May 14, 2009

A museum of history

I step into a museum, silent as a crypt. Archives of old men speak of glories of their blood and toils till into dust they were interred. Artifacts by great craftsman blare into living legends, men whose blood even now trembles in these veins. Legend slides into eternity, a dazzling star transfixed in orbit breathes again and again.
From the dust of archives I shovel a desire to unearth a silent pit, my roots entangled in its fragile connection. A specter emerges from the mirror of time, looking into its many reflections, like a cloud-burst revealing a rainbow. The images, smudged and opaque, glimmer like light through a blanket of clouds.

I walk away, with my illusions, a curious heart seeks to create and destroy
idols, over and over again.


Before globalization.

we nested in our small shells
measuring the world by our size

the orbit of our lives
we viewed through a microscope

our interconnectedness was slim
on a human level

our differences wide open
to a vastness we could not scale

our wholeness was scarred
our life lived only in pieces

we clung to known values
like a drowning man to straw

our lives were often devastated
by a single stroke

of death, or other calamities
on our shrinking thresholds

a life beyond ourselves surpassed us
unable to face a maelstrom

with new resolves
and fresh beginnings.

After globalization

Our global perception
like a vast panorama opened

the luxuriance of life
startled us into awakening

our vision of ourselves
grew like our shadows at midday

the potential of our lives
blossomed like a garden in spring

our universe stretched
we shrank into small atoms

our connectedness gave us power
our separateness anchored on self

nothing mattered too much
nor too little, in a wider meaning

of our collective humanity,
ever gathering stones to construct

our individual foibles
dissolved into a bigger cup

we shed our isolation
to enter a global order.

A Symphony

Composing a symphony of lyrical notes I tap inner voices swirling around in archives of past, present and futuristic notes. An intrinsic force composes tunes creating a finer symphony to the touch of a sensitive nerve and then come into life. In all creations of art, a new life is born from the threshold of a previous one, when a discerning eye whisks everything finesss into a final synthesis; this new form is abstract like thought, with an eternal life; neither touched nor marred by the verbal or physical hand.

The mystic lives on, on waves driven through a metaphysical being; his vanes do not wilt; they bypass time; they are not swayed by a covetous heart that sometimes wills to love and at times to destroy.

When the song lives; he also lives through his song; every time it is played he comes alive filling the moving air swirling into an unseen catalyst.

This force can sometimes change lives forever.

Oceans of silence

The words not yet uttered into speech move between us, trembling like a leaf, touching our lonely shores like sound passing through a empty cave. Deeper than silence, we go, farther away than the beyond. Anchored in the moment of now and present, where only the tangible sits. Love needs no voice to express itself. It is not to be a vassal of euphoria tearing at my heartstrings. It carries its song in the flutter of a bird’s wings; in the rustle of leaves; in the sound of the wind.

In a vast sea of silence a drop of sound falls from a languid moon, hiding between tall trees, whispering to a wave, which further commands many ripples to stir a storm in the ocean. Such sounds can be full of meaning yet having no shape they are not slaves to time neither the ethics of constraint. Sounds have some of the qualities of mysticism, veiled and formless, always on the edge, yet never falling over it. They do not have the impetus to quickly step into other’s spaces and invading them. Seeping, with a gradual ascent, a silent osmosis in a plant, without force, follows one’s own instincts


I relish creativity. For this is life and blood to the spirit. As I regard change as the energy to life that keeps waste from gathering. As I am afraid of the conservatism of the old that holds on to decay, and decries the buoyancy of change.

I long to taste the succulent air doused in the morning air. I watch sunlight entering a niche. energizing it with light. I glimpse a bird joyfully flying with lightning speed. I am a harbinger of light, a lamp post shedding light around it. I can be a catalyst for change, twirling the air to move freely in a changing constellation.

I exist for I am free. I survive for I am free. I scale mountains only when I am free.
The womb of nature liberated me at birth.

I am afraid

I am afraid of decay. I fear it more than death for death is only a finality waiting at the terminal. Whereas decay can be lurking around the corner; waiting like an interloper. It can strike anytime, with no respect for time or age. It can cut down youth, slow down growth, make energy, static. All this by word or action or inaction; Silence itself is the worst kind of death, because it prolongs the agony by giving it a tacit approval, leading all to an untimely decay.

I am afraid of the worship of convention in youth. This will shut their minds to the fresh winds of tomorrow. They will be like closed rooms, dark and unventilated. There will be no fragrance here, no quick spark of spontaneity. They will be like old men and women, whose life has bypassed them, and they cannot look beyond, will not hope beyond.

I am afraid of the conservatism of the old that holds on to decay, and decries the buoyancy of youth. They have lived out their lives and need to let go of their progeny. Their palates are dry but their hearts need not be. The dry twig must smell the fragrance in the air, so that it can stay alive. .

I am afraid of the absolute truth to an unchanging, static world.

May 9, 2009


Sealing moments
in a tiny nutshell
intensity cascading
like a torrent
treasured moments
classic through the eons

Beauty shimmers
trapped in totality
exquisite in its integration
a single petal in a rose
drops not to decay

Time encapsulated
singular photography
irrevocably stilled
death wrapped in myths
at its fragile existence


In volumes of masks
her face lies swathed
as she wraps her nudity
hurriedly, in shame,
before it brushes a crimson cheek

Pretenses enliven
her ashen cheeks
like earthworms, a garden
nibbling voraciously
before the fall,

Staging a parody
to mock her viewers,
her expertise soaring
in theatrical tactics
of shallow mimicry,

As the hollowness
of her inner self
she fills with a fa├žade
amidst a dying applause.