The Day Before Silence

A day before the 8th of the month
of leaves falling and leavings
was the day you went dead silent again.
There was no reason given,
no words thrown in anger,
no frowns etched in scorned banter.

There was nothing just like before.
There will be nothing from now on.
Nothing comes from a vacuum.
There is a reason.
I am on a quest.

(The) Police and (Romantic) Thieves

Cold wind from the hills
from the east
brushes off the chirping of crickets
from the west,
never fails to dredge up memories
of broken hearts and tired dreams.
Shut up, fool,
say the romance police.
We have a warrant for your arrest.
Put you hands behind your back,
your heart in its socket.

Lead Day In Bed

You died from me again;
came back in red gown,
bending from hip to lip,
pulling keychains from your mouth.

Explanations are still strangers
that don't age past decades.
I know your middle name.
I know where you live --
on the be ever early hills,
flatlined on glens.

Love as easy as a smile.
Every boy is your father.
I wanted to be your lover
not your dad.
Dead before leaving.
Sad before dying.

You dare throw pebbles
on Narcissus' pond,
but unwilling to grow roots
by the bank.

4 Verses

(Image by Alexander Semenov)

Dusted off 4 verses of mine published in the Weekly Sillimanian. Enjoy and/or abhor.

Pass

Days go by sluggishly.
You don’t know what you miss
until you do.
The moon creeps behind
begging for lies.
Expedience can only be kept
through smiles.

We took baby demons
silent in unsuspecting throats.
Mortals kept away.
Mere fear blunt whispering
at the other side of curtains.

Magicians played,
weaving laughter, paranoid tones.
Neighbors mum.
Loose skirts still hang.
Never will the sun rise,
unless stars bow,
smirking beer in weird glasses.

Muses will never run out,
never run out,
for wizards
with broken wands,
clean cauldrons.

Die every night, lie every day.
Close shall it stay.
Ripped apart when omens fail.

Sing, sing for leaving.
Forget it. Fool.


Lost Border

Travel Seashell Tunnel.
Walk, slide in laughing.
Your hair turns to salt.

Coconut leaves whisper wind,
taking nothing for granted.
Feet splash to high tide.
Stones sharp, image waves
stand guard in excess.
Dwarf fish the deep expect
find their way into pots of dusk.

You can’t land on the beach.
It has been stolen.
Living stones under,
smoothed by years of waiting,
stand in the way of mountains
threatened with extinction.

Let worries worry alone;
savor the moment,
no matter how consuming.
Eat the tempter away.
No weakling to sway.


Destiny

When I was young,
there were many ways
to get to the roof.
I am not young anymore (some say I am),
and I don’t even know where the roof is.

* Written as “Billy Yang-Yin”


Pregnant Spider

Moves, split time
on an unmoved plane,
heavy with a world to be borne.
Born on when who knows where.
Beauty mapped on a back,
symmetry bloated to beauty.

And when the time does come
for the giving forth, the giving away
of tiny crawling web-spinning lives
to a world indifferent of such displays
of donor and donee;
juxtaposing jubilee
with famished droughts
of scientia dementia --
a world spins on its own.

As easily lost on its machination.
Predator peering on prey.
A thought lingering on a moment,
captive of a motion,
of an emotion.
Creating a universe all its own.