It is yet

Another day at the beach,

Padding the pebble and shell-strewn shore

Weaving around the wads of

Washed-up seaweed,

Studying the driftwood.

Sometimes I come across a dead crab,

Oyster,

Or jellyfish,

All partially covered by wet muck.

I heave a stick into my hand,

Long with a sharp point,

And etch into the sand:

Hello Poseidon.

The lapping waves soon wash it away.

I wonder if he got my message.

The wind howls

Like a wounded wolf

Its piteous cry

Penetrating the still atmosphere

Before resting next to my

Bedroom window

The leaves are falling,

Tinged with red,

Painted with yellow,

Colored with orange,

Hued with brown

The leaves are falling,

One by one,

Away from their brilliant foliages.

There is

A dark red band near the horizon

The ocean bright blue

Like from a dream

Washing calmly ashore

During this dying sunset.

Higher above

The sky morphs briefly to light green

And spreads out to dark sapphire.

The clouds

In an other-worldly formation

Are almost stormy here.

The sand dunes are now shadowed with poor light

And seem gritty.

On the other side of the

Boardwalk

The sky is navy

Yet the subtle clouds are lighter there

Brown-gray.

An airplane

Glittering

Descends through the air

And boats sparkle

Jewels on the sea.

The city here is

A metropolis of lights

Idly moving and resting stationary

Like inconsequential insects.

We ride.

We are lone figures

Riding on broken-down bikes

Where the bite of frost

And whirling wind

Almost camouflage

The irregular groaning of the pedals.

With each new lamppost

Our shadows speed ahead, only to fade.

A new one is created behind from the place

Silhouettes are born.

The clouds south of the lapping tides

Set in

Enclosing the muted area

With a dusty twilight.

The darkness rules

And here the wooden boardwalk is shabby

With planks ripped out

And holes grinning sinisterly with

The unknown.

There are no more lamps

So even our creeping shadows extinguish

As we race towards the backbone of the night.

I witnessed a storm, once,

When the heavy clumps of concentrated rain

Bowelled in the atmosphere

Leaving a strip of some mythical

Harsh white light

Near the horizon.

Then it disappeared, just a phantom.

The sky is now a uniform black,

Patches of spirit-clouds

Broken apart

Like the once existing Pangaea.

The moon shines

Near the roof

Of the celestial dome

Ruling the empty realm

Like a lonely god.

Its formless halo

Makes the clouds around it silvery.

There are no stars.

Perhaps this a little too depressing…  Jadefireeyes

Beneath a faithful blue sky

Nothing can touch us,

Even though our rein subsides with a whisper

And the Wind bids us farewell forever

As silently as it greeted us.

Across the Earth,

The World is empty.

We had believed it would rain,

For dismal mist was carried

On slender ropes of leering spirit.

We thought it would wash the misery away,

The still-surviving swamps and fens

And the sickened scars of sea

Ever-flooded to the edges of oblivion

With pestilence,

Sweeping the surface of the taint of Humanity.

The Vapors lied.

We punished the Skies.

The Wind is drowning in its own agony,

Weeping for forgiveness

Moaning for a pardon for a crime

It only partially understood.

It is uttering wretched misery.

~

The calm night finally surrenders itself to the Rain,

And the fragile night is tangling,

Fueling the inferno’s unwavering radiance,

And

Making more painful the ultimate anguish of the chilling aureole.

This world

Is insane.
Within its borders

I am dying.

I long for better times,

For a second chance

For a world

Where we still discover

That everyone is but a puppet,

Pulled by invisible strings,

Controlled by something not of this evolving atmosphere.

The foolish marionettes who
Wander in an agonizing limbo
Running from a dreamland of nightmares
Only to find
The waking day hardly worth enduring for.
I want to find a place

Where I’m not like them.

Sure, this crazy world

Is killing me

As the ribbon strings wave

Of the people of Earth.

The World turns

As I fall.
The droplets of Cloud-Blood
Seep into the muddy ground
Leaching into the vile rivers
Making their way to the poisoned plains
Feeding the vacant husks of the deceased forest
Standing in silence,
Harboring a faltering legacy.
It stirs up decaying organisms to the surface,
And the reek of the decomposing rises upwards,
The drafts of stench overriding the
Clamors of sinister beasts
That come stalking into the heart of darkness,
Protected by Destiny
But only to find out that no one
Cares about that anymore.
Buried relics of the ancient past make themselves known,
As the horrors of the barren landscape crawl
Out of the filth of ignorance.

Life will go on

As Humanity is laid to rest in its

Corroding tomb,
Concealed by the rotting facade
Of a united house that cannot stand.

Nothing can touch us now,

Not even ourselves,

As our memories depart

With my last breath.

Nothing but

The delicious fragility of this travesty

Spurs me onward

In this dead, dead Earth

In this unloving World.

A kindling fire,

Marches on the flame for all.

Keep respect flaring.

A bridging friendship

For your elders, friends, strangers,

Makes it worthwhile.

Life is everyone’s

So share it with dignity

All may now enjoy.

A fluttering thing

In a halo of honey.

Respect is basic.

Grass grows, so crisp, green.

I say respect is soil.

Friendships are blossoms.

A beautiful wave

Crashes on the shore of life.

You must be the sand.

I was walking through town

Alone

As always when I travel home.

The neighborhood along

The main road

Is an unappetizing sight, really,

(What with neon signs

Flashing advertisements

And the dull bustle of cars

And buses),

But for the graceful petite trees with small scarlet berries

That they are gowned in even in winter.

I once asked my mother

What type they are called

But she only gave me the name in the language

We speak other than English.

She said

When she was a girl

She made necklaces out of them

In her native country.

I ask a lot about her childhood

But don’t get a lot

Out of her.

My glasses have pinpricks of light

Reflections from the achingly sun too bright

To look at

That resemble the sparkling inter-locking crystals

In granite.

It is January

But the mild day makes my face

Warm.

Even the breeze is spring-like

And balmy.

I was disappointed that it didn’t

Snow at all last year.

Other than the white powdery stuff

That thing I savor most

About

Winter

Is the smell of frost in the freezing air.

But right now,

My hair

Flowing in the pleasant wind

Suits me well for now.

I pass the stores

And the odor of clothes cling to them

And see

Tiny brown song birds

Perched on pole wires

Twittering away

Flying with the agility of hummingbirds.

~

I am now eating raisins

From a plastic bag

As well as sour yogurt from

An enormous container

While wearing a blue oversized faded T-shirt

With the aroma of the beach.

I watch the heaving ocean

Through my balcony glass door

As I consume peach oatmeal with donut shreds

Since I could not find any bread

Crumbs.

If it was windy,

The sand today would be

Creatively etched

With fine ridges like the Sahara

Although here the pigment is pale

And not the rich orange-brown of deserts.

Here the dunes are long gone

Tramped by beach-goers

With only one measly hill struggling to prolong

The inevitable consequences of erosion.

Farther down,

Where people don’t really care about the sea

Or even use it as leisure

The dunes are still there

Flattened out perhaps

But overgrown by green reedy plants

Like the grass father inland

And seagulls flock there by the hundreds.

I saw such a huddle and dubbed it

Unimpressive.

What’s impressive about

A white mass,

Where each individual doesn’t count?

In my mind

I picture

The spectacular bird silhouettes soaring outside stained glass.

Now that’s worth seeing.

I like this part of the hallway.

Here is the 6^th and 7^th grade art room

And on the outside wall

Near the door

Are little artwork designs drawn from

Those black thin-tipped sharpie markers.

One of them

Reminds me

Of the soft flowing tresses of a willow.

Another has the thick oily swirls

That resemble

Those in Van Go’s paintings.

A third has sharp etchings

Like rain.

Next door is the high-school classroom

Where they hang up still-lifes.

Last marking period it was

Glasses and bottles

With well-done highlights.

This time

It’s staplers and chess pieces,

Preferably knights.

Some of them are drawn with precision

And shaded

But some are the

Contours with warped grids inside

That I hate.

Now there are

More walls down the hallway

With student art.

This bulletin is light-bulb themed.

Here’s a creative timeline

Depicting a sketched bulb

Then cracking

Shattering

Until there are only pieces of glass.

Another has a rainbow

Floral

Design clasped inside.

A third is my favorite:

Five sunshine yellow bulbs

Saying “Light the World”

Held by a grayish human hand.

Even farther,

In the recesses of the school hall

Are paper projects,

Somewhat messy and not that good landscape paintings,

Sketches of jars

Containing pebbles,

Collages of colorful

Elephants,

Zebras,

Butterflies,

Giraffes.

But never

Have they chosen my art to display.

The girl was asleep.

Her lips were sweet,

Her nose was perfect,

Her skin was fair,

Her hair was dark,

Her eyes were closed,

And her soul was dead.

I sank her body beneath the sea.

As the embryo inside of you

Grows with cell and cell,

Your mother’s waste away.

As the fetus within you

Begins to kick for the first time,

Your mother’s strength ebbs.

As you scream with the pain of delivery,

And later call the telephone with joy

To tell of the arrival of a beautiful baby,

You find out she has passed away.

Your daughter runs around the backyard playground,

Now eight,

And you clutch a forgotten photograph

Of you mother when she was the same age,

Misplaced in a dusty drawer.

The resemblance is uncanny.

Your survey closer.

A gasp rips from your throat.

You have given birth to your own

Mother.

I am a part of chorus,

And we had to stay afterschool for a concert,

We huddled together,

Tight around one table,

Singing pop songs we adored

With a dash of Adele.

We were supposed to be practicing our vocal cords,

But what did we care?

We took out the dry erase markers

And sketched Japanese anime creations

On the pristine white boards

Designed to hold algebra

During the normal school day.

We took photos of each other with our cellphones

(Just don’t tell)

Everyone dressed in uniform black pants or skirts,

And white blouses, and dark shoes.

A potted green plant sat on

The teacher’s desk

Where it had thrown out

Spidery offshoots

To tremble over the ebony drawers.

I glanced around.

Since no one was interested enough to be up to the job,

I took the desert pink pitcher

And watered it.