Archive

Tag Archives: poem

When the spiced kulfi of India, becomes the fragrant bastani of Persia, becomes the aromatic bouza of Levant, becomes the fruity gelato of Italy, becomes the tangy sorbet of France, becomes the creamy ice cream of England.

Become one big bowl of frozen desserts with different flavors, colors, aromas and textures.

Just like us people.

 

Who says writing is easy.  It’s painful.

It’s painful conjuring up emotions, beliefs, inspirations.  It’s painful finding the right words, rhythm, style.  It’s painful cutting out words.  It’s painful letting go of a piece.  It’s painful waiting to find out whether people like it or not.  Oh, it’s all so, so painful.

But you know what’s much, much more painful?

Not writing.

“Hey, old friend.  Remember the day you betrayed me.  It’s been years.  But I haven’t forgotten. The bitter taste still lingers on my tongue.

Hey, old friend.  Remember when I showed you how to kick a ball, dunk a basket, hit a home run.  The other boys laughed, only I stood by you.  But then you gave me your back.  The clench of my fist still hasn’t loosened.

Hey, old friend.  Remember when I taught you how to shave your chin, style your hair, pick your clothes.  You came out looking good for the girls.  But then you denied me.  The punch in my chest still sinks deep.

Hey, old friend.  My little boy sits next to your little boy in class.  I said to him, ‘His father was an old friend.’  But I didn’t tell him of your bitter tasting, chest punching, fist clenching betrayal.  I taught my son well, I hope you have taught yours better.”

‘I held your then little hand and tried to lead, but I kept losing the way.’

‘It’s ok, Mama.  You really were too young to know.’

‘And you know, I really thought I was doing what was best.’

‘I know, Mama.  And you were doing your best.’

‘But you came out fine.’

‘Fine like you, Mama.’

just a little dream to dream.

like the little boy does, with his little toy boat, in the little bathroom sink, making little water splashes, among little rubber fishes, under the soft ceiling light.

just a little dream to dream.

we can sail weekend boats, and cruise blue waters, trail white sea foam, pass silver fishes swimming, and soak the golden sun above.

with just a little dream to dream.

Each day, new grains of time are poured into your hands.  It is your choice whether you carefully bottle them in a sand clock or carelessly leave them in the palms of your hands and have many slip through your fingers while the rest get stolen by the breeze.