Caprice

He is a gray cat
Stretched out in
Undappled camouflage
On a grayer table,
Dust settling;
A small price to pay
For capricious
Whims.
He cares not for
Any command
Given with empty hands,
Nor anything offered
That is
Invisible beyond the kibble
Of an empty bowl.

The Extinguisher

Sawdust and leaves

Lay untouched in their abode

The drought never seems to cease

Leaving all life

Half-evaporated of life itself.

Disrupting the languid nature

An unexpected spontaneity

Amber sparks flicker about

A new life has begun,

Giving rise to smoke

Giving birth to carbon

As it crackles on passionately

Warming the carbon yet more

As if to lay

A cradle

With mittens and blankets--

A security for the newborn

That would have lasted

an eternity

But alas,

As age rises; as carbon ascents

As a young swallow leaves its nest

Embracing greater depths of the skies

With its newly formed wings.

Gone and beyond

In a foreign sky

Venturing

Into uncharted quarters

Where that protection

Slowly fades

Away from

Touch.

The climb up

Treacherous and torturous

The heart

Hardening and freezing

With unfeeling altitude

And as the currents

Nudge carbon back and forth

Back and forth.

It dares not venture any further

It shan't be increase the distance

Between itself

And its creator.

Till the whispering wind

Wanders about...

That devil.

In exchange,

That friendly protection

The red shiny cover

It had recently procured.

To cut all ties

That hold it.

To allow it to fly freely

Like severing

The string of a kite

Fire welcomes it home

That similar presence

As its silhouette wraps about in an embrace

Only to receive

A different air.

"Come over here, .... "

"Extinguisher." That reaffirming

Of its change of name

The altering of an identity.

Next a lethal spray

Cutting off all history

Of reason

Of its existence

No longer crackling

Nor passionate

The loitering mist,

A hint of a sigh.

Not disappointed

But acknowledgement

That the inevitable had come

The smoke fizzes

In laughter

"Its child still kept the middle name"

And in sheer contentment

Is brought away into darkness

It goes on

Like a severed kite

Directionless;

Subjected to the winds

Fancies.

To where one brings

That bright red

Canister

Exhausting every molecule

Of breath.

Speaking From A Glass

I spread over
Roads and houses, roofs and
Floors. Reminiscing of time spent in
The great non-existence that presides
Over all.

I fill
Great cavities, and conform to
Their shape.
I fill
Small cavities, and conform to
Their shape still.

Sometimes I
Spill out, unable to contain all that
Lies within me, and contaminate all
I touch with that glistening
Film.

When heat forsakes
Me, I must steel myself to compete in
Such a frosty environment.
And when
Energy blesses me, I am set
Free.

My touch is merciful, but is also
Deadly.

It is hard to measure
Intentions.

I may fall upon
Innocents, and woe befall
Them. Taking their last gasps, last
Struggles.

Is this not a
Kindness? Perhaps they are too
Blind to see for themselves. They will
Understand eventually.
Except that there
Is no eventually.

To those I
Devastate, I can offer no
Apology.

I am consumed shamelessly, sucked into
The voids of many, from which but
Emptiness springs forth. And this
Powers the creation of nothing.
Perhaps this
Nothing means something in the
Moment of its' creation, perhaps its'
Creation holds depth. But it is
Reduced to a shallow void
Nevertheless.

Do I empower any
Worth?

Who can grasp my
Form? Magnification and clarification collaborate
To explain such.
Detailing all they
Perceive in an Almagest of
Orbs and lines. I am not the Grand
Cross. Am I but a cloud instead? Are
We?

Bits flying everywhere, contorting in
Grotesque forms only to dissipate again into the
Void.
Lines belt out at the surface, disrupting
The view of the world from that tiny
Crystal ball of a droplet. Something
Rising from the rolling hills of
Nowhere.

Were it that I played God, and chose
Where to place my boon. But the void will
Find my blessings and curses, and take them
All, anyway.

Look at me, look at
Yourself. Do you see me or
Yourself? It's not up to
me. I can but distort your presence, dwindling
Accuracies and averting
Gazes.

I exist within, without. I
Speak from the rolling hills of
Nowhere.

Simplicity

A ghost rises from a

Cup of coffee

Across the table

Where you

Sit.

Shadows hug the golden warmth

Of the sunlight licking

your skin;

Dust motes filtering through the

Air.

A basket before us.

“Baguette”, you say

Breaking the portion into two

Steam rising from the crevice.

The halves are gone

In a crackling of buttered fluff.

My turn:

Another piece of bread;

I turn it over in my hands.

“Ciabatta”

You nod. “Hmm.”

This time we dip our knives

Into a ruby red jam.

It catches the light

Glinting back at our knives

In a knowing wink.

Your turn:

The smell tells you

“Cumin”.

I make a slight face, but my half

Is gone as quickly as the previous

Two.

If I opened a book

The words might escape into the air

Following the aroma of coffee beans

Into the still-sleeping minds

Of those who come here

Hoping the sun might

Drown the words of the night before

And warm their faces

With the

Promise of a good coffee;

Nothing more

Nothing less.

“Sun-dried tomato?”

I watch you over the edge of my coffee cup

As you nibble absently on the crust

Slumped against the window.

Your mind is gone from here.

Perhaps I ought to sketch the waitress.

The bill arrives.

The curtains wave us goodbye.

Iri-descent

Iri-descent

A lethargic frame makes her way down the stairs. A long way down, but nothing would prove long enough to challenge her. Even her bones had survived her for the last eight decades, albeit a couple of sprains in her younger days, days no longer glorious, but remain a blurry memory.

But while she descended this, the onset of rheumatism pointed out to her rather rudely-- even eternity will have an end.

A few gazes fell upon her. Whether it was due to her being a human road block, or wondering if she needed help, she would never know. She observed the soulless bodies trudging forward; they had neither a sense of purpose nor conviction. She missed the days when people would help each other readily -- they were long gone. Introduction of moral education, leadership lessons, whatever the Ministry and schools are doing; one would have thought, or at least hoped, that it would make a difference.

Or maybe, just maybe, displacement has been mistaken for achievement by those Ministry fellows.

Not just them; but society as a whole.

Her slippers were strewn over the stairs, marking her descent down.

A flash of a face, though familiar, yet distant. It was a man, with much resemblance of his younger self, but now with a face that has learnt not to trust. A side-glance to the old lady struggling down the steps, a hesitation on whether she needed help. That instant of giving in to his past self. Then a resolve; hurrying off to his destination, even if he did lose it long ago. Someone else will help her if she needs it, he assured himself. They all did.

A descent not counted successful by many, but at least she made it down.

As she leafed through pages in her memory, she finally recalled. A sudden scene crept into her mind. It was her, about forty odd years ago; in a classroom as an English teacher, analyzing a short piece. She introduced the term “diffused responsibility”. The class she taught was vibrant and cheery. Especially a boy who did not understand how this term could ever exist; residing and thoroughly hypnotized in his utopia.

She was lying in a pool of her own blood.

In this enclosure formed by a mob, all air and light fade, highlighting an onlooker. The dark silhouette of a future once bright.

He had forgotten.

Against Inevitability

Steam escapes as a lid is lifted from its pot. A quick sniff, and then satisfied clink of the lid coming back down to seal the ghosts that threaten to whisk away to where we cannot follow. A father wipes his hands on an apron, noticing erratic click-clacking of wooden blocks, their brethren scattered around his two children. Maybe Katie will be an architect, he thinks, eyeing the blocks meticulously stacked to ensure the maximum stability achievable by her 6 year old hands. His son pretends the blocks are planes, propellers sabotaged. He hurls them downwards, shrieking in glee at the din they make, clattering harshly to the floor. Timmy is no architect.

The front door is opened with the fumbled turn of a key, and wearily closes itself behind a mother wearier still. She falters in the doorway, trying to compose herself before her children notice her. Her husband rushes to embrace her fiercely; protectively. I’m so sorry honey; I heard about Margaret. It’s okay, we’ll face this together, it’ll be alright, Ellie. It’ll all be alright… He notes her puffy eyes, sore and ringed with red. She crumbles in his arms, eyes closed, the corners of her open mouth wrenched downward in silent hysteria.

Somehow she eventually opens her eyes to find herself seated at the dining table. Her husband brings the food out, tries for a sheepish grin, and reveals his latest masterpiece. “Wow!” Katie stares in wide-eyed wonder at the painstaking presentation of the food, picking up a little rabbit carefully fashioned out of carrot slices. In between bites, Timmy pipes up: “Daddy, why do you make dinner so pretty if it’s all going to end up in our tummies?” His father laughs, “Would you rather I didn’t?” Ellie shakes her head vigorously, managing a giggle.

The table is set for four. The fifth portion of food remains in the serving dish. Katie eyes it, puzzled. “Didn’t you invite that nice lady from last time?” Her mother’s face creases back into its previous anguish. The father hastily conjures a vague reply to satisfy his daughter.

The children retreat to the living room, resuming their building. “Mommy, come look! Come and –“ A deafening crash. “You did that on purpose!” Katie wails mournfully. Timmy comforts her, “No, it’s all good fun, see? You try!” He urges her to destroy his own block tower. She does so, and finds herself repeating the process with glee.

Issue

Trust is an
Issue. Yet it cannot be


Issued out. Truth is


Subjective. One


Subject to the truth of
Another, could find it so very
False. The lines between right and


Wrong are so
Blurred. Yet people seem to


Know exactly when something is
Wrong and when something is
Right. Is there a


Truth to rule them
All? A truth that is always


True? Everyone is always so


Suspicious about the
Truth behind this and the
Truth behind that. What


If there is no truth? What


If all we hold to be
True are just figments of
Our imagination? In a very


True sense, this is how things
Are, is it not? Is what we


See, hear, touch, smell and taste
True? With all this, my


Trust is broken. Is it truly


Broken though? Perhaps


That is not an
Issue.




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Sorry about the spacing in the previous post. The iPad really screws things up.