Butterfly Tears

There is beauty in sadness too.

Well, I suppose that's what I get for being lazy and taking a picture with my phone... but I think the blurriness works here... *finding excuses*

Wild Honeysuckle

The air smells of the trees' breath,
And I catch the last wink of the sun
Before it closes its eyes

There is rustling in the leaves
As birds call out to the wind
Declarations of life

A scent drifts on by
Familiarly sweet and soft
But I know not from where it comes

Just as it fades
The wind wafts it my way
Lifting my head in its direction

Those wild honeysuckles
Smile down at me delightfully
Like an old friend

The day's relay over,
As the sun passes the torch
To the approaching moon

The smell lingers in my mind
As I write down these words, 
The fireflies are dotting my i's.

In the Middle of the Storm

The baritone roar of the thunder
Shakes awake the drowsy windows,
So they can witness the whip of lightning
Cut across the dark flesh of the sky.
The shattering of rain on surfaces
Like the chatter of the eager audience,
Plays in the background of the scene.
The light dims a little, catching attention,
As the wind cuffs itself to branches
Making them sway back and forth helplessly
Stirring up chaos in the trees,
And I stand there, in the middle of it all,
Watching the world being directed by the storm. 

Bewitched

I am in water and looking up
At how the light strikes
The surface of the ocean
Displaying patterns of awe.
My limbs are splayed
Like an awkward starfish
My hair, seaweed hair,
And my hands are open
Trying to catch the flow
Of water, but it escapes,
A gasp of breath escapes
My lips as I pull from you,
From your deep eyes ,
Your close embrace,
Your curved smile,
Your bottomless love.

My 200th post deserves something sensual. <3

Victoria College, Room 101

There are spirits in the room
As the light pours in, illuminating
The floating words from old texts read
The shadows are etched into the walls
From the past, the same youths
Whom with opened doors to their minds
Welcomed the history that swirled
In that same room, and with my own
Opened door and opened chest
I took in the words
Sitting in the same pew-like seats
Smelling the pages of divine writers
Of the past and there is something
Holy and sacred about them,
Knowing that they came from hands
That have created something
Timeless, that lives to this day
And I believe wholly with my being
Sitting in my usual second row seat
That they live in me, as my shadow
Converse with the ones on the walls
Of the present past, and I am comforted
And strangely attracted to this room,
As if I have been there all along,
As if this is where I should be,
As my shadow is etched into the wall.

Waking up early for my 16th Century Poet & Prose class is always worth it.
This room, so historical and nostalgic, makes me feel so... so in awe.
Of all the things that have transpired, all the passage of time, the learning.
I really did see dancing spirits and have one within myself as well.

Ekphrasis

The sky had been clawed open
Like a ripped canvas, beneath it, the blue
The birds scattered from the trees
Like confetti being blown by the wind
The dark branches in the fading sun
Like ink seeping into the night
There is no end and no beginning
Like a scroll that runs for ten thousand miles
That I write on.

The Ribbon Dancer

When I write, I always find myself
Closing my eyes and seeing a speck of light.
And when I open my eyes, I see before them,
A vision of a ribbon dancer, a figure of
Secretive strength and awe delight.
I touch the tip of my pen to paper,
As she taps her toes on the floor,
The ink flows out as I press to make a mark,
Her ribbon flies to wherever she commands.
Every graceful movement she makes
Like a cursive letter weaved from my pen,
Floating, darting, here and there,
Like some curious nose tasting the air.
And as the rhythms grow untamed and fast,
The crack of her ribbon explodes into colours,
An extension of herself into the outside,
As my writing grows longer and longer
Like vines, leaves and flowers blooming
From the stem until a period is placed at the end.
Her motions are fluid, and all her gestures
And twirling, complicated and tangle-like
But it always ends up coming out clean.
As the performance is nearing its conclusion,
She falls to her knees, still waving the ribbon,
Not in surrender, for she then let her back fall,
Arms open, eyes open, heart open, mind open
As if offering something to the Muses in return
And my pen comes to a stop.

A Storm's Symphony

Crescendo
Forte, rage
Incessant pounding, strumming
All in unison
The rain marches on
Falling on tympani
The sound vibrations in the air
Like hands and fingertips
Enveloping and touching me
The way air does,
The way air courses through my body
I can feel my soul grow
Like soft, dangerous gray clouds
Like shadows on a sharp note
Like the lines running on and on
My heart beats to the crash of the cymbal
I'm washed by the wave of notes
My body in its command
Aye, I am music's puppet

Change in Season

My eyelids descend like night
When I opened them,
I came to realize that
The once barren trees
On which I hoped for green
Are now once again bare,
For the birds are leaving the trees
The skeleton frame against the gray
Sways to the crunch made by feet
As each foot steps on the once green
Skeletal leaves dried up by the fading sun
The wind, like an automatic broom,
Sweeps up those remains untidily
And the streets are littered
With colours of orange, red, and, yellow.

Ode to Thunder

It's raining
And it's grey
But the thunder
Acts like sun's rays

And everything
Would seem right,
If not for rain bullets,
Because it's so bright

I can't say enough
Of its magnificence
Or how it tickles
All of my senses.

Butterfly Wings

His love is butterfly wings
Fragile, colourful, and soft
They carry me across the sky
To the sweet petals of flowers.

La pluie

The way it rained
Even an umbrella got me drenched
A second bout of rain came,
When the wind came
And shook the pregnant leaves
Like the scattering of arrows in an ambush
They aimed very well
As each drop plops upon my cold skin, warm body
Like bombs they were
Making my clothes a second skin.

They keep falling endlessly
Little fireworks they make as they land
I reached out my hand and caught a family
They rolled around fearfully, trying to escape
Off my skin they ran
Some drops gather and try to bring down my defense
Some drops, isolated, awaiting suicidally
Oh, powerful they are, changing the world
Into a different colour
From indifference to liveliness.

This was what I wished for
This was the day I waited for
I wished for warm rain
And I got it.

When the Wind Blows

Moving lights
Captured my attention
I looked towards
The flickering
Imprinted on the ground
I lifted my sight to the window
And watched the leaves
Waving back and forth
In the wind.

Stroke of Light

The molecules vibrate
Even harder when there is lightning
And I find it more
Frightening
To hear sirens in the distance
Than how close the crack was.
And I find myself
Praying for the safety of others.
While I lay on my back
The roof, the only thing
That separates me from the rain,
The cold,
The magnificence.

Picturesque

I walked by your house today
Your street is serene
The wind blows hot air
Through the canopied path
The cotton from the cotton tree
Floated through the air effortlessly.
It was snowing in June.

*

I looked at the house
Marked by the familiar number
It stood against the bright blue sky
Shadows falling upon the lawn
No, it was not an extravagant building;
It was comfortable
And warming, even heart-wrenching,
Reeking of nostalgia,
Happier times and smiles.

Thunder and Lightning

Glorifying,
Justifying,
Magnifying,
Beautifying.

Spring

I want to run on greener pastures
And lie in the tall grass
Taking in the scent of the moist air
Feel the sunshine splashed onto me
Trace the clouds with my finger
Observe the playful chase of life
And sleep with the window open
Open to the nightlife that is reborn.

Liberated

The little girl
Dressed in a soft cotton dress
With yellow rain boots
And a soft scarf given to her
By her mother,
Around her neck
Running on the green pasture
Of the welcoming meadow
Chasing after butterflies
With a net in her tiny hands
Laughing, giggling
The warm breeze
Caressing her hair and scarf
As the sun begins to set
In the cloudless, magenta sky.

Wind

I am floating through the window,
Carried into oblivion
The wind whispered and whistled
Secrets of the sun
I am resting on a pile of clouds
My hand reaching out
To the sea of skies,
And I caught a star.