Afraid to lose what
I’ve been hoping for.
My face, it wears the
seasons that I bear.
Can you forget the feeling
of the sun?
Again, I’ve feared to
let my heart’s hope bud.
Again, I pray, please God
don’t take this away.
A frosted branch
puts forth a tiny bud.
Its leaves have never
grown to see the sun.
It wanes as Winter
lasts another year.
My garden’s never grown
a rose before.
Tag: creative-writing
The Yamakazi
Gorilla in the jungles
of my heart.
Kujira in the oceans
Of my soul.
Green leaves on a stem.
Soon to be plucked.
dried. grinded.
Our warm cup of tea.
And I remember,
that was a good day.
Today, I am pressed.
We searched for
wines of gladness.
But it’s vinegar.
From past, present,
how does one stay whole,
When future threatens,
tearing you apart?
Godzilla.
The Perfumer’s Pew
If mercy was perfume, how might it be?
[The things I ponder sitting in the pew.]
Like rose, when plucked, does risk the hidden prick?
Or mint, who spreads out uninvitingly?
For valley-lily, backs need bow too low!
But bergamot must spend its first years bare.
It cannot be castoreum, for which the beaver bequeaths its life…
And oud’s infection takes too long to bear.
So spikenard, it’s too high a height to grow.
The dandelion dunce grows easily!
Or honey, in whose heart the stingers stick?
With riddled reasons, sit here, me and you.
I wonder, what is mercy’s recipe?
Disappointed
“The stench is bad today,”
or so he said.
But this is me, you can’t
change who you are.
Then busy comes, I don’t
have time to care.
And so the embers fade.
No longer does my incense
fill the air.
That which defined me
watches from afar.
“Today you have no scent,”
another said,
disappointed.
Reflections
I use my writing to escape,
don’t you?
Like stepping through a door:
Life disappears!
But something needs to change,
which may be me…
And pages of my diary:
Little mirrors.
Each one, a chance
to see my world anew.
the fragrance writer 