Category: Poems

I fan a deck of cards and ask
To pick the one you think is us.
You scan our deck of days and say
“But this is so ridiculous.
One day, we were a two of spades –
Too tired from our daily jobs.
Another day, a six of clubs –
We sucked with glee on boiled cobs.
And then another, diamond ten –
We found our wealth in happy tears.
And then that day, a queen of hearts –
We learned to love beyond our fears.
So, even if you force me now,
To pick just one is very hard.
I swear, this is no gendiri.
I see an us in every card.”

It’s time you stopped being Peter Pan,
The boy who’s all potential,
With promise to be anyone
He chooses to grow up to be.

But all he sees is Captain Hook,
Adulting by escaping Time
That ticks inside a crocodile.
If growing up means running scared
And being a coward, hurting all,
It’s better to refuse to grow.

But that entails a hefty price:
To shun responsibility
And run away from kith and kin.
For if you stay, and stay a kid,
The same potential praised by all
Will stink pathetic, burdensome.
And while you may have self-esteem –
Though even that is doubtful now –
You’ll slowly lose your self-respect.
And, trust me, they are different things.

I know you’re scared to even try.
No matter what you do, you’ll fail
To rise to said potential,
And so you’re building Neverland
With made-up perils, nemeses,
Who sabotage your every try.
But know that even stories stink
If heroes are forever stuck.

Begin, instead, by aiming low.
Then lower that to lower still,
Until you know you’ll get it done.
Without complaint. Without excuse.
And then you do it yet again.
And then, again. And then, again.
And once you get the hang of that,
Go find the smallest daily chore
For which you can be counted on.
And once you do that smallest thing,
Go find the smallest next in line.
And then, again. And then, again.
Until you’re carrying all you can.

Of course, you’ll face the ticking croc.
Already, it has got your taste.
So, don’t get all hooked up with it.
You do your thing and let it rest.
Of course, it will not let you be.
Of course, it will come after you.
But why engage it, make it mad?
You do what you’re banked on to do.
So, when your final day does come,
You’ll be a man, a Peter Some.

My mirror shows my fading youth,
My fading year of burned out heart,
My burned out poetry of love,
My loved ones gone or almost gone,
My almostness of everything.

I wipe my glasses, look again.
Behind me, bricks of history books
Remind me, “Things were even worse.”

She offered me the larger piece
Of her KitKated future dream.
I twisted off the lid from mine
And let her lick the Oreo cream.

I’m scared the year is ending soon.
I’m scared of all I haven’t done.
I’m scared I’ve squandered all I’d earned.
I’m nowhere on the map I’d drawn
Around this time the previous year,
When I was scared the year was gone.

December is the twilight where
My history repeats itself.

You slipped out through horizon’s crack,
A letter posted “From, This Place.”
And “To, Another.” Stampless. Sealed.
But “Confidential”. With a wink.

“I’ve never trusted emails, see?
You cannot count on them at all
To lose themselves along the way.”

So, May the Force misplace you, Bro.
I’ll write to you regardless, though.

I find inside an addict’s pants
A coin of steel with iron words:
“Remember you could die tonight.”
The other side: a skull and bones.
I guess this girl assumes it means
“It’s rather pointless anyway.”
And so she fucks away her days.

But then I find another coin.
Another quote insists to “Do.”
The other side: “The next right thing.”
And that is when I understand
I’m just a “thing” for her tonight.
But that’s okay. At least, I’m “right.”

My options are confusing me:

I know which one is right, which wrong.
I know which brings them peace, which war.
I know which brings me joy, which pain.
But neither seems to keep me sane.

The right brings joy, but also war.
The wrong brings pain, but also peace.

The right for me is wrong for them.
The wrong for me is right for them.
I’ve love for me, I’ve love for them.
But I’m still me, and they’re still them.

No matter how I squint my eyes
I cannot see me one of them.
Because I see a them of them.
Not him and her and ze and zir,
But them and them and them and them.

And then, I wonder how I know
The war, the peace, the joy, the pain.
And even if I know these, how
I know the right, the wrong, the sane.

I toss a coin and close my eyes,
But hear no cheer for either choice.
I roll the coin into a bowl,
And beg for mercy for my soul.

In Venus Breakfast Bakery,
As crusty loaves arise with yeast,
One hears the seven waking neighs
Of solar chariot in the east.

One sees the twinkling pentagrams
Suspended ‘cross the window sill,
As nature’s bakers rise and stretch
Their culinary chlorophyll.

There’s much in me I can unlock,
And yet I wait for Chance to knock.
But even then I ask who’s there,
And turn away from Chance’s stare.