Digging in the Sand
Pushing tiny crystals with bare hands,
drawing the whims of childhood dreams,
building hopes with bucket and shovel,
I make a wish while digging in the sand.
That someday those castles will become real,
but the cold day hits me and I realize,
while digging in the sand,
that my palace exists, standing amidst
the shores of life, built from all moments.
My castle of sand crumbles with the tides
as I look into the azure expanse and know.
Another first draft on the cup, so it’s a bit shaky. Also a bit romantic for me, but perhaps I’m ready for spring.
Wishing on Dandelions
Small florets float in summer
fraying in the warm breeze
as she tries to steal them from the sun
and covet their secrets.
Melody turns her back to the seeds,
whirling wind rips wishes from her hands
and the tiny flutes flutter away
with the distant song of Meadowlarks.
She makes a wish on her snowflake weed
and welcomes the change of summer to fall
beckoned by the songs of Meadowlarks,
as they too are carried away with the wind.
Her dandelion travels with a promise
singing her secrets to the Meadowlarks.
This is a variation on an older poem that I decided to revisit. It’s much shorter and concise, perhaps the result of the limited space provided by a coffee cup. The original has two more stanzas, and someday I may put it up as well for comparison; needless to say, it is an experiment in revision. I like to call it variations on a thought.
Blown across my consciousness
and lost to the wind.
kept from what sought to be
that was I.
While the half searched for the key
to release what was
Someone must have changed the locks
to those treasure trunks
long ago while I was sleeping.
Sorry about the terrible handwriting, but I scribbled the first draft on the cup. Another poem of Wonderland thinking brought by a lovely cup of tea, as one can see.
I play hop-scotch on a checkerboard,
ruling the world under my feet
a Queen with no regrets,
lightly tiptoeing through her kingdom.
I move from redto white to black,
rejecting the suits of theold,
watching the Queen ofHearts
stir in her bed.
The one I made her, of roses,
painted the colour of her lust
now deep in the underground of silence
in the mysteries of dreams.
Her birds, they roam until they are only figures on a ceiling,
while I play hop-scotch ona checkerboard floor,
loving the game, both asleep and waking,
in dreams of black and white.
I’m back from Christmas break and with a new semester I started a new journal. I find that scribing the first page of a new journal is the most difficult part. Some journals are so fancy or beautiful that you feel anything you write will be unworthy and no thoughts are ever put in it. The lines are a must for my handwriting is deplorable. Picking out a journal that is right is always difficult. I think you can tell a lot about a person by their journal. My favorite journal is something plain, practical, flexible and lined and I just bought another moleskin (perhaps slightly pretentious, I know) in black. Here is what I put down for the first page; I thought it was appropriate to get back in the habit of my coffee cup poems.
Ode To a New Journal
What to do with a first page?
write contact info (already a page for that)
an eHarmony style “about me”
a listing of my favorite things?
There is always–
which seems to have made the
the pointless rambling
process of decoding
setting the tone
for the pages that follow.
That is what has found its way
onto this page.
the question of the first page
answered itself For better or for worse.
Ladies and Gentleman,
eavesdroppers and spys,
welcome to my journal.
The end To begin.