Will

She used to write,
She writes, and oh
She sure can write!!

She could talk,
She very well speaks,
She sure can speak!!

She could think,
She learnt to project,
She sure can express!!

She worried but did,
She worried and did well,
She’ll worry and keep doing well!!

She would get sad, smile;
She wrote and shot through sadness, smiled;
She might get sad, she’ll soldier through it, smiling!!

She was silly,
She is a bit cuckoo.
She’ll be a big fruitcake!!

Yes. Amen!!

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------I wrote this poem in response to a dear friend's post, a filmmaker, about herself. I was hoping to encourage her. She's always been too stressed and critical about her own work and life. She seldom believes that she's actually fine and is often very good at what she does.And she's the kind of mad and silly the world can really do with more of! The title signifies both her own will of the mind and her heart and also what she 'will' go on to do in the future. You should read her post here if you can. It is well worth it!

Paper Flowers

After a time too long now to be cared about,

Dined out, walked; and not just by myself.

Conversed with eyes which smiled in glints,

Listened to breaths like a spring morning.

An old yellowed envelope in today's mail,

Yesterday's movie tickets, cafe cheque,

That newspaper rose with your lipstick kiss,

"I love paper flowers, how did you know!?"

Candle Smoke

Never liked the dark a bit;
Yet often
She’d turn off all the lights of our home.
One by one then through every room
She’d walk lighting candles of every manner.
Candles, she loved them-
Said their flames flutter like heartbeats, alive
Unlike those cold lifeless glass tops.

Surrounded by her cozy lights
She’d leisurely comb her luxuriant hair.
I’d often watch her in silence,
Take pictures-
In the fusing viscous twilight
As if a full moon ran its dainty fingers
Through the silken strands of rain clouds.

In the soft glow of the table’s candles,
Resting on her elbows and half lying on the floor,
Unrealizing, she would hum her books.
I’d always say-
“You’ll soon have glasses, if you keep this up!”
She’d balance my glasses crooked on her tiny nose
And make faces back at me.

On our days off sometimes
She’d move aside all the furniture,
Amidst the sizzling cooker whistles
Would try to teach me to tango.
Then furious with my clumsy moves,
She’d stomp and storm
Blowing out a few candles on her way out.

All those candles now
Are alight only in the pictures-
On the walls, on the tabletops,
On lonely window sills,
In forgotten drawers, dusty books,
And in my wallet.
The clumsy tango in the emptied room,
That pulling faces with my glasses
Those hummed book tunes
Or her face aglow in the mirror,
Keep flickering on and off
Like senile lampposts
On many memory corners,
Flashing fleeting moments of life
On an otherwise mere existence. 

In this lonely house now
Only electricity remains alight
In cold, lifeless glass tops;
Lest these memories melt and vanish
Like a blown out candle’s smoke.