Vision+Voice

The bike just sits there all alone
Behind the battered, broken, and bruised boards
The bike is so old it’s like a bone
As I hit the old bell RING RING it cries out like broken chords
The wheels creak against the concrete floor
When I move it away from those ugly boards
I decided that the bike can ride no more
So I rest the bike and leave it moored

Your eyes glowed bright on the stage
Softly smiling, you sang among the shining
dancing lights.
Your lilting voice, rhythmic and carefree
reached out to me,
bled the words whispered to me
as I peered from behind the finely spun cocoon
of wool.

Driving home,
the lights along the street wobbled
as I slipped and bounced in the car seat,
each groove and divot pulsating through me.
The shadowed sky was bruised and
the streets were quiet—slick with rain—muted,
illuminated only by the streams of faded yellow light
winding across the sunken grass blades, which trembled under each droplet swallowed.
A small river had collected along the side of the road
where a billboard, exhausted from the dry sun and whipping rain,
advertised a zebra losing its famous black stripes.

My eyes soon fell closed
To the tune of the car humming
And was awakened only to the doors opening softly
And shutting shyly.
I could hear Orion now,
For whom I’d searched for, carefully folded, then pocketed away
For future use after being found hidden behind the back-yard gate.

It was time to walk,
And careful to step around the snails
leaving their slick trails in the darkness,
I shuffled drowsily to the door.

I felt you trembling in my hand,
carefully and fearfully watching it grow
smaller behind us,
until the daunting castle of steel became
nothing more than a mirage: a delicate
construction of steel and glass studded with
miniature relics…

Your tentative eyes had peeked over at me,
worried of harsh critique.
I was bemused of you, the photo’s subject:
a weary face framed in gray,
lines carved from trampled years long gone,
whose pensive thoughts whirled away,
released as the flash of the camera left the face
exposed in harsh artificial light.

I reached out, transfixed by your
weathered, rough cheeks,
but was alarmed at the smoothness of the
photograph that met my fingertips.

In your eyes I could see the fear,
fear of being
swallowed
by the echoing obsoleteness of
the museum.

How could I let you go?

I ran.

I felt you trembling in my hand
carefully and fearfully watching it grow
smaller behind us,
until the daunting castle of steel became
nothing more than light reflecting off a box
of miniature treasures…

Today, the photograph is softly withered from
being folded
Tucked into a pocket
Unfolded
Looked at
Folded again and tucked away

But I still touch the photo lightly, attempting
not to grasp you too tightly,
for fear of crushing the sweet musings of
years caught within the lines of your face.

The might green grass towers above
Blurts out hi out into the sky
Waves back at you as you walk by
As tall as a skyscraper as small as an ant
Millions of millions across the yard
Never looks down always ahead
Playing and running onto of the might green grass
Oh green grass, oh green grass how much I love you

Billowing in the wind, our flag stands tall. Loyalty shines through the tight woven fabric. It blows, not just for our country itself, but for the people living in it. This small flag is an emblem of our trust, our faith, and our loyalty. Some days, the flag will hang low, his head down with sorrow. That flag is waiting for us. Waiting for us to bring the wind and make our country whole. We will crawl till we learn to upsurge together and rise as one body. That is when the flag will rise again. That is when the flag will dance, in our glory.

Fox, nature’s trickster,
peering at it’s prey,
plotting.
Under a tree,
hidden in bushes.
Does it pounce?
Never.
But that fox,
that fat, foolish, fox.
Thought it was so slick.
It circled the nest,
when.
Sploosh!
It fell in the river,
whilst the bird laughed,
unaware of the second fox,
only inches away.

In her house
the guinea pig
lies down
stretches her front legs,
yawns, rests
her chubby head
on her stubby legs,
hears a sound and
alertly gets up
looks around,
stretches her
torso, eats
a piece of hay from
the floor, yawns
and sleeps the whole
afternoon in her warm house

Everyone always walks right past the light as if it’s nothing-
But as it’s glorious beam shines down on us we don’t think twice about it-
It works all day and all night just to be forgotten-
As soon as the bulb is done, another one replaces it just like that-
It’s like we sweep it under the doormat

The light works tirelessly for hours at a time-
Waiting for the day to come-
When everything finally goes numb-
Once it can’t shine any longer, it is thrown away-
As it goes through the archway and everything’s grey-

The light glows for you, but what does it get in return-
It gets the boot and we act like it’s none of our concern-
It weeps in the corner as it starts to get warmer-
The light provides so much, but all it can do now is sit and wait-
For its death-date

The white blanket
It falls to the ground so perfectly
The icy cars drive by
Smoke puffing out of chimneys
Snowflakes falling into your mouth
The smell of peppermint and hot chocolate in the air
Snow piling on every corner
Kids laughing and playing
It’s the best day of the year.

The boxes under my bed,
In them mementos from all my years,
They’re dusty, overflowing, and brown
They are a timeline full of all the events in my life,
They hide under my bed waiting to be pulled out,
They might seem boring and old, but inside is a story waiting to unfold,
I remember seeing them under my bed when something rolls under and gets lost,
They’re a keeper of good times and tragedy’s that are forgotten and want to be remembered,
The boxes under my bed.