shinghand

Under the streetlights in the midst of night, we met. You have a moderate frame; feminine, dressed in black and dark blue. I look at you, with my shallow guise of foolish worldly happiness. You stare back at me strongly, unconcerned and unafraid, seeing past my fictitious disguise; as if daring me to show myself. I drop my guard. A myriad of emotions flood the psyche. They are of passion. Waves of dark, beautiful feelings emerge from the depths of the heart. They have been called out to by the simple attraction and feeling. And although this was our first real meeting, I seemed to know you from so long ago, The voice of rea

I stroll down the river’s bank towards the direction of the setting sun; orange beautifully fills the sky. It is cloudless. The air seems magical; crinkled maple leaves fall slowly and quietly as if whispering love poems. The sun begins to hide under the mountain. Beautiful. I sit down on the edge of the river and peer into the crystal clear water. My face is reflected inside; what I am, what I represent. But as I look closer, The vision fades away and images form in my head. Familiar faces and experiences; happy smiles, sad partings, all are touching and warm. A teardrop falls from my eye, and in slow motion, drops in

I remember your bright eyes from childhood with their big, round pupils like cute tadpoles swimming in water. I remember – how they used to well up with tiny glass beads; sparkling clear miniscule crystals of purity. Brim, bubble, brim, bubble, in your eyes I could drown feelings for acceptance and comfort. Now, it was just last week when I saw those two tadpoles swimming they looked at me with a curious gaze innocent and carefree, playful; uncomfortable under the baby blue ultraviolet light. And your eyes brimmed, bubbled, brimmed, bubbled full of love for your newborn son. And as I tore away my tadpoles from you they s

I would like cheerful and warm students, With inquisitive minds and a vivid imagination; A beautiful school, with a large staff office; A large library, with just a couple of small, cozy classrooms, named after my favorite literary writers. A staff lounge with all sorts of treats: Coffee, tea, snacks for those rainy days When I have to stay up marking Too many examination scripts by the next day for not-too eager students. A place where I can inspire. I would like freedom; to walk around the campus immersed in the fresh smell of spring, the luscious gardens silently fishing for poetic inspiration I would like to walk through c

(i) I look up clouds loom ominously in the sky like a dull gray portrait of doom. Apprehensive; it casts a dark shadow of blackest absolute doubt. A light rain falls tiny beads of crystal strike my body piercing my soul, pitter-patter It echoes in my head: The sound and stench of failure. (ii) Finally the clouds clear. Long, large drops of rain slowly trickle down rooftops. It has a faint rhythm to it; Drip, drip, drip : a silent reminder. Rainwater creeps into the drains, taking with it my sorrow as people begin to reemerge from their dwellings.

(So,) close friend, as you sit glum on the stands, my heart is extended to you; but you are unreachable. Where once was innocence and light-hearted and playful hands, all that remains are your cold determined eyes and hands locked heavy with sadness. Why have you chosen to be so harsh to yourself? You used to be carefree: we laughed and played in childhood we were tart, alive. But as a year passed you grew burdened with the load of life who deals cards of savage misfortune. Bravely, you choose to tackle him yourself slipping down a darkening road which leads to sorrow and loneliness; false, harsh maturity. So, close frie

The waters whispers its silent siren’s call, barely audible. Though still and unmoving the pool radiates coolness; like a lover’s tender caress. Inside, one sees the pale dim light of the full moon, enigmatically swirling on the water’s surface moving in rhythm with my breathing quick, but controlled. I look down into the water with anticipation anxious, excited, and just a tiny touch of apprehension. I take the plunge. Inside, the world is utterly dark. Its shadowy depths furrow and twist, intertwine: the richest black and the darkest purple dancing together in an endless haze like the frenzied, passionate m

Captured here, on film: your pretty smile a golden sunflower. In those moments, your face, little thing, would bloom - so brightly, so naturally! pull at the edges, forming a happy little grin. Your jet-black hair fell in smooth locks; their bangs only stopping right above your happy eyes - it looked almost as if your eyes were shyly and playfully hiding. Yet they were warm, radiant, free-spirited eyes. And then I would remember those times: how you used to keep your hair long until it touched your shoulders. You look nicer now, with it neater, much more feminine, but still; I liked it better when it was long. You seemed m

One morning, you awoke and knew exactly what you had to do. you unwrapped yourself like a cocoon, the simple cracking of a broken shell I envisioned the snake skins of my childhood adventures, scattered at your feet. When I was small and the days were warm I would play in the cool mud sloshing my feet and rolling soft, earthy clumps in my hands. I would be left exhausted caked in a dried layer of brown skin, browner than me, browner than anything. I imagine you, shaking off those layers in one graceful motion, the pieces falling downwards like shards of glass one morning you knew exactly what to do you arose like a pho

"I want to go home," she says. "The night's just started," says a boy, patting her on her back, on her bra strap. "You can't go home now. Would you like a drink?" No. "Yes." Because she knows the rules, she's learned them all your life. If you can't beat them, join them! Something to be said in a state of strident good cheer, with a grin splattered on your face and your arms around friends. She can't beat this boy; she doesn't even know his name. All she knows is what she can see: his obsidian black hair, his close together green eyes. He is drunk. She watches him fight his way through the crowds to the bar, from her position by the pool t

Of all the little betrayals that make up our lives nowcrossing names out of diaries and tearing photographs in halfI think, maybe, that this one is the worst. We reuse pet names and arguments until the language of new loves is indistinguishable from the last; settle back into old selves and old habits, like comfortable chairs or well-worn clothes; carving the other's name and heart into fresh skin.

Under my bed, there's a photo album. Filled with photos of a childhood that seems all blue skies and sunflowers. Idyllic, you could say, and would—unless you knew the full story. And maybe then you would notice something in the eyes, in the poses, in the strained smiles. Something that doesn't seem quite right. I looked at those photos yesterday, for the first time in years. It was painful to be reminded. Oh, my childhood wasn't horrendous, but when your family seems to be falling down around you like a castle, it's difficult to enjoy playing with Barbies and toy trucks as much as you should. One photo in particular brings me back to the ti

we caught our breath with butterfly nets                and exhaled the pieces of each other's wings that stuck in our lungs. the sky gave a shiver and the stars unsealed, their firefly cores shimmering       and fluttering toward us. plucking them from the air, they slip between our fingertips       and fall like butterfly wings to the ground. we conduct the celestial engagement with       our metallic hearts that control this unsteady rhythm of       love crescendos and staccato love-making. like conductors in an orchestra. our lives write the love songs.

               an·te·ced·ent      And I spoke to my walls, discovering that the only difference           between them and her was                a coat of paint and a pulse,                     and often-- just the pulse.              

chapped lips mouth raindrops as they fall, laden, onto the pavement and pool. —childhood in one slick soaked splash, traced friendly into moisture on a window. and in the fade of water from windowpane lies allegory to the length of carelessly choppy days. these scenes bathed in molten sun lend themselves well to glossy re-portrayals, penned with the weight of age and experience —or so I’d like to think, that each year doesn’t shrivel a soul (or do chests beat with facsimiles of hearts— wrapped tight in wind and water, heavy with hope and pain of promise.)

I thought I saw weakness in their hope, in one vision of the cityscape; when what I saw was the iron grid, braced with electric swells; traced across the sky in grime and gleaming. I could also see: the leaping in their eyes, drawn skin, the white of bone, dragging out of muscle, stretching dreams. I couldn’t see:   moving water, light catching the windowpane, knotted strength in calves, possibility.