PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

the peaceable reed

the peaceable reed
(of their ilk),
like the bountiful
rice variety

so nice to look at

—those slender

stalks

like the idylls
of European creativity

in this case,
any person that talks

all conversations
that have that potential
for explosive eruption

the friction is everywhere,
a gruelling task

normal life's allusion

now, may i ask
how she
managed to endure
such horridity?

(answering the plea—)

boy, it's not love..
but
just affinity!

calling it love (yet involving cultural variances)

it's as if they know—

 
how to lift their wings
to fly

only to be able to reach
that glorious blue sky

it's when city dreamers
really, really
could dream high

yet trying to go on their
own particular ways—
not even finding relief, sigh!
 
 
would you still hold me
until the golden dawn?

tell me what year are we now, again?
we're here, olden.. but then
 
somehow  
 
 
we still have  
fallen apart, as you joked
again..and..again

 
—that you bleed—
(unrequited love?)

 
that's how we
pass the blame to reality
 
 
but really, it could just be
an untranslatable word

for perfect love

unconsciously—

 
misunderstanding

mere affinity—

untitled (former working title: true music)

as if one have
all the value judgements

in this—

tribulation period,

if only wind
instruments were
invented to share
a message, —

would souls
truly speak
in the present moment?

time & its insignificance

like metanoia
—a paradigm shift—
suddenly, anxiety
changing one's drift

from kabbalah
to phonetics
linguistics, semantics
hermeneutics of the Torah

from ancient

to the renaissance

what more can
one presage?

neither—

if a believer

prays to a false God

[of an othered religion]

permitted but

wronged sainthood

senile syllogisms & oblivion

candy tears

in the dead of the night
she whispers
again while
singing

i knew she was
the music
that she listens
to

dreaming—

it is the unfoldment
that scares
us mortals

because of
our undistinguished
petals

longing—

we long for
the perfect honeyed

world

to
unfold—

—like a moonless twilight

the dead of winter
make things
not right

not all countries
dusted by snow
to their heads alight

it does speak
through our fallacies
and biases alike

our dreariness,
longstanding,
dreaminess,

like a moonless twilight

An Active Volcano
& Homesteads

He wants to visit
a Mitsukoshi somewhere
but, instead, they
visited Harajuku in Japan

It's like a Resident Evil
film sequel during
that silver afternoon
just because every big
city needs one

But the tremendous
beauty of a volcano
and a mountain simply
cannot be denied

Its mysteries even
symbolized the island
country, her homeland

Without that sad part of
the past (Alas, now it's over!)
they could not
have walked past each other

It seems everything
happens for a reason

I say everytime this
was the case,
it happens each season

And so we question time,
biology and our biography,

and blame the universe for our

subjective and objective reality

—to one's own company
(original working title: the music you play)

are these leaves pure green tea,

to steep in a cup

designed so quaintly?

i know a type of

music, but not all things

jazzy

because there

could be drill rap music

which they—call—

classy

it's not a pretty picture
anymore for a degenerate

generation,

i think transnationalism

somehow creates a
nation

i just hope we don't fall
victim to this wake of
insanity—

to be foisted, with gradual

influence—to one's own

company—

—silhouettes for their perch

as if songbirds have
nowhere to stay for the

winter

the malcontents, too,
in the dizzying streets
stagger

if a forlorn hope is all
there is in my palm,

I figured birds can die,
yet while still alive and warm

the heat in the skin
would subside

but the pain is something
we never could hide

and if birdhouses are
for them—with feathers

fighters, rebels, our own

brothers can't be
perchers

because I live only—
to see them left in the lurch

and all those tree branches

—silhouettes for their perch