Entelecheia (a poem)

What did Aristotle say about this? Where 

are the truths I have always believed

to be real? You know the lands

and oceans very well; I dream that one day

I will find land and finally stand on solid

ground. Tell me that I am lost at sail, and I'll tell you

that if only I knew how to signal the S.O.S.

and if only you knew how to read my signs,

I would never have to silence the things

that blaze from the best of my heart; it harbors

Entelecheia: your words will speak to me

of the things I do not know and will never tell

myself about love. You will resonate the truths

I have always believed

to be real so that even brilliant Aristotle

would wake from his grave and agree:

I need to find land--I'm signaling the S.O.S.

You need to read the signs.

Behind the Easel

To the self that still hides behind her theories.

I went behind the easel and hid there

Where you were; the landscape was too

Impossible—my manuals, though,

Had everything

There was to know. Painting 101 taught me

To draw inspiration from life; Life

Had used to teach me how to paint.

How to Paint

Is nice to read. I finished the book

Behind the easel and thought you’d

Like it for sure. Read it. The book

Has everything there is to know

About the other side. A landscape

Would have been painted there

By Courage, by neither you nor I.

Leave him to do it; these manuals

Are far more interesting. Ignore

The landscape outstretched before us.

Behind the easel is a pretty blank

Canvas we could paint together.

Tomorrow: an Apostrophe

I'll call on Tomorrow to decide for me.
Two things to choose from;
One choice
To be happy about
Or to regret.
Ugh.
Or both.
My enemy and
My goal
Are at some kind of a war.
I don't wanna be the fighter,
Tomorrow.

Coming Home

I have been to places where the gates never opened,

Where signs are bold and reasons blinding,

Where the only things present are the sounds of the clock,

Of the tales of days gone by, and of the curtains that close and open,

Open and close, close and open, and that’s what it’s always been like.

Open and close, too, the valves of the heart open and close,

And I breathe. There is pumping action and

The sound of beating that never stops. I run to the dwelling place

That awaits me, and I find you there.

I’ve been to open spaces where the sky falls above me,

And it swells to let the rain down. It’s a stage, and the play begins

Beaming with lights and sounds. I will keep hearing the

Sounds again, those which sounded like raindrops,

And I will keep feeling the rain again, that which falls on my head

And on the ground; now, I’m drenched everywhere,

Yet I keep walking because I see paradise somewhere. I feel delight

In the sight of everything new, but at last, I have come home,

I see you, I have found you, and I have known you.

Dreamscape Reality

For Med. Because it is just so fitting.

The things I will never fully
Understand about my person:
One, that I hate goodbyes. I could never live with too many.
The sun sets; the sun comes back. People do not
Always; the world misses out on a lot.
Two, that I love _____ and I _____;
And I, never fully understanding,
Would often pause to wonder how or why.
But in all of this, I wish you knew.

When a Child Loves

For Med, to tell him that I'm sorry.

When a child loves, it is pure,
sincere, and founded on good reason, yielding
to what is true and becoming of love,
unfaltering. The child,
even without having the most structured build-up of rationality,
cares for what is noble and fine.
When a child loves,
he loves with all his heart, for he is innocent,
passionate, and kind.

I am no longer a child, but I know that deep
within me, a love had never died; a flame still ignites
deep within my soul. Love obtains with candor; I exude love majestically
from the depths and patterns of my nature,
even as I am no longer of that bygone innocence,
more prone now to affliction,
more impressionable now to misinterpretation,
and even more foolish now to beliefs in a delusion.
When hourglasses and wine glasses start to break,
there I will stand, at the center, as the child who is willing
to give and live and love, again, even as I am grown,
even as I learn to put on rationality to kill off my spirit, and even as I grow indifferent,
to grow to lose the passion I had once learned to love with.

Control

For my hunting buddy, @LittleHuntress

This is me when I attempt to love in secret: the ball flings
to somewhere over the fence; my foot still thinks it did right,
and that it had never meant to strike a goal anyway. I lose control.
In my hand, I hold something that looks like a sword
or a fighting object, which I grasp tightly. Nobody
should ever take this from my possession. I use it to block people
away or hit them with, albeit not too often. Then I take my hoodie
and put on my cap. I will look like a rider for a while—dark, secretive,
mysterious—and with my weapon, I will destroy uncompromisingly.

But in my head, I am lying on the shoreline, loosening myself,
thinking of hourglasses and wineglasses unsparingly. And somehow,
I am able to bring the lost ball back again.

At the Table With You

I'm
at the table with you,
sipping coffee and passing time.
I gobble up packets of sweets while

trying
to keep my tongue from tasting
the sugar I had just popped
into my mouth,

not
being keen to facts like "sugar
has a bitter aftertaste" and "the tongue
is [usually] beyond our control," only

to
realize that time does not stop
for anything that melts fast.
I spit the particles out so as not to

fall
into a sugar rush, but the flavor
coats my tongue already, and the sensation
crawls around it irresistibly. Time never stops

for
anything at all, neither bitter nor sweet.
I excuse myself from the table, hoping that maybe
I could still wash the flavor away, but

you
stop me, hand me more sweets, and say it's for
my coffee. You have no idea: I really have to wash
this away. I have to resist those sweets.

Superorganism of My Days

Psalm 45:1

-

"Beautiful words stir my heart.

I will recite a lovely poem about the King,

for my tongue is like the pen of a skillful poet."

-

Superorganism of my days,

You make a lot of sense.

You feed the mind with wonder;

You are my sustenance.

With careful words, you satisfy;

I wake each morning in cadence.

You keep the poet’s song alive;

You are the difference.

My dosages are wisely spoken;

You penetrate in silence.

You unfurl deftly inside my soul;

You become my very essence.

As the heart writes with Your theme,

It blesses Your constant presence,

For You have first blessed this life of mine

With a craftsmanship of patience.

Twice Today, I Have Heard Your Name

"I hear people talking about you... XD 'med, come..." (5 July 2013; 01:30:02 p.m.)

For Med. Written after the PhySoc (Physics Society) Acquaintance Party.

There’s a sound that I hear that is loud in my ear,

And that sound is the sound of your name, my dear.

Past the crowds, down the hall, a subdued distant voice

Travels waves, resonates, calls above the noise.

Twice today, I have heard the same sound once again,

And I knew that I’ve missed you a lot since then.

First I heard was a group of young men in a game;

They had mentioned your name just before you came.

So I hoped that, again, I would hear what I’d heard;

I was keen to have heard a familiar word.

Then I saw, from behind, where you were, a lone star.

There you were, he whose name I’d heard from afar.

Overjoyed, I came near with good tales up my sleeve,

But the hour sped too fast, and you had to leave.

In my head, I had said, “Do not leave, please, not yet,”

But you left, anyway, though you would regret:

For the next that I heard was a girl dressed in white;

She had asked where you were—you were gone from sight.

Something About Her...

In the pool of the world,
She swims, and I watch her.
Underneath the surface is where I find her,
Where there is peace above all stillness
And feelings beyond comprehension.
Something about her is what I like about her.
There is light and darkness
In the span laid out before me;
She is Light, resisting buoyancy,
Underwater, and I see her.
There is no other sound
Than the sound she makes,
And I know very well that above the rest,
Her sound is loud,
Comforting, and intriguing,
Though there is nothing in the water
But silence.

Hives Days (Urticaria)

There is no better way I could think of the way I feel about you than by thinking that it is love...

Part I.

And I am the life of these creatures...
They cling onto my body and defile
My flawless skin, creating splashes of pale
Red and red all over...pure abstract.

And I am one grand of a bullseye
With dart holes all over... I have hives;
I am a walking hive (bees live in me,
In the balloon that is my heart).

Part II.

There were bees inside the balloon
(What felt like bees inside a balloon
Was tough love--suppressed,
Inside its shell, shy).

With a needle, you came
To burst the bubble. Bees flew out
(Love flew out--it was released
From its shell) quickly...

Part III.

They tried to make their way
To you (I tried to find you),
But they found me instead.
They flew to me, my skin...

They swarmed around me, my skin...
You have no idea. I wish I could fly
To you and tell you what I feel (those
Bees made a wrong turn) right now.

Part IV.

Five days of hives days... I wake, daily,
Without a smile to greet you. I have
Endured sleepless nights and dreamless.
The bed is a frightening place to be.

Then I would wonder to myself
If you ever wondered where I am. My heart
Is shut with feelings; I am consumed.
I long to be where you are, but I could not.

Thornberries

The poor animal had blood
Dripping from its lips,
For no one had forewarned it
That thornberry branches had thorns.
Blood tasted of sensational stillness.
Thornberries tasted of pain and bitterness.
Blood stained the animal's lips
As it walked away, aching,
When all it ever wanted to taste
Was sweetness.

Like Rope Against Rope

You've stuck around for quite too long for a first love.
You still coil around the arteries of my heart, entangling
Every delicate faculty of it like rope against rope,
Intertwining passionately, moving carefully about
The corners and the spaces, shaking the unit from within;
When the body does not break, the heart receives
What it echoes on mounts and vales, on rocks and plains,
On seas and shores. The dream awakens,
And a vast wide sky reopens. Everything about that sky
Moves in flocks: birds, dandelions, butterflies. Love:
The air has it. It multiplies inside the unit like bees
Inside a balloon, swarming furiously and fighting profoundly
To get out to meet the sky. Once it does, it empowers the unit
To relieve itself from all kinds of desolation. It becomes powerful
Enough to conquer what love cannot when love fails.
Love won't steal a kiss but the unit would, when it is able.

At the Center Where Ends Could Not Meet

I.

You know I'm not ready to face you.

You're reckless, unbelievable, of a good sort.

II.

You know I'm not ready to face you, and you know
How terribly I pretend. You might be too tired

Or too busy. I might clock in at a wrong time, and I'm afraid
You won't welcome me (do not believe this). You know I’m afraid.

Whatever today welcomed in its dawning,

I force to leave immediately.  It has to leave, right away.
It infects me to long for you. You know
I won't see you (do not believe this either). Currents: they confuse
A steady weather. Maybe the air today was too cold or the sun

Too high up that my inner landscape beheld currents, and I dislike

A part of it for being too excited. “Not yet!” says Side A, the cautious.
The other side knows how it should not believe in a velvet lie.
Two sides of the matter, poker-facing each other...

III.

You know yesterday can't repeat itself,
Yet I dare not believe it. Believe this: I cannot have another lie,

Another fight, another heartbreak, another day

To start to love to end in hate, or another night

To dream of forever to end in waiting for nothing. I do not want

A repetition of yesterday; yesterday is days

Or months or years ago. I may have hated you years ago,

Fought with you months ago, or tried to forget about you

Days ago, but each day tells of a different story—a better story perhaps
Than yesterday's: Yesterday, I may have loved you years ago,

Hugged you months ago, and remembered you, dreamed about you

Days ago, and you know why I'm not ready to face you.

We are doomed to forget and remember, hate and love…

IV.

Break it at the center, now, to end it with me. Do not break ends

To let ends meet again, or if you must, do not do it too fast.

Either end it now, or straighten it up and tighten it up to last…
You know I'm not (yet) ready to face you. Do not do it too fast.
You know that deep inside, you, too, would want to make this last...

V.

There was a time you knew the things

I wanted to do or say and I did not have to speak

When speaking was hard, mentally and emotionally.
The brain and the heart are two ends that do not meet.
Let me try something. It's your turn to speak.
Stand with me at the center (of loving and hating,

Of remembering and forgetting), and choose

Which way you want to go. Go on… Which side of the line?

VI.

Stand with me at the center and I know that you know

That between all our thinking and feeling,

We found a way to mend the gap by a touch

Of a finger… You know how that goes.

Months ago, I fought with you, maybe physically. Months ago, I hugged you.

Somewhere along the line where ends could not meet,

We found a way to forge a linkage, temporarily,

Although not even quite. At the center was where hate

Definitely turned into love, and we turned days ago of forgetting

To days ago of remembering. Could you

Stand at the center with me again and stay (please)

Where ends could not meet, again and again?
And then we could learn to live and love again,
And then we could try to make this love last
At the center...

VII.

You know I'm not ready to face you
Until I can be sure that you and I could last.
Until then, the currents will always confuse,
And the pretenses, continue to build.

VIII.

Yet must we stay at the center if love

Needs not be forgotten, and if love could be true,

Peaceful, and healing (instead of it being another lie,

Another fight, and another heartbreak)? Walk with me, today,

To a love, to the side,

That has no end.

Color X

Nothing sat there except a lamp. It glowed.

The seat was not as empty as should be.

Living ideas are of that color, and thoughts.
They are not wasted on paper. Some thoughts
know a color. It is a battle of freedom in the mind.
No one ever sleeps with a dark space in the mind,
Or a white, because a color like that exists in the mind
On living idea. The sun sets. The sun still has it.
A color shines like the sun. It looks like the sun.
It might be the sun.

Despair for Paper...

I literally would not have survived that day without paper. I was in the library, itching to write, but paper was nowhere (this poem is the result). Just as people need oxygen to live, writers depend on their musings for growth, and it's not hard saying "you can always write on the computer" as doing it. I never understood why, but papers give us (me) so much more. Written on June 5, 2013, Wednesday.

I'm desperate and longing
For a pad my pen can ink on...
A sheet of white where I can write...
A ready notebook full of grace
And space to capture
My topsy-turvy, wordy
Heart in place.

I need something to write on.
I need it really fast
For time can never satiate
Half the burden that might last.
I really need to put this down,
On the table if I may,
For all this writing will behold
A fateful story for someday.

Poetry and Fireworks (formerly "Untitled 11")

Last year, as the year ended, I stayed up

All by myself, watching the bright light show.

As loud noises joined the technicolor,

I stayed inside and did what I always.

Well, it was poetry, for that matter,

And I did not want to miss the display.

Perhaps the old years were a bit more free...
I had not much to care about.  Not much.
Not until I had poetry, as thus,
And though it felt more obligatory
Than optional, I liked it. I grasped it.

That night, as I watched, I knew:  in my soul,
There was a longing that felt like fireworks.
Big. Bright. Loud. Explosive. Annoying. Swell.

[old] Dinner Outside Earth

Published on June 24, 2008, via Triond. I'll forever miss being this hilarious.  Awesome, hilarious poetry indeed!  If I remember correctly, this was a homework for 1st year high school creative writing class (an elective).  For that homework, we were told to list down words that began with the first letter of the name we are called (mine is S).  Using those words, we were to write a poem, and this poem was made.

On a cold night in September,
I ate a star so tender.
It tasted like a sandwich
That made my tongue twitch.
Once I tasted that star,
I wanted to go as far…
To taste the solar system and everything…
And drink the Milky Way--anything!
Won't it be really fun
To have a taste of the sun?
AH…the taste of red-hot chili!
Won't that be just so silly?
If ever you run out of grapes
While you're outside in space,
Go to Pluto and eat it…
Though it's bigger than your face!
Your meal outside earth is now complete--
With Pluto as dessert, and asteroids as meat!
A cool sip from the Milky Way
Will brighten up your day!
Play “dodge ball” with the sun,
But just avoid a ray.
When you play with the solar system,
You'll never again want to miss 'em!
Just wait for another night,
And they'll be back in sight.

[old] On the Other Side of the Wall

I published this poem five years ago on May 30, 2008, with the description: "I woke up from a dream, and I don’t consider it a dream… it was real."  I think poems are dreams given form.

If we believe in fantasy and happily ever after,
What on earth would life be like if all we had was laughter?
Would we know of challenges if there wasn’t a challenge at all?
Would we know how to stand up if we've never had a fall?
Would we ever learn what's right if we've never made mistakes?
If happiness were only for one day, for what do we stay awake?
So if we believe in fantasy and happily ever after.

Think again for this world's not only for laughter.

Read more: http://authspot.com/poetry/on-the-other-side-of-the-wall/#ixzz2TvP6Hs3l