Smells of sweaty labor
burly in appearance
confined to pint sized space
Guttural tones foreign in an alien land
Praying, drinking walking a lonely beat
fury unleashed on the coolies
handful of rations come from home
letters ripped open there is no privacy.
is this work, is this slavery
a sentence for being picturesque and majestic
hollow jammed in cacophony of strange noises
the bridge invites, the leap to death serendipity.

salty flavor of the sea 

coarse grain of fine memory

roughens the tune of the kingfisher

trilling shrilly like a hollering fan

flying , hovering o'er the waves

unsure where it belongs

in the high tides or on the corral reef

washed away crashing on rocks

smithereens appear unwelcome

the coarse grain of fine memory.

Beautiful verdant  nestled on top of
tendril like stems
fanning out
So flat but almost like a green sea shell
with fine lines , and texture so smooth
Not like silk but very similar in feel
imprinted in the mind
unforgettable once seen
no wonder Chinese traditional medicine
extract juices invigorating memory.
Take a look 
and you will forever remember
lush , bursting out beautiful and medicinal
healing Ginkoa. 

j

it's quite a ritual this

pecking cheeks

or pretending to kiss the air

on the left, on the right

a little too close, a little much in the face.

And, then have an exact number

 measuring personal space.

Why does peace have to be won by wars ?
war that sits loftily , perched on blood strewn bodies mirthless in its ruby red shoes
reddening the laces of peace , amid speeches that trumpet victory over vanquished
scoffing at  peacemakers for being wimps ?
Worlds torn and ravaged by bullets and bombs ride on the back of nuclear proliferation
rolling eyes at besmeared environment littered with human carcass
peace - it sings , only war keys its volume behind, to piercing shrill, altering pitches at will.
bartering every drop , every ounce for acres of control, the triumphant words of agreement a mere disguise
bellowing cries of savage war, the rich cousin slowly denounces poor peace.
Making it impossible to survive, pushing into corners inaccessible
War , submerges peace.

Our  love together lies condensed in a trinket trove, diminutive jottings stored as if precious !
squiggles of quick fast strokes, your  rapid love now so impersonal and distant ,
the secretive amour , mingled with a tangled mysterious air
Expressive only with a hint or a glance  deciphered as our unwritten code, only I refined it to name it love.
I long to expunge the stilted scribbles,compose it with the ruby passion that defined my romance, defied my caution -
Unlike the scrunched up passion  taciturn even when elemental
Sometimes the letters shoo out , uncaring of consequences, only if my soprano exclaims could transform my lover's aloof syllables to mellifluous eloquence.
 Was I the solitary lover living in edgy spaces cursed with unrequited pining ?
Your coldness moving me to destroying madness, your impassive and dry letters wring out melancholic flow hurling me into a morbid world.
Some stormy days I am drawn back to the past
the sobs of my soul and the deluge of the poring rain merge becoming one.
 I leaf through the wooden sentiments,  solicit resolution to the gnawing question
Did you ever love me, like I loved you ?

We scribble the small, teeny weeny post it notes, hang it up on memo boards
to remind us of appointments with doctors, managers and colleagues
or at times the to do list for the day
disposable once the day planning is fulfilled
scrunched up in small balls , landing in the bin beneath the desk
It doesn't have any other uses or so I thought
Proving me wrong my daughter changed the post it notes
to write the significant moments affecting her life
the little scrape on her knee when she fell climbing the tree
the pouting when I could not make it for a field trip
wishing me a happy mother's day
reminding me to treat myself on work crammed day
small anecdotes about her day
teacher who inspired her to create
or the friend who cracked her up with that silly joke
the argument about what to wear
with girls who thought they were fashion queens
struggle with her music lesson
and the feeling that she was ready to give up
moments when we could not spend time together
distances that sometimes made sharing harder
conversations between us remote
when I was rushing to the airport
my mind trying to grasp little dalliances
I would have to make in next few days
over the phone or the computer
and she knew I could not be there one hundred percent.
I would find precious notes stuffed inside my overnight bag
on top of the folder I always check.
it's so wonderful to talk face to face
and when I could not be there
the scrawly handwriting I treasure
and makes me part of my daughter's day
even when I have to be far away.