Sevenling (Searching)

Revised:

The day was humid and stifling like a bad migraine
while night crippled with stiffness of rheumatoid arthritis,
and early morning, congestive heart failure.

Alone in the house, I searched for you
in the gold ring you left behind, in the red hat
you used to wear and the brown sweater you last bought.

Outside the room, the staircase creaked a moan.

First draft:

The day was humid and stifling like a bad migraine
while night crippled with stiffness of rheumatoid
arthritis and early morning, congestive heart failure.

Alone in the house, I searched for you
in the gold ring you left behind, in the red hat
you used to wear and the sweater you last wore.

Outside the room, the staircase creaked a moan.

Bare

Revised:

The museum is silent
except for the sound
of exhibits not breathing,
of a mummy not unwrapping itself,
of dinosaurs’ bones not creaking,
of birds not flapping their wings,
of bugs not crawling
and of emptiness not hissing at you.

Our house is bare
except for the collection
of things untouched,
of lights not turned on,
of doors not unlocked,
of sofa not sat on,
of cupboards not opened
and of thoughts not thrown away.

First draft:

The museum is silent
except for the sound
of exhibits not breathing,
of a mummy not unwrapping itself,
of dinosaurs’ bones not creaking,
of birds not flapping their wings,
of bugs not crawling
and of emptiness not hissing at you.

Our house is bare
except for the collection
of things untouched,
of lights not turned on,
of doors not unlocked,
of sofa not sat on,
of cupboards not opened
and of mind not emptied of thoughts.

The Sky

The sky is a patchwork of blue and white,
free patterns as haphazard as life.
She tumbles over bitter words, stop
mid sentence and bite her lower lip.
The chair creaks under her weight
as her head turns toward the sun,
her eyes ready for a cliche.
I can only speak of the separation
of day and night, of the moon
that shines but has no light,
and that her existence
is not an illusion but a life.
Then she looks at the sky,
a patchwork of blue and white,
free patterns as haphazard as her life.

Leaves

We saw the wind,
tossing crinkled leaves up
in the air like ripples
on a pond, its breath
drowning their faint rustling.
Young ones, nodding
and bouncing, hung
onto trees swaying
in a surrender to some calling.
Cars in suffocating haste
further the chaos as she watched
from her bed by the window, calm
oblivious to turmoil,
this state of life and death
in nature’s struggle.

Easter Lilies

Your sweat has bloomed
and the Garden of Gethsemane
is deserted except for trumpets
blowing a promise of spring.

White and glowing
in your room, bonding
me with the fragrance
of Remember Me,
Easter Lilies adorn
my dreams each year.

Sparrows

Haze and smog in early April;
the city skyline disappeared.
An angry sun burned
the trees into a misty image
on the pond and an orange
glow skimmed the surface,
like the aurora in her eyes.

An electric streamer cracked
the sky and stone birds
turned into sparrows and flew.
Her chuckle was as swift
as their wings and the cable
like an eyebrow twitched in tune.

Lily

Flowers tell a different story.
She loved them. Brilliant red
Carnations are nectar to the eyes.
And yellow fluff balls of Chrysanthemums
vied for top spot. It was always a tie.
Then she sprang a surprise.
Her favourite was the Lily, pastel and pink.

Groundhog Day

Some nights when the clock
becomes my heart and the ceiling
a movie screen, her story plays
a midnight series and the wall hums
the background music. Reels are sealed
like cornea to the eye and there's no remotefor rewinding or button for editing.
They only serve Deja Vu or Groundhog Day.

Smell of Rain

Ants scurry into cracks of pavement
as rain sizzles the air and drums
the leaves and petals in tuneless melody.
Smell of heat fills the nostrils like a wisp
of ammonia and gutters overflow
to spill crystals formed through years
of only having her stitched into memories.