January’s Ashen Afternoons

Hard edged and glass cold, the weather covered for 12 o’clock while it sneaked up on us. Someone rolled around in tidal sleep and moaned like a sea creature.

They spoke while I put my legs up to steal the warmth off the window grills; someone played the sunlight off their watch – “CUT IT OUT”. My brain seemed to melt, who was that and didn’t I have an exam to get to? The agony of waiting I thought while looking at my watch; productivity had to wait till tomorrow. Some weather needs to be savored I think while miming swishing wine around. I thought of cake I ate back in 9th grade. It was purple on an afternoon that smelt just like this.

Doors slam. An engine is kicked to life. Tires squeal. I imagine a scooter, speeding into darkness. I returns to the ingenuity of plants, to the magic of light but someone’s voice grew irate. “I grow green horn on my back. It’s all keratin so I’ll need your nail-cutter”. I tell her it’s in the bathroom. Was there really a black and white photo of a bespectacled man and a copy of Anna Karenina in there? Sometimes you imagine these things.

A chair falls over, Beach House blasts on an abandoned phone and I see a copy of cloud atlas under the couch. Someone kills a lamp and I remembered how a friend would print Chinese labels to put on glass bottles. “Adds character” he would say, “It’s the same shit but new, full of meaning probably.”

A Song of Time

Now it is summer and

across crescent moon light

the mist hangs heavy.


Before the dawning sun

a silent night of time

plays a song of fog.


The world brings no sorrow if

you imagine it akin

to luminous dew.

The edge of night

Draped on the coast of the setting sun

a coral blush, a crimson streak- on repeat

colored yellowed sky and cloud overrun.


The hidden sun and jagged clouds did greet

the mirrory blue of a gushing sea.

Men who by the absent light discreet

played as shadows often do, set free


So went the day, I spied, of coastal bloom

this eventide and the gloaming sight

did mark the night but I know not for who.


Why is time so plentiful

when more of it just means

nothing gets done?


The year’s endĀ approaches

but the tropic air is still warm.

I see the sun set.



The chilly night’s breeze

so swift to flow, and destined

to nimbly disappear.



Eyes that grow weary

await patiently a new sunrise and

more stories to be told.