Poetry

I was sitting at the corner of Cowper and University, when a red Corolla pulled in, windows down A black man shouted, "Yo, where's EPA, man?" I looked into his eyes, ignoring his smirk. Where's East Palo Alto? It's in your face. It's in the dents of your car It's in the backseat where you're clothes are Because some yuppies bought your house for a rent that's twice your monthly income. Where's East Palo Alto? It's in the jails of this country, It's in the blood on the pavements It's under the sheets in the morgue. Where's East Palo Alto? It's behind the counters at the ice cream shop, It's in the old eyes of the young girl who hasn't slept in days To pay the bills of an education loan that promised a job but didn't. Where's East Palo Alto? It's 9-5 in the corridors of your office. PM to AM. When you can't see their faces, and the abuse they face. Where's East Palo Alto? All I could say was, down the road, The one all of us are on. To which, he replied, I know man, just playing with ya.

It's a Friday evening, when you hear, the careless whispers Looking around, bewildered, you see but a cat's whiskers Turning 'round the bend, to find a voice you swear you'd heard, The street is empty, save for a fence and its lonely lonesome bird Walking solemn, walking slight, a crackling cackle gives you a fright Yet, behind you there is naught a sight? Turn around, whence you came, sprint a sprint, for walking's lame, And as you stop to catch your breath, there's only silence upon your wreath. Shut the door and door the shutters, no more will you be troubled by its stuttering stutters. And when the night is nigh, beneath your covers, sigh a sigh. In your dreams you'll see the truth, and make believe what was, was for sooth! What made the murmurs murmur, was just the zoo's giant le(r)mur And the mumbling mumbles, oh, a baby with the grumbles Only one thing could've made those cantankerous peals, the laughter, it must've come from the circus seals! Now that that's been put to rest, it's time this mattress was put to test!

With neither a whimper nor a bang, but the steady accumulation of "stuff" Encroaching on all things. With a pang, surrounded on four sides, we cannot rebuff and must accept at long last: A marriage is happening and is already almost past. For the joyous occasion of my brother’s marriage.

Hark ye the fall! And minutes drop from high They twirl and twang as they gently settle and quietly amongst their friends rustle and remember till winds blow them aside.

(Dedicated to a Monsieur Le Coq) You stand here, solemn, silent, by my side, Whispering softly of a time gone by; The waves of could’ves flow in with the tide, The wind murmuring should’ves with a sigh Somewhere in time, unknowing, unheeding, uncaring, it was I who jumped ship, making instead, a choice of warmth temporary, more comforting then than this, the narrow river of reason you tread. Your lines were sharper, your principles ever more principled in a singular face. Mistaken, was I, that they our thread would sever, while forgetting all those decisions misplaced. ...

There is, bubbling inside me, Something I must tell you. But you seem busy; I’ll wait, no worries, It’s just a matter of timing, you see, And patient waiting is no stranger to me. What needed doing is finally done, The ships have set sail. In the twilight, You seem tired, justifiably so. I’ll wait, no worries, The bubbles can bubble over - Nothing I haven’t handled before Waves come of the morning tide, Wash ashore dead wood, left at sea; In your eyes, distress I see, Tell me of the distant shores As I push you adrift knowing, One day, you’ll come back for me ...

It’s been quite a long time since I posted anything, and indeed since I’ve coherently expressed myself in a non-technical format (well, I wonder if this counts, given its lack of coherency). Here goes to creaking rusty joints, in the name of my recent loss of self-expression: Whilst the sky bleeds blue’s true hue, Could I colour the world yellow? Would the pigments blend softly and slew into dearth earthen, fallow. ...

I walk on a path of leaves, a path lined with trees withered. The airs of self-image drift into the breeze, leading softly into a storm weathered. In a world devoid of black and white, autumn grey makes for ironic sense. Behind, ahead; comparisons bite, poisoned with debilitating innocence. I walk on a path of leaves, Beneath me they cackle with laughter.

A light trickle, bathed in sunlight, sparkles Flowing silently through the pebbles, Dip... Dip... Counting time as it falls A light trickle, bathed in sunlight sparkle A gentle breeze, enchanted with fragrances Gliding gracefully through the leaves, Shh... Unheeded it drifts on, oh time, A gentle breeze, enchanted with fragrances An undulating wave, ever-steady in it's to-fro, Gently beating against the shoreline, Whoosh... Unwavering in it's repetition, lo! time, An undulating wave, ever-steady in it's to-fro, I’m not entirely sure what made me write this, since I had intended something entirely different. Time has never been so peaceful or friendly; perhaps it’s a subconscious prayer that it will be so. Anyways, go random thought-flow hijacking. ...

The flotsam and jetsam your life's left lying The many paths you wish you'd taken Some less travelled, some more trodden, Those layers of dust have set thick The apologies left unsaid; universal and undirected The hearts hurt, the grief begotten Every moment a little bit of you crumbles away Something you can never put together again The unambitious pursuit of ambition, Blind stumbling of one so naive The vortices that pull you in deeper And cause eddies of inner turmoil Storming forth, you stride through the unknown Heedless, unwary of what you stand on, Praying that it be solid ground and not merely illusion And you dare not look behind. What have you done? Where did you lose sight of yourself? Who do you think you are? Why oh why? You can only pray that 'tis not too late And when you find it is, then You can only pray that you've left behind breadcrumbs; That you can still bridge these Archipelagos of Regret.