inside, outside, which side

outside of myself
exactly where I wish to be

munching a green apple
careful about those pips

I feel so alive, so alive
even though my tattoo throbs

my spectacles slip
shattered glass reflects thirst

curtains hide that outside
I stay trapped in myself

with my bare fingers
I gorge that triple sundae

half eaten green apple
stares at me accusingly

misty, dusty

I clutch that wooden peacock
a remnant of my childhood
memory of it all surfaces

misted thoughts shadow
the reflected green walls
I stop, filter it all out

coolly watch the wind dancing.
that peacock moves in my palm
my psych dusts itself

cleansing all the remembrances
I make way for new ones
but that wooden peacock stays

"only a small token, but I love its faded colours"

time runs out on me

out of that patio door
I watch the darkening sky
my mood just as stormy
mayhem that is us
flits through my mind

I solicit courage from the clouds
walk down to our room
engage myself in packing my things
your facade blocked out
with strong determination

I pause to take a breather
our photograph from the side table
engages my gaze
I am completely disarmed
trickling tears reinforce my resolve

"I know I will salvage myself from the wreckage"

you steal the moment

you steal the moment
with that vacuumed silence
aura of which surrounds you

words don't mean a thing
when they topple over each other
vying for attention

I take your cue
hurl mine out of that window
watch them melting into the air

I slump on the floor alongside you
even though that silence hammers
at me. I let it and wait.

I hold myself to the doorway

I stay in this dreamy cottage
each of its rooms brings surprises
I hold myself to the doorway
rubbing that tarnished key
I find no lock fit its contours

the mirage of you propels me
to walk through that closed door
I know you didn't leave
any trace of your intentions
you wish to remain exiled in that forest

in my palm, that key fills a void
I romance it, skillfully manipulating it

geometry of fireworks cuts into me

NYE on Paseo Reforma -- Street Performer by bradleyolin

I am waiting for the sky to fall on me, on us
(don't look at me like that, I know it's a cliche)
my hoarse voice carries to the heaven

hold my arms, burn me at a stake
but spare me my muscles
(I worked hard to build those)

I am almost insane with grief
and yet the lunatic world watches me
ferris wheel rolls into me

lights of the night blind me
you cut my trees, trampled on my flowers
made my cattle escape-

stole my horses for rodeo shows
your kaleidoscopic tents dot my farm
you walk all over my heart with hobnailed boots

geometry of fireworks cuts into me
my wails ail no one, apart from myself

it was not a dream, certainly not a memory

flat gleam of water stared back at me
i had a vision of flash photograph taken on a grey day
glare of my inner monsters drowned themselves out
it was not a dream, certainly not a memory
yet it was luster of truth in some unknown form
That threat was gone now
along came a calm acceptance
with your words told to me long ago

"you and I will live together...
just as long as you need me,
which won't be forever"

knife's edge

ten years is long time

memories fade, people forget

it felt good to be back

the house felt just the same

both stayed up late,

cleaning and rearranging

in the dead of the night

when he woke up

to the telephone ringing

three times, maybe four

(who cares when one is aroused from deep sleep)

before he could get to it,

he found himself sprawled on the floor

with cold ghostly hands throttling him

and knife's edge almost cutting into him

his dad freaked out at the almost severed neck

when he ran around to check who was it

no doors or windows were found open

invisible footprints led his dad under the kitchen sink

he baulked at the memory of it-

the same place they had buried their reclusive neighbour

his dad could see a shape of a door on it

weeks trample on each other like magazines

I've been waiting for you,
days trample on each other like magazines
filled with deep buzzing where words merge into images
perceptions recide in the jumble of blue memory
yet nothing comes to assert your arrival
I have not learned to notice your presence

stressed of a long day I seek you-
you who I must give back some day
to someone I don't know who

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Interestingly, the prompt for this weeks' Sunday Scribblings is poetry. This was cake walk for me. Need I say more?

blowing over that mug of coffee

blowing over that mug of coffee,
(a habit he had picked in trucker days)
he stared at its frothy stirrings
fracture of time had made him rescue her
from what he didn't know as yet
a hindrance she was for him, his work
abandon her, he just couldn't
without exchanging a single word
he could hear the noise she heard in her head
her stillness troubled him to no end

he watched her image vanish within the coffee
even though her reality was palpable beside him