To send a letter is a good way to go somewhere without moving anything but your heart. ~Phyllis Theroux
The Paradox Of Life …
It’s raining tonight; it has been raining every day of this week. I have quite a few poems about the charming sound of drops falling on the windows, but in reality, from where I stand, I can barely hear any sound because of the metal blinds my windows and doors have. I could leave them open and listen to the rain coming and going, at times whispering; but on the next day, the first thing that I will see, is the dirt left on the glass and the idea of rain and charm together, will vanish within seconds.
I used to feel uncomfortable with rain. For years the memory of departing boats and big, salty monsters eating up the waving hands tortured me. While the rain took even the moment of grief away, not letting any tears to the surface. And then, one happy moment of another rainy day was enough to make me forget the fears that came with the rain.
It’s strange how poets find beauty in things which at a second glance are not that beautiful. Like the love shower scenes in movies, huge passion behind the steamed glass! The actual scene is blurry, but the running hot water and the silhouettes deserve an astonishment: ” Wow, how great is that!” And when a real life, shower scene comes, I find out pretty fast that the steam, the feverish emotions are only a fiction, because the walls bite with cold and turn every kiss into an awkward moment.
Sometimes even staring at the moon is a kind of paradox, especially when there is a big lemon tree on the way. I like the view from your balcony. I wonder what is it to live so high above the ground? Is it noisy when the wind is around? Do you feel the sun heat even more; do you see the stars better? I wonder if I ever will be able to see the skies over there standing next to you?
The skies here look sad tonight. I don’t know why I start my first letter with a hint of melancholy, maybe because of the rain, maybe because of the distance!
If it was a week ago, I’d probably spill rage and sorrow for the burned streets of Athens and I’d curse the day I came here. If it was a hot summer night, then I’d sure write you a poem, sweet words to make you smile while you gaze at the stars and think of what taste the coffee will have on the next morning.
But it’s tonight and it rains, and I wish I could share the rain with you, but we are just strangers that once found a common musing, and this letter is just a random page of a forgotten book that no one will ever read; and the only good part is that as a stranger you could never leave me, because you were never here to begin with…
© 2012 Broken Sparkles
Poets of the fall
Years from now,
the grief of the autumn leaves
will lead you to the crypt of
an origami, paper crane.
Under the obsolete dust,
where red plumeria once grew,
there will be a tale of ebony hearts.
Carved in the words of a script,
flashbacks on the edge of omission
will let you in on secrets
about crippled fantasies,
about a kiss and a gaze at the stars
that could turn the gray daylight
into an ivory moonlight.
The wind doesn’t need to know
how like lovers of the summer we held
the last drops of sultry bruises,
the rain doesn’t have to remember
how like poets of the fall we kept
the candle lights on our lips, because
destiny gave us the clarity of the dawn.
© 2011 Broken Sparkles