24 Hours

A day is pain, happiness and peace
Growth, Failure and song
Remembrance, Disregard and sweat
Love, Hate and daylight
Destruction, Construction and moonlight
Stress, Relaxation and wallets

23 hours and 59 minutes are now used up
But that one last minute is for me.

Stitches of Love

A little string
Through a careful needle
Would be enough to remedy
My broken heart
I'll sew it back together again
But this time,
Will be the last of the Temporary Stitches
Should I use blue string
Or green?
This is all I have left.
The red string got used up.
This incision would leave a permanent print
Edged onto my organ of love
Which you have broken too many times.

The Shape of a Cloud

I took a ride on the clouds
Up in the boundless sky
Boundless heights
Sometime in July

I took a ride on the clouds
Payed my fare in laughter
In mystical pyjamas
I rode the wild rafter

Young clouds, old clouds
New clouds, shoe clouds,

I took a ride on the clouds
Stopped over on a horse
Made a quick transfer
Changed my course

I Hoped on a starfish
Swam through the air
Took off my socks
And rescued a zesty pear

Seedless, Colorless,
Priceless Spiciness

I took a ride on the clouds
Sailed the wooden boat
Waved to a pocket watch
Saved a rainy goat

I took a ride on the clouds
Spun a web with a spider
Raced an elephant
With a hand glider

Red, Yellow and Green
Sang the cloudy Submarine

I took a ride on the clouds
Landed on the moon
Painted on a moustache
With a blue teaspoon

I took a ride on the clouds
Slid down the pig’s tail
Fell down the chimney
Onto a furry whale

Running, Jumping
Singing, Swinging

I took a ride on the clouds
Sometime in July,
Stole a piece of the moon
For a blueberry pie.

Paris

Everything Changes.
I quietly whispered to myself as I gazed over the world in an unfamiliar way.
The air shifts and I suddenly remember the altitude at which I’m standing.
I marvelled at the beautiful City of Love for one last frozen second,
“May I stand here,”
A deep, familiar voice engulfed my ears with flames of memories that ignited an inner fire.
I suddenly forget my fear of heights and feel grounded like an old tree root metres deep.
Slowly, I turned, chin first, eyes second and my eyes connected with his.
“Yes, Please Do,”
I finally answered in my shy, mellow tone.
He came closer to me and leaned elegantly over the rail, our eyes still aligned.
Perhaps he was reading my thoughts, the way he used to.
Maybe he shared the same pain I’ve been hiding within me these past few years he’s been gone,
Maybe he knew
The Truth that was buried inside me with compounded frustration and pain.
My love for him never expired.
It was crisp and still new.
That was one thing that never changed.
For a few moments we stood looking over the old bridges and canals of the beautiful city.
From the corner of my eye I could see him exchanging small smiles.
I used to love those smiles.
They told me a thousand secrets.
He was my Mona Lisa.
Oh Paris, you never change.

Waiting

In a moment I emerged,
Like a shadow in the moonlight
Hidden and unknown
Calmness invited the beginning of time
I moulded into the warm space
Temporarily concealed
In the dark territory that nurtured my soul
I grew with the beat
And waited for the light
That would show me the creator
Who would call my name
Show me the colourful world
And feed me with unconditional love
Time helped me grow,
And slowly defined my figure
While I prepared myself for the world
The world I would wait to call my own.
Then my existence was embraced
By hands trying to reach me from outside
But it was not yet time
I was clenched between a cold handle
I was not ready to leave
Then came my first tears
My first scream,
I tried to resist,
But it was impossible
I was pulled out with force
The light was too bright for my new eyes
I felt a heart break,
A moment lost
And my soul crush into the darkest obscurity
My time and my existence
Was no fault of my own.

Beauty is in the Eye of the Beholder

We learn the difference between the words ‘good’ and ‘bad’ at a young age. During school years we find out that getting a 90% on a test is a ‘good’ mark and a 30% is ‘bad’ mark, and we know this because of a systematic scale of grading we use that considers our overall abilities on a scale of 1-100%.We come across similar scales of grading in other activities and involvements in life which apply new criteria for the words ‘good’ and ‘bad’ in different systems. But how and what we apply these terms to can sometimes make for our understanding of what is good or bad merely a subjective opinion.
One of the greatest forms of human expression, art, may be one subject matter deprived of a universal scale to determine its complete value. If within the realm of art our abilities to create and admire pieces of work are subjective, is there any way for us to distinguish ‘good’ art from the ‘bad’ art? Since art is a form of human creativity, there can be no way for us to determine which art is ‘good’ or ‘bad.’
We first have to consider the fact that art is a form of human expression and that every person’s interpretation or connection to pieces of artwork will be different. This means that since not everyone will share the same opinion or liking to artwork, the judgement between ‘good’ or ‘bad’ art will rely on our personal assessments. The primary goal of an artist is to use his or her creativity to express something from his or her perspective and send this message, emotion or feeling to the admirer. We sometimes find ourselves in situations when we ‘cannot explain ourselves.’ For many people, art helps to void this situation through using freedom and creativity to show others how we feel. This is where the subjective scale steps in. In admiring other artwork, since there is no universal grading scale, our personal feelings are the judge in whether or not we favour a certain artwork.
Many factors, apart from our human individuality, such as our age, experiences, environment and lifestyle are included in our personal criteria for judging good art and bad art. A child for example may not appreciate Shakespeare’s writing the same way an adult would since the adolescent may not understand the complex ideas in the writing, and therefore will not relate to Shakespeare’s work the same way an adult would. The child would prefer to read simple stories, where he or she could understand the context and relate to the ideas.
Given this fact, we should never let other people’s influences or opinions on artwork determine the way we feel towards certain pieces. It is up to us to decide the ‘good’ art from ‘bad’ art, and remember that the way we feel about an artwork is neither right nor wrong. It may be true that art does not have a universal grading scale, but art speaks a universal language of freedom, self expression and emotions that make human beings unique and creative.

Time.

What is time?
Is it a minute before or a minute past?
Every second I'm getting closer
To an eternal darkness.

When will I know?
Darkness can be sudden, swift and anonymous.
It doesn't know time.

Can I have one more minute?
I wish I knew the time.

Caution! Soul

I wanted a better home
My paradise never existed
So I shut my eyes forever,
Surrendered to a blade of metal
My soul fell through the ground
Tumbled off the earth, like the flight of wind
I landed like a lost comet
Onto a ground with no mercy
Sharp edges dug into my meatless bones
Echoing screams roared and united
The air was fiery
So I took off my sweaty bones
And lay them in a pile
I stood up and saw a new world
Colorless, hazy and dark
In the centre lived a fire
That was overwhelming and destructive
It looked at me with evil thoughts
As if I were its new sustenance
A figure slowly emerged from the fire’s shadow
I felt its darkness all over me
Its presence was commanding
It greeted me with a howl
And departed with a blow to my spirit
I could not escape the beatings
There would be no way out
My welcome was unliveable
My pain unspeakable
But I need not speak
I shed tears of blood
Now the initiation was complete
I was a wretched thorn
And this smoky terrible place was my home...

Lover of my Soul

I have grown to know you
Even though we have never met
I am called to find you
To seek you out in every dark space,
For you are my ultimate source of light.
When tranquil peace and burning candles surround me,
I am near to you
Almost together in one
Your presence soothes me,
Calms me
I feel relieved of my pain
My peace invites you each time
To remain with me and fill my heart
You are an embrace without physical grasp
And in these moments of peace,
I imagine your face
Maybe we are different
Maybe you are beautiful
But in my moments of silence,
My heart speaks a prayer
That I know reaches the heavens
And in the stillness of the air,
I know you are listening,
You always hear me.

One Hour

Finally, he’s gone. He said he’d be back after an hour. My heart and intentions quicken as they sweep me from my seat on the sofa. I was climbing up the stairs with the sound of the front door shutting still echoing in the air. I can smell traces of cologne that lingered behind him as he descended the stairs just moments ago. “I’ll be back in an hour.” I remembered my husband’s last words as I nervously reached the second floor. The house was clear, everything in its place. I hoped that was the same for the mysterious diary I was determined to find. That was one thing I wasn’t responsible for keeping tidy. I passed the washroom with the leaking tap, ‘drip, drip, drip.’ The steady drops made me feel more nervous, like something in the house was alive and monitoring me as I began my search for the secret book with pages I had never seen.

I entered the study. The window was slightly open and I could feel the summer breeze on my tense face. I stood in the center of the room. Books were piled neatly beside the wooden bookshelf and the computer screen was dark but still reflected shadows of objects in the room. I stood staring at the small cabinet beside the window. Three small drawers. I knew exactly the contents in the top and bottom drawers, though my eyes had never even seen the wallpaper inside that covers the middle one. This was his secret hiding place. My memory re-played and I could see him. His back slanted at the doorway and his hands grasping the mysterious book. He opened the middle drawer swiftly and dropped the book inside, ‘shut!’ The drawer closed with the force of his strong hand. Then he locked it with the key. I walked around the room and without thinking, start to sift though the desk in search of the key that I would need to unlock the secret drawer. I paused my memory again at the part where he locked the drawer with the key. It was a small key. Silver I think. I sifted through the bookshelf.

Something suddenly fell from behind a set of books, with a small metal-like sound. I pulled books out from the second shelf, where I thought the noise came from. Without blinking, my eyes wandered back and forth. I moved my fingers along the back of the books to the right of the open space and I felt a cold, flat object behind them. With my index and middle finger, I grasped the cold area of the small object. I pulled myself out, supporting the pull with my left hand secured on the left ledge of the shelf. The luminous light of the sun shone through the room as if it was the day light was first discovered by man. I carefully pulled my hand out. There it was. Silver and small. I re-wind my memory again to when he stood at the foot of the cabinet holding the book. In moments I may be him-standing there with the book in my hands. My eyes could finally see the contents of the diary. Maybe it will tell me why I’m never good enough and why he doesn’t smile the way he used to. I may finally unlock the secrets of his melancholy.

I glanced at the old clock above the computer desk. Ten minutes had passed since he left the house. That means I would only have 50 minutes of revelation with the book. It was good enough though. I took two steps and was already at the foot of the cabinet. I stared down at the drawer as though even without using the key I could unlock the drawer with my pulsing suspension. With the small key chocked by my right hand, I loosened grip and held it in between my thumb and index finger. I leaned downward and placed the key in the hole and turned, “click!” It was opened. The drawer had finally been unlocked by my curious hands. Both hands held the handle. My eyes still fixed on the drawer. It opened. My fingers rushed into the new open space. And there it was. The book-his Diary. Without waiting, I picked it up and opened it. The pages were off white and a little stained. I flipped through the first page, then the second then the third. Was it empty?
No, I finally found handwriting. The writing started near the 11th page. There was a small cut out picture of my dad when he was younger, who was murdered just a few months ago. I started reading. I read the page in one blink then tears began to stream down my face.

I held the plans of a murderer in my hands. The diary took me on a journey. A secret journey written only by one and planned only for one. I tried to hold the book tighter as I could feel my small muscles slowly vaporizing. As I read I could only imagine my father. Dutifully going about in the backyard digging holes in the soil to plant the beautiful red and yellow flowers I desired every summer. The killer planned to attack him while at work, peacefully moving about in the heat of the sun labouring for the delight of my sweet smile. I could see him, calmly pacing along the fences to line the flowers in alternating colors, red, yellow, red, yellow. Then in the midst of the beating sun and the peaceful breeze, the murderer planned his attack. It would plant my father in the tool shed just meters away from the red and yellow arrangement, helplessly bound by the tight grip of my husband’s programmed crime. Every movement was a pre-determined plan-the number of blows to reach his unconsciousness and the tools that would be used to put him to eternal sleep. The diary explained the horrible steps. Tears continued to stream heavily down my face and some drops soaked into the bottom of the page. I remembered when I found my father as lifeless as a withered flower with scattered blood feeding the dry walls and floor panels of the tool shed. I felt sick. The book felt heavy in my arms and my knees began to weaken. I fell to the ground in my pool of tears. The book dropped to the floor. The pages flipped until the book laid closed flat on the back cover. The rays of the sun peeked through the window and blazed the evil plan with luminous light. I stayed there and let my heavy heart of grief fill the floor with more tears. I feel nothing except pain everywhere. In loud uncontrollable gasps I release fractions of pain chocking my stomach. With each ache my eyes close and I see darkness. I become consumed in my suffering. And my suffering now is demanding each of my racing breaths.

I begin to feel a presence behind me. I hear a small shuffle of steps in the doorway. He was here. He came back. And now he knew that I knew. Before I can turn my weak body, a pair of hands grabs my face and buries my nose and mouth inside. The moisture from my tears saturates itself into my skin. I can’t breathe. I am pulled up by the tight, demanding grip. My body is being controlled by a commanding force that seems to dictate my every move. I hear frightening groans coming from his mouth. I try to resist, but my resistance causes more force. He brings me down the hall as I try hard to breath. We reach the edge of the stairs. I caught a small glimpse of his old black boots. The warn out boots of a killer. With a strong force he releases his hands and pushes me down the stairs. I fall to the bottom and am unconscious. Helpless. And the secret I know doesn’t matter now.

Then I wake. My eyes widen and I sit up squeezing the warm blankets. I hold myself tightly and comfort my damaged body. After 5 years, the pain is still there. I think of the beautiful red and yellow flowers my father used to plant for me every summer. The sweet memory soothes my racing heart. I lie back down and turn over on the other side of my pillow and hope to sleep well now.
God, please send me a better dream.

The Climb


The summit climbed with secrets,
Oracles that the most demanding wind could not reveal,
But its secrets are what brought us together, on top of the peak
That’s where I first saw the sun.
It was a light in every corner of the earth.
I felt familiar with its warmth,
But not its beauty.
Its curious rays summoned us to its height
I was curious.
The hill’s secrets took us from sky to terrain
We both knew the climb.
I felt protected by the soft earth and firmness of your arms
We were like two dandelion seeds growing together with Our Father, the Sun
Who gave us enough sunlight to flower.
We became One.
Nothing moved us but the rhythms of the hill.
We were made to dance together.
Through the rain and storms our song sustained us.
But in the fall we met the wind,
Who whispered to us a secret through its wailing force.
It took us to the bottom of the hill,
Where we saw the majestic pinnacle of its soaring prominence
We desired its splendour.
I often looked up to the top and forgot how my eyes looked down.
But each spring we moved up in strides,
We knew the climb.
The wind at our back which made me remember your sweet scent
We moved with synchronized motions
Until we finally reached our place,
Our eyes weary and our bodies heavy.
The sun began to peak though the clouds I could see the place where we came from below us
I remembered the beautiful height.
That day we knew the climb.