Seize the day...

 Lightly touch

the surface of the book.

     Slide your finger

down its spine.

     Caress it

just ever so slightly.

     Open a page

or two… feel it with your skin.

     Hold it

with both your hands.

     Carry the book

and hold it close.

     Gently cradle

as if it were your lover.

     You, sick,

sick, sick bastard.

Counting isn’t much fun at all

If you have to count the hours

You have to wait for a bus

Or that phone call at 1 am

And those times you’re apart.

Counting doesn’t satisfy

our vagrant, foolish, longing

For the things yet to come,

Those futile minutes ‘til dawn

Where minds rise asundered.

Counting makes no sense.

Its use contained only inside

textbooks of elementary

Arithmetic.

And I myself once used

My tiny fingers to signify

Ones, twos and threes

All of which don’t matter at all

While writing in the darkness

at the middle of the night.

Just count the sheep.

I just realized that I haven’t posted this here yet. This is a poem I made around December of last year.

“Just close your eyes, the sun is going down. You’ll be alright. No one can hurt you now. Come morning light, you and I’ll be safe & sound…” (Safe & Sound — Taylor Swift feat. The Civil Wars)

     The fields I’ve walked on are barren and the ground was covered with frost. The leafless branches of the trees hung sombrely around us. The smell of napalm filled the air and my ears are still deafened. Life is not how it used to be anymore… yet I continued walking. The slightest stop for unadulterated air meant danger.

     I must have walked for miles, the scenery never changing.

     But it didn’t matter. I looked down upon your genteel face. You were sleeping. It was as if you were blissfully unaware of the horrible echoes of war. I continued on. My clothes, already soiled. And for days I have not eaten. The village where we came from, probably decimated. I think forlornly of your grandparents. I think of the baker, the old men in the synagogues, the housewives, and all our neighbours. Faces I won’t be able to see again.

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(j)

The drab city life

Peeks from behind the covers

Of a run-down building

(k)

Rain falls in torrents

Drowning polluted highways

Under a deluge

(l)

Heated waves scatter

Water across the sand dunes

A desert mirage

     There is a bottle that lies in broken shards on the sidewalk, glistening in the heat like the seaside jewels of a fabled kingdom. Perhaps it was a phial for a love potion, an old witch’s brew, the vessel of a letter by a girl who once lived near the water, several dreams of a woman who met an early death, remnants of a trinket that a husband gave to a battered wife. It could have been many things, but now it remains useless, mere fragments that stir poignant fantasies.

(g)

Words still linger on

Whspering in silence

On a cold twilight

(h)

Night’s shining stars fade

From the darkened horizon

Morning light shines

(i)

Bright October moon

You illuminate my path

With your ghostly glow

In old walls of plaster, my covenants lie
Amidst the wet cracks and peeling paint,
Hidden in the darkest of corners.
There they breed on the cobwebs
Along with cannibalistic spiders, red and loathing;
My words subdued by the quiet veil
Of stillness, echoed… and echoed back.
Where is my crown? Where is my scepter?
I wear it upon my head, a rusted ring
Recycled from old kitchen cans
A reminder of a kingdom once thought
But never been able to rule.
My scepter, I’ve lost it in the cold,
Pall night in which I lie menacing
The old figureheads hiding on the shelves.
Aha! Where have they gone now?
Perhaps a midnight snack.