firefly

sticky spider web caught

a light left flickering in the hallway

death when unknown

some kind of beautiful

pulse

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the Bohemian by the sea

does it matter that you can feel the warmth of the sunlight on your shoulders, the salty sea breeze in your hair, and at the same time, see the storm clouds up ahead?

does it matter that the sea holds immense sadness in its depths, and yet at the same time reflects the joy of the sun in the glinting rhythm of waves?

do these things matter? do they have a place in business? in finance? amongst skyscrapers? alongside ships that carry cargo from one place to the next?

can someone say that it is okay to honor the new and mourn the lost all in the same moment? all in the same day. can someone shout this from the rooftops and whisper it in the shadows? instead of this. this silence. this, unspoken name. this covering up with words of new.

can someone tell the masses, “it is okay to not be okay on this day.” or even the next.

it is o.k.

it is okay.

it is ok to not live in the binary. in the ‘either or’ but to let things co-exist, mash, intertwine. mix.

binary is not how it always is anyways.

it’s not how it ever was.

symphony of raindrops like

toddlers laughing in puddles,
a plethora of perfect circle giggles.

musical notes bursting into perfectly timed half-fireworks, meeting free-fall’s end for the first time,
song lit up by moving headlights, car horns singing their harmony.

cotton candy gumdrops waking up for the dawn,
a slow float and tumble off the potted plants in the window sill.

morning on a soft day,
a faint greeting with misty kisses and dew-drop hugs.
a quiet “I love you” from the earth that slipped in past the city.

Take a walk on the wild side

1. Little girl, stroller, chubby cheeks, bunny hood.

2. Black cloth, slow shadow, head bowed, face dark, skinny ankles, dirt crusts.

3. Sun-lit trees, out-stretched branches, lime green leaves.

3. Bird cages, captured song, oppression-or-freedom, modernity-or-the-ancients.

4. Footbridge, light, sounded steps, rainbow reflections, faded-honey warm glow.

5. Train.

 

skyscraper birds

[daily]. lights like LEDs animate, surfacing the entire building. pixelated digital drawings of silver and white. swimming girl, flying birds, sitting moon, passing clouds.

on a polluted navy dusk, the digital moon merges with the reality of skyline. you wonder what is real.

[another day]. outside the paperback building, a flock of white birds. flying V-shape, never landing. was it like noah’s ark? instead of water on which they couldn’t land, they were met with steel n smashed up planes of concrete. panes of glass. they were out looking for an olive branch, but no signs of green.

i marveled. paused.            breathed.            a breath.            at the sight of white birds. crinkling. like ancient wax paper cranes. pale and silvery against the clouded sky. you wished for the slightest tinting of peach-pink cherry blossoms, perhaps a beating heart, but they were plain like yogurt. all the better.

why did they fly the same circle over and over again? a shiver. a sliver. a chill. wondering if they weren’t really the soft and airy-boned featherships i was imagining – what if they weren’t birds at all, [rather] mechanical renderings projected. they didn’t need green to survive. or citrus-kissed cherry blossoms for that matter.

but i did. i do.

even the darkest nights have stars

in fact, that’s when they shine even brighter

and the ones that were invisible before – this is when the world first sees them glimmer

(but don’t you know, they’ve been shining on their own all along).

we aren’t left to fend for ourselves in the dark –

each night, we are tucked in with a translucent blanket of majesty – threaded with periwinkle-navy and deep blue,

glittered with layers and layers of frosted twinkles – if your hand could reach out to touch it, you’d move the stars.

you can’t beat the air here, especially after it’s rained – dew brings you an ice-cold brew (essence of tree bark, the red kind). night mixes it with cool. nostrils try to sip in summer’s glass, but the flavor always just lingers on the tip of the tongue – taste buds singing for more.

so you lay down, cold sidewalk beneath, and dream.

and you get up – and dance with your arms held high.