Holding Hands

Around the tremendous subterfuge
Offered by my faithful glass,
I imagined a life that had witnessed
The subtraction of
Familial obligations, moral inclinations,
And salary-slips,
And found myself failing miserably
At the seductive hands of inebriation.

My eyes scanned the circumference
Of my soon-to-be-empty vessel,
While the voice of reason screamed
An angry complaint into ears that blushed
With the flame of heated blood-
Perfection is found rarely in reality,
Much like unicorns or effortless success,
But happiness abounds in plentiful
When your imperfections are concurrent
With another,
And he loves you for these,
For the times when you speak
Of the sun and the earth,
And everything in between,
And when you dream in unison
Of ruling an empire that you wish to build
With bricks, blood and love
As you fit into one another
Like a blanket to a cold winter morning
And smile at the world,
In your imperfect glory.

The Relentless Recurrence Of The Night

Why is it that we humans don't panic when our world is engulfed by a velveteen darkness with an unflinching regularity every twenty-four hours? Why don't we wonder about the whereabouts of the sun when blackness strikes, slowly and surely like a dull knife slicing through hot butter?
Our ancestors stuffed this acceptance of the night into our blood; day follows night, and night follows day. That became the law of the land, the way of life. Not taking into consideration the scientific explanation of why we must live in blackness for half the day, I think we have accepted these few hours of the night simply as they are the providers of some much needed respite from the unrelenting demands of our daily lives. The night allows us to take off our masks, our costumes, our makeup, our pretenses and to seek comfort in the arms of an anonymity only darkness can give.
Like a heavy thundercloud that regenerates each day, laden with moisture and with concern for the parching earth, night comes to us again and again and again. And it becomes a man's friend to unwind with over whisky, a woman's ear to vent to over fences and through walls, and a poet's parchment to praise their lover and immortalize them upon.

Traveler Of Both Time And Space

Like rice-paper that melts
At the slightest touch of
A tongue,
And bows that unravel
When the right strings
Are strung,
Shadows that live
While the sun seeks to die-
I hunt for the right chances
And the right words
That I ought to write.

The words I ought to write
Might not be mighty enough,
Other poets might write poems
That are made of sterner stuff,
But I promise to make
Your reading worth the while
And for you to end each reading
With a happy thought and a smile.
For isn't that the greatness
Of the written word and of ink-
I can reach you without any knowledge
Of your joy or suffering.

You might smile or you may cry,
Or remember a long forgotten day,
But for a second your worries vanish
And you think solely of what I say.
Life is long and it's all yours,
It's all yours to seize and own-
You'll always have words for company
Even when you are alone.