that I cannot recognize the shape of my shadow

Anguish must not wield a weapon against the life I know

Twilight cannot become the mother of the day

Ephemeral manifestations will not cut my shadow lose; it remains mine

Crests and Troughs (Hour 5)

The pinnacle of the cliff

Holds my view stiff

 

Along the trough, the boat is empty

Gentle in its sail, its promise is scanty

 

At that frightening top, I am closer to the sky

They said it’s the limit, to the earth I won’t say bye

 

Oh I love jumping down, there is fun in the risk

If the boat is on a pool of tears, I’d rather shelf my frisk

 

The knack to navigate the peaks and valleys

Gives me a sense of what should be in my grocery trolleys

 

All said; for choice I’ll stay at the peak

That will keep my bird pointing to the sky with its beak

 

 

The Lost Words (Hour 4)

Jisike, you are the friend who chose to foldaway

 

Truth found us in the beginning

Its presence, unwelcome

Its garment of honour, invisible

The invitation to the unity of birth, void

 

But we tarried

 

We were nascent beings, volatile and transient

We stood always with hairs in the sky

If we have a date with truth tonight again

They will be rehearsing our beautiful songs

 

And you chose to travel

 

Truth will find us midway still

Truth will find us in the end

Those beautiful songs must sing themselves

Those dreams built on sand dunes will remain

Not to be buried in the cemetery of lost words

 

The Boss is a Lie (Hour 3)

Clean suit on straight lovely pants

Screaming tie, transforming into a noose

An Italian leather briefcase ejects a suffocating Mac laptop

Spreadsheets pop out multiple eight-digit figures

A lean workforce trembles, a fat board expects

All sat, listening to slides brimming with lies

 

In the crowded work room, the boss has been alone all the while

 

Profit is squatting nearby, seeking a new abode

The workforce is dying, beaten ill by the boss’ ire

The boss’ SUV outside exudes pity, unable to help

The board has slept with juicy tales all year long

All sat, waiting for the pregnant magic of transformation

But the spreadsheet figures are not adding up, they won’t

The board is spitting eight-digit curses upon the payroll

Profit is standing afar, winking at new spinsters

 

In the crowded work room, the boss has been alone all the while

 

The meeting disperses like the aftermath of war

The bourgeois boss sheds tears under the corporate almond tree

The pillars will collapse like a weak house in the woods

It’s time to redeem the lies, to roll up the sleeves

But the beaten workforce will care no more

And the boss feels the biting hollowness of the pyramid top

 

In the crowded work room, the boss has been alone all the while

 

 

 

 

 

So there is a Pandemic in the Air (Hour 2)

i.

Our songs will not be lost

That euphoric declaration of twenty twenty

A new decade set to bear new wings

Painted on walls of grand introspection

 

Yet, the songs were going to peel off

At the wake of the decade’s first quarter

A pandemic flew in like unidentified flying objects

With an airplane too big for the landing field

 

ii.

You know how it looks, don’t you?

That invisible crown walking like a king

Snuffing lives, halting man, closing earth

Like a whirlwind high up to the heavens

 

You see, it craves ignorance like lust

Seeking victims of the sin of ignorance

Go ahead and be clothed in the veil of precautions

And the invisible crown will fly around without perching on your head

 

iii.

Man up, woman up

There is a weak spot in everything, lying aloof

Puncture those balloons of paleness

And let them hiss aimlessly out of your space

 

iv.

Ashes have gone round

Some blown into the air, like blinding dust

Some bottled in domestic columbaria

Some stuck, like glue, under earth’s feet

It’s time for a dive out of these ashes

 

v.

Let the arms gather, visible assemblies on the battle line

Let the armies be adjured into action

Let the swords take out all the jaundiced emotions that heap ashes beneath your feet

The pandemic must have a weak spot somewhere

The pandemic must have a weak spot somewhere

 

vi.

Our songs will not be lost

With fright thrown into the furnace

With ignorance fleeing from us

With earth healing beyond the ashes

Our songs will not be lost

The Muse (Hour 1)

The muse is a woman I used to know

And a vast void pierced the earth between us

She rises now from the other side of the deep pit

A pit dug in between two lovers to punctuate their communion

 

The muse is a woman of elastic propensities

One that mesmerizes me under her gaze

One whose influence fills my book shelves

Her handbag used to be an envelope where I live

 

Her name is the muse of poetry

I remember the circles of her smiles

The way she winks still draws patterns on my canvas

Now she is luring me into her charms

 

The muse of poetry beckons

Eyes misty, telling tales of old desire

Lips pouting, blazing flames of new passion

Ears erect, listening to the sounds of the poetic siren

 

The muse of poetry beckons

Silky hair swimming in the air, drowning

Velvet skin spilling oil at the slightest squeeze

Flawless legs glow, winking from the dark

 

The muse of poetry beckons

Encircling a spot on the slippery earth

Anticipating my feet will slide

Onward for a concessional fall

 

The muse of poetry beckons

Knowing my sky is open, throwing the rains down

Knowing I won’t resist the urge

To run nude in the waters

 

The muse of poetry still beckons

Urging me to get set and do the run

Knowing I will do the marathon haul

Long after a vast void pierced the earth between us