soft grumbles

I have gone through doors.
Some opened wide, all I did
was enter only to find nothing.

 Some were shut tight
I had to knock several times
before I could go inside
 not knowing what lies ahead.

 Some I had to force my way in,
 to sate my senses emitted by flowers
 of red , white, velvet yellow or pink;
or a rainbow so clear that I can see

the end and claim my pot
of metal or ore; open my eyes
to snow-capped mountains,
birds singing atop a tree,

butterflies fluttering about;
dancing mermaids or flashing fairies,
find delight in life’s surprises.
Turn the knob,
open the door and hope
it does not open to limbo or hell.

Nothing has changed since I left
Not the old tree in front
of the gate they closed at five.
The tree we climbed to enter
the school,
so we could be alone,
talk, cuddle and kiss.

The white bench where we sat to watch
fiery glow of setting sun,
my signal to hold your hand,
put my arm around you,
hoping you would not resist.
Caress your long, soft hair
blown by the gentle breeze ,
gently kiss your reddened cheek.

Time stands still as I listen to the chimes
still singing to announce
it is time to pray the angelus.
A prayer we used to share
while I gazed at your young, innocent face.

And then you arrive

The hands of time spin as quickly
as the blades of a running motor.
Your heavily made up face,
accented by thick, red lips
heavy mascara and plump body
remind me of my flaws
now weighing on my shoulders.

Tree has gone dry.
Its leaves withered by the summer heat,
bench is dirty and rusted,
chimes now play a different tune.
We have gone old and the years
have not been kind

rolly

Seeing leash on my hand
he wags his tail excitedly

after I attach the leash on his collar
Yogi jumps and pulls.

“Calm and submissive”
Cesar Millan used to say

But Yogi does not watch TV.
All he does is bark, sit and play.

I take him to the park
where he begins to sniff.

What it is, I cannot tell.
But once he reaches a spot,

he frantically goes to and fro
as if finding the X that marks the spot.

He goes round in circles
with nose to the ground

while sticking out his tongue.
It must be some sacred ground.

Then he stops,
concentrates as if in prayer,
and poops.

I hear little drips the leaky faucet makes
amid violent silence of the passing night,

silent as blank white paper I hold
rendering my pen inutile
muted by random thoughts running in my head.

How I long for that crisp laughter once more,
or those soft murmurs of sweet nothing
you whispered in my ears
while you caressed the tiny lobes
with your soft gentle touch

I’d rather listen to your rants
with every squabble we’ve had
over the minutest details
or inconsequentials.

This room heard your moans,
these four walls saw your warm embrace
torrid kisses, and the unity of our flesh
bear witness to the ecstasy we share

is now your prison.

Not a single wall could mistake
your agony for ecstasy.
Not your closed eyes, clenched fist
or pale face. This is not what this room
is used to seeing.

I hear the leaky faucet
in time with the IV drip.

...they’ll whisper sweet things

and make you untrue

so be good to yourself

that’s all you can do...

Wonderful Baby

Don Mclean


I planted a seed inside my head
when I was a toddler, you see.
It was to be taller than a redwood,
mightier than a baobab tree.

Its thick leaves would rustle
as the wind blew.
Haven for birds and tiny insects,
it would grow the sweetest
fruit one shall ever see

But as time flew, it heard
murmurs from supposedly
well meaning men.

Slowly, the leaves dried,
fell to the ground.
Its brittle twigs broke,
then its branches
until there was nothing left
for they have chopped down my tree.

rolly

# posted by rolly @ 3:50 PM

I have never seen
the moon blink.
It stares at me all night,
watching every step I make.
Sun down till sun up
witness to man's folly

I have never heard
the moon whisper.
It talks to me
of endless nights
of women's screams
as monsters whip touch soft skin
tearing their flesh to turn them mute.

I have never seen
the moon taste salt from the sea.
It knows the taste of salt
from fresh blood of naked men
silenced by the vital fluid's flow
until there is no more.

I have never envied
the moon. It sits there
helpless playing with the tides.
If only it can manage
the minds of the corrupt,
calloused conscience,
there might not have been
destitutes.

rolly