Volume 4: Chinese October

The veil hid her face

But the flash in her eyes was

Unmistakeable

Volume 11: The Photograph

That photograph looks better

Lying on the floor,

Dangerously close to the fireplace,

Trapped inside its chipped wooden frame,

Topped with a sprinkling of glass.

There, it is a better representation of

Who we are.

Everything about that photograph is wrong.

Who are those smiling people?

They are certainly not like that now.

They are strangers to me,

And strangers to each other.

And that unblemished white background?

It shouldn't be white at all.

It should be stained with midnight tears,

Cut up with sharp words,

And clouded by the silence that hangs in the air,

The aftermath of a huge mistake.

I would much rather have taken a pair of scissors,

And cut those people apart from each other,

And scattered them in the blizzard

That whips hungrily outside my window as I speak.

I would rather sacrifice the photographic shreds

To the claws of that ravenous beast

So that it may snatch them up

And take them far away from this place.

But I can't.

So I just let the frame fall from my hands

Onto the fake laminate

And hope that, by shattering the glass,

I can give those people a chance

To breathe

Instead of suffocating beneath

Their smiling masks.

Volume 18: Are We Memories Yet?

On the far side of camera lenses, a furl of leaves

Catch the wind and tumble to the ground like coins of gold

Catching their last glimpses of light as they are tossed into a treasure

Chest and sealed away to dusty attics filled with memories

And the fading whispers of gossip and sworn-by secrets

Locked away in diaries, guarded by old wooden window frames.

Under the cracked glass of delicate picture frames

Lies a collage of smiling faces still living beautiful memories

Of years past. If they were scattered outside into the golden

Sunlight, they would happily dance with the ensemble of leaves;

They would give every single one of their secrets

Away to the wind, and share the joy that is their only treasure.

But they are immobile, sitting patiently on top of the old treasure

Chest. The last streaks of sunset glow through the withering window frames

Falling on a ring of intricately designed keys, their majestic silver and gold

Bodies no longer sparkling; dulled by a sprinkling of dust left

Behind by years upon years of chaperoning secrets

Carefully bound with locks whose locations are now faint memories.

A small ballerina in a corner of the room, as if remembering

The season, pushes away the antique hand-painted framework

Of her chamber and begins to spin. She was once a treasured

Heirloom, but that was long ago, and the only audience she has left

Now is a room full of objects of the past, nothing but lonely secrets.

Nonetheless, she dances, sighing deeply in her heart of gold.

The sun’s rays flicker outside, and for a single golden

Moment, like the feeling of anticipation before hearing a secret,

The room lights up, glowing like a coin in a treasure

Chest. But then it fades, the glimpse of hope so quickly turns to a memory,

Tucked away in the depths of the attic. And the cracked picture frame

Meets the settling dust the way the ground meets falling leaves.

Once secrets have been whispered, their precious golden

Contents no longer contained, they become memories that are left

Behind to be treasured; seen only through lenses and frames.

Volume 147: The Rage of June

There’s a maiden nigh who lives in the sky

Named for the month of June

The goddess fair loved playing there,

Above the cold lagoon

Her hair of gold down her shoulders rolled

Reflected by the moon

As smooth as brass was her looking glass

Her lovely silver moon

One night, she remarked, was especially dark

Over the cold lagoon

For not in the sky, she soon realized,

Was her shining silver moon

In wild dismay she searched the bay

For a trace of her beloved moon

She froze in shock, for the moon she sought

Had fallen into the cold lagoon

Like a deck of cards, tossed were the shards

Of her beautiful silver moon

Too far to save from the cruel waves

Of the hateful cold lagoon

From its place in the sky, it was stolen by

Water nymphs from the cold lagoon

Their laughter filled the air, for they did not care

As they played with her precious moon

As she glared down with a scornful frown

Into the cold lagoon

The nymphs still played on the swirling waves

With the ever sparkling moon

Her eyes glittered with spite, much to the fright

Of those near the cold lagoon

The sky turned grey along the bay

Everywhere dark clouds were strewn

They began to fall, and the high winds called

Down to the cold lagoon

“A storm is due!” A sickly hue

Stretched o’er the cold lagoon

At the screaming gale, the nymphs’ faces paled

Inside the cold lagoon

Gloom filled the sky and down they dived

Taking with them the silver moon

“Come back here fools, you cursèd ghouls!

And give me back my moon!”

She shrieked in vain, “I’ll have thee slain

For stealing my silver moon!”

None could revolt, she drew a bolt

To launch at the cold lagoon

But then she stopped, for she saw a dot

At the edge of the cold lagoon

“My lady, please, listen to me!”

Called the dot from the cold lagoon

For in the sand there stood a man

On the shore of the cold lagoon

The knight with a net said “Please don’t fret

My dearest goddess June

With a fisher’s skill I promise I will

Retrieve your precious moon

I’ll have nothing above your undying love

In exchange for the fallen moon

So promise me this, seal it with a kiss

And you shall have your moon”

 “Alright” said she, “but pray, hurry,

Bring back my silver moon!”

And she blew a kiss to the abyss

That was the cold lagoon

So the knight agreed and vowed to succeed

In his quest to retrieve the moon

He gathered up all his might, and in the cold night

Dove into the cold lagoon

He was brave and tough, but not enough

For the waves of the cold lagoon

He looked about, and then reached out

But found but a wat’ry tomb

She watched in shock ‘til he appeared on the rocks

On the shore of the cold lagoon

His face looked ill, and his heart went still...

And he did not have the moon

From her place in the sky, with a hopeless cry

She cursed the cold lagoon

“Vile waters blue, oh why did you

Take away my love so soon?”

And so she grieved that summer eve

In the fateful month of June

When her love disappeared, just as she feared

Into the cold lagoon

She cried each year and thus her tears

Filled up the cold lagoon

On summer nights under dim starlight

She wept... for her silver moon

Volume 26: The Robin

I open my eyes to the sounds of the city.

Yawning, I unfurl my stiff fingers.

They are a little blue at the tips, but I am used to it by now.

We both are.

A breeze brushes swiftly past us,

Probably hurrying off to work, Starbucks in hand.

There is something different about the air this morning.

A small bird hops across the sidewalk;

It has ordinary grey-brown feathers but its chest in a bold shade of vermillion – a robin.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, the gentle voice of a kindergarten teacher tells me that a robin is the first sign of spring.

Just the sight of it chases away the bleak memories of winter.

I watch as the bird opens its wings and takes flight, carrying the heaviness of my heart away into the sky.

My smile fades when I notice that the small figure huddled beside me has, after a long, harsh winter, stopped shivering.