All posts by ryorinmaru

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Bizarre…

drapes over my mind in every memory of you.

When the hush of silence crowds my ears

your voice, clear, I hear.

You who touched my heart without breaking it

like wineglass in cotton: your memory tries to escape me.

Something must have shattered between our distance

but one glance from you plasters it shut.

I could not look into your eyes

without bringing your soul in my embrace.

Could not hold your hands but not choke you

with my words.

What passed between us is etched to my history.

Might it never return, I content myself with your memory.

Like orchestra my heart plays your music.

I will never utter words for words are my weapons.

I will now think of bizarre music when I remember you.

I realize what brought me to you is the same bizarreness in me.

Like colorful stained glass, we used bizarre with beauty.

We matched our footsteps and synced our breaths.

This day is yours and your memory is mine.

As how the sun and moon have never met.

Only chased after.

Doesn’t matter who started which.

In the end all is well.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Thank you.

 

“A Victim of my Poetry”

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You will one day find yourself

entrapped in a rope of syllables.

Each letter digging into your bones

claiming you as theirs.

You will someday fall into an endless sleep

listening to melodious phrases

too sweet for your taste.

Your body, paralyzed and lying

on a mattress of painted words ever-changing.

Your twists and turns will only wrap

my blankets of rhymes and rhythms closer

to your heart.

You are a victim,

a hypnotized accomplice of my poetic injustice,

a beauty cursed with my enchantment.

You are a tightrope walker weighing heart and mind as

you cross the line.

And if Fate was a sadist she will make you love me.

I will keep you in my menagerie of thoughts and dreams.

Keep still. Don’t move a muscle.

Like quicksand my art will pass you by unharmed.

Keep your heart intact at all times

as my syllables unwind.

Like a circus my musings will distract you for a day

and desert you by night.

This is how you leave…

This is how you escape my poetry…

If Fate was righteous.

 

Valkyrie

woman-free-flying-sunset-birds-wallpapers_41824_1920x1080.jpgI never thought I’d fall in love with a valkyrie.

For we ephemeral beings rarely love after death. Yet there I was proving the universe wrong. Before love there was life and death. We detest death because we think it malicious to end all. And like rose petals we take life’s beauty for granted. Most believe that love is somewhere in between, waiting, wanting to be found. If time caught up we throw our faith and give in to death. That is what I did. But there I was…

There was no gunshot. There was no car crash. No last words before a final exhale. Only life… death… and… I was swept and carried through the clouds. This majestic angel in flowing silk and feathered wings came unnoticed. A shadow I never thought was trailing me long ago. What is there after death? we ask. I would say this valkyrie who showed me the painted colors above the clouds. Who slipped happiness and contentment in my soul like a drug. This silhouette made of sun’s rays. Warmth and all. Who knew that death could hold so much beauty?

“Have you done this before?” I found the courage to inquire.

The angel only smiled. It was answer enough for a lifetime. Us mortals only lavish on a lifetime. Yet this creature who carefully flew me over the world lived a hundred. Nature would laugh at me if I dared not love this valkyrie. Who would love us after death? We only scratch the surface of the concept. Love in many ways is death. Death in many ways is life. Only fools would separate them. Meaningless is life without death and both are hollow without love. Philosophers would exhaust it. Poets would over analyze. Lovers would exploit it.

This valkyrie simply embodied it. And in that blink of an eye I told my angel, “I would love you until my next death.”

and we were gone… I never thought I’d fall in love with a valkyrie.

“If Voices are for the Strong”

 

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In this age of spoken truths each one is entitled to something.

“To speak or not to speak more” that is the question:

though answers outnumber questions these days –

and answers hold more secrets than lies.

For what you know must be heard and what others believe

must be tuned out.

Each soul has a voice and what we do with it is our choice.

Fight for what we must tell,

or hold it in and listen first.

Rather than seek the truth we stand stubbornly firm for ours.

Rarely do we pause and think of what others might say.

Day by day we grow more confident of what we know:

yet too much confidence is arrogance and too much arrogance is pride.

If voices are for the strong then Hercules has one too.

Just as well his pride is his flaw.

 

And if we see the world as black and white

where will the other colors be?

Now all our senses work the same and what we feel is what we see

and what we see is what we speak of.

What we speak of is what we must hear.

Will we lose our silence and be strong men?

What then? All of us battling an eternal stalemate?

If voices are for the strong it’ll only be a contest of who can say the most.

All we do is boast our thoughts as if we are on top of the mountain,

shouting until everyone below gets caught up in our avalanche.

I praise those who stay silent. Not because they want peace.

But because they are fighting this war inside of them first before choosing a side.

They hold it in and listen first to find the absolute truth and wait for the time to chime in.

For if voices are for the strong men…

then silence is for the invincible.

 

“abuse the muse”

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every page of my story was written with your tears…
not mine… yours…
ev’ry word was a reverberation of your cries.
not mine… yours…
and your demise wasn’t because of death
it was far worse
you became a slave to a poet who only cares for art
and ignored the heart that hides
behind each climax
you served a master who used words to snare
you in his own web of lies.

you were the real poet.
on your own you painted this narrative,
crafted this haiku of never ending 5-7-5.
your masterpiece was stolen just as your freedom was.
it doesn’t matter whether you are black or white.
it doesn’t matter because you were reduced to grays.
your life became the pallet and your blood, the paint                                     of another artist.

you were stacked under floor boards.
discarded and stored for someone else to use.
your body, a canvas that served its purpose now lie
cold and still under the moonlight.
your memory was squeezed until every experience
became the tragedy of many.
until every achievement was the feat of some.
now look at what i’ve become.
a nobleman wearing your life as mask.
i went out into the world and showed every piece of your marvelous skin
as if they were my own.

i robbed you of what makes you human.
i wore your skin like some fairy tale villain
whose appetite never gets satiated
i had the gall to call you an inspiration when the truth is…
you were a prisoner –
and you never got out.

“Dance of the Dandelions”

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When the world focused on us

mere creation’s display.

Our hearts beat as one

on that faithful day.

 

The sun glinted by and

touched our fragile wings.

The day that fondest memories

I always thought would bring.

 

Time witnessed our flight,

Fate choreographed our dance.

Through valleys, meadows, and fields

we took our final stance.

 

At first we swayed with the wind

and dramatically bowed to the trees.

God paid attention once or twice

then left us to the breeze.

 

We know not when or how it will come –

this waltz’s last melody.

We took for granted day-like minutes

passing oh so carelessly.

 

Our joyous laugh the wind hurriedly hid

beyond its boisterous fray.

Quickly, we fell out of sync

as our hands let go that day.

 

Only a frightful moment’s glance

did nature give to me.

As I was swept to the clouds

I saw the soil embrace thee.

 

I tried to search the heavens

for answers to ifs and why.

Never knowing that in the ground

all those answers lie.

 

I faintly heard the music fade

I hope that you did too.

For in your absence these memories

will keep me close to you.

 

When the world focused on us

mere creation’s display.

Our dance both ended and began

on that faithful day.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“The Allegory of the Parakeet”

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There was once this little parakeet

who was kept inside a cage made of stained glass.

She never went outside even though the door was unlocked.

Not because she doesn’t know how to…

but because she doesn’t want to.

Captivated was she by the dancing figures she sees inside her cage.

Warped by the beautiful colors and patterns of the stained glass,

she witnessed the dancing of two graceful ballerinas,

making pirouettes and muffled sounds that, to the parakeet,

seemed like an orchestral background to the routine.

Every night she watches this display of movements clothed with color

and she marveled at the beauty of it all.

She even memorized the blurred waltzing of the dancers, copied it

from her perch inside the cage. Imagine a dancing parakeet.

But one day, a gust of wind blew her door open.

Thinking that it was a sign from God she flew outside her cage

to meet her ballerinas. She flapped her bright, green wings and

wiggled her long feather tail as if she was not a parakeet

but a puppy that waits for his master.

And as she passed the frame of her door she almost shouted…

not chirped, not warbled… shouted.

The two ballerinas she longed to see were actually brutish ogres

locked in an eternal battle, bloodied and hurt, but still fighting.

The sounds they made made the parakeet’s fragile bones shiver.

They were roars, grunts, growls. Horrific. Not an orchestra.

The parakeet wept until she ran out of tears to shed.

If only she had known what was really outside.

And now, as if Plato is narrating this parakeet’s story,

the tiny bird flew back to her allegorical cage.

She was terrified by what was outside and never wished to leave.

Now, as she watched the dancing ballerinas in the stained glass,

the parakeet dreaded reality but loved the dream it shows her.

She blocked out all the sounds except for the one inside her head

saying “Dreams are better than reality.”

If only she could hear the humble narrator’s whisper.

“Reality is just a dream you have to live through. Be strong.”

 

“Stillness”

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Nothing shifts

in the corners of shut eyes nothing moves.

Each view a panorama of black and white charade.

Yet every movement stolen by unseen hands.

My body, half in a dream

a lake of my consciousness.

Nothing shifts

in the recesses of  weary ears nothing tinkles.

Only the rhythmic tick-tock of broken watches

and tung-tung of rusty chimes atop the window.

Nothing shifts

on dry palms no water drips.

Parched skin unquenched – clenched

fists rioting with complete silence.

Nothing speaks

inside sewed lips nothing mutters…

nothing escapes.

I am a mannequin of my own making.

I am a blank record of unfulfilled wantings.

I neither despise nor enjoy. I only am.

In the stillness I feel nothing.

In this stillness I am EVERYTHING.

 

“Embers”

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Heat transpires in souls

like embers ’round an open hearth

burns brighter than midday.

Embers leave fire’s warmth

until flesh is burnt yet etched

above the skin are memories of

come-what-may.

For fire gives light and fire destroys

so will souls left to the mercy of the wind —

devour what has once existed.

Each breath only adds to that of flame’s

and embers decide which goes and which stays.

If passion is fire, we mere moths must conspire

an escape plan.

Only then will these scars be beautiful.

“Know What I Think?”

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I think that the Stars are lonely though they appear together every night.

They can’t move to hold hands unless it’s time for them to die

and fall to the earth as giant fireballs,

hoping their collision will be the next best thing to a kiss.

 

I think the Sky is secretly pink.

He is just too sensitive that he stole the color of the Sea

to hide his femininity.

The Sea on the other hand is his crestfallen lover who shed everything,

even her own color, to reflect what her lover is.

And sometimes when he notices her suffering, a bit of pink

peeks out from the blue.

 

I think the Trees stand tall or bend low on windy days

just so they could hear the musings of both Sea and Sky.

I also think they love to gossip as they whisper day and night.

 

I think that the Night never really chases after the Day.

It just so happens that he likes to go where the sun has been.

The moonlit chill made him cold enough that

a sliver of her warmth couldn’t hurt.

 

I think that Pain could feel herself all the time.

She just got used to the feeling she is numb

to her own sensation. Now Love

is more selfish than we think.

Just imagine giving himself away for free

then demanding too much once felt.

Like a Rose ready for the picking yet draws out blood once held.

I think she still looks beautiful… and deadly.

 

I think Death is the kindest of them all.

He hides in the shadows and comes out to the light

just so he could tuck us in bed for one last sleep.

He cares enough to risk burning his pale skin in the sun

even though we don’t want him to.

 

I think God is the master of figurative speech.

He makes sure that his metaphors and ironies never left anything clear.

Because something as clear as glass breaks easily.

But something as muddled as a swamp has unfathomable depth.

Maybe God is also a writer; and all writers are godly –

the way they create universes with mere words

and have their creation withstand the test of time.

 

You know what I think?

I think words are useless unless understood.

so is God, so is Love and Pain, so is Death, so are

the Stars, Sea, and Sky… So is a Rose.

 

I think so am I. Luckily you are there

to understand my chaos.

You know what I think?

I think that U and I are the only letters in the alphabet

that sounds lovely though they’re far apart.