A collection of poetry and literary works exploring themes of nature, spirituality, and human experience.
It's the holy hour quietude
before birds chirp
squirrels chatter.
Before heavy droning of engines
invade our valleys,
ruptures our streams.
It's the holy hour
for baking bread,
making today's sumptuous
bounty.
The holy hour
of prayer
and poems.
black face
brown face
yellow face
red face
no face
white-two face
my lingo
your lingo
his lingo
her lingo
no lingo
white tattle
black hands
brown hands
yellow hands
red hands
no hands
white grab
black bodies
brown bodies
yellow bodies
red bodies
no body
white part
black eyes
brown eyes
hazel eyes
green eyes
blue eyes
cross-eyes
no eyes
no sense…
We each require a 'home'.
Somewhere tangible,
shelter from the elements,
taste and sound of comfort.
Privacy to exist within,
body and mind unmolested,
quenching the fires.
Memories braided thru a trellis of roses,
earth scents breaking a seal,
enchantments amongst dreams.
'Our home', our inner sanctum,
a cherished rest place,
returning towards heart…
A response to the Chinese poet Juan Chi (210–63 AD)
Alone upon a mountain stands
a tree with ten suns in its branches.
Ten suns for ten fallen men,
blood-wine pools soaking a parched earth,
10,000 miseries racking our land,
100,000 ways to crucify lives,
lamentations and shadows sashay across their graves,
gongs and drums wake everyone but the dead.
Just one more day, one more dusk.
just another dusk and one more dawn.
Inside a vellum hallow ten golden suns capsize.
With out-stretched palms
we catch the rays,
and adorn our bodies with its light.
Upon the wind I write
circuitous words unraveling amorphously
amongst cumulus clouds
fluffy puffs drifting
passing into ether
whispers anonymously faint
I write upon my ujjyai breath
breathing mindful thoughts whose slow
inhalations weave thru miles and
miles and miles of blood, lymph, nerves
exhaling outwardly into the pale nether
becoming pink anemones, red geraniums, lichen, snails,
white lotus, spotted deer, blue forget-me-nots
molecules
spinning
everywhere
within you
somersaulting
topsy-turvy
you
inside
me
O we were so young!
Or was it, I was so horribly young,
and you older, wiser,
capable to decipher our passions
into meaningful stratums?
Or was it, I was landing
from somewhere else,
another realm, a misfit
from the dearth of this world?
And you took me upon your
arms outstretched like wings,
over precipices we soared,
valleys and plains, diving into
the serenity of our inner sanctums,
you laying me upon your black
wings strong and enduring…
Our fathers, brothers, uncles, cousins lost.
Our mothers, sisters, aunties lost.
All of them gathered in fields, or went
missing, or drowned at sea, or lost
inside gaping wounds of the Earth;
In memory of those we hold dear,
the loved faces, and those unknown
who strove to sacrifice their last drop
of blood for our safe keeping;
those too young to die,
those too old to go,
these bodies strewn as fodder for the soil,
all the wars we celebrate,
and those detested,
all the brave and those afraid,
all who perished, or offered
their life to return more than half spent,
to those we sing as heroes,
or left unsung,
we remember you today,
your souls be at rest,
and every day we pray,
humanity, God please,
cease their warring.
Une méditation sur l'amour et l'intimité, capturant l'essence du baiser…
Nous commençons encore
comme deux enfants
avant l'aurore magique…
We begin again
like two children
before the magic dawn…
Sans un sourire
ces moments de puner le doute soi,
l'obscurité se multiplie comme des cafards
sans fin et insipide…
Without a smile,
these moments of punishing self-doubt,
darkness multiplies endlessly…
My answer: to write a poem.
J'ai besoin d'univers de temps créatif,
sans fin comme le roulement des vagues de la mer,
un cocon soyeux de merveille,
lumineux et pur,
révélant l'étreinte des Anges,
et un baiser de Dieu.
I need a universe of creative time,
endless like the rolling of sea waves,
a silken cocoon of wonderment,
luminous and pure,
revealing the embrace of Angels,
and a kiss from God.
A lament for Juan, Darlyn, Jakelin, Carlos, Wilmer, Felipe — and all unnamed children lost to fear, separation, and a black tunnel leading toward the unknown.
¿Dónde están los Ángeles de protección?
Pequeño solo,
tus manos en tu vientre vacío…
Little one, alone,
your hands on your empty belly —
¿Qué comiste hoy? What did you eat today?
We collect pebbles in our buckets,
stars circulating our collar bones —
alone, yet herded,
fear tempered by hope as a guiding force
across sea and sky.
i.
Stones drop in water.
Disturbs everything around.
Poor folk queue in line.
ii.
Mad bombs, flames, hunger.
People scream, run, take cover!
Nowhere left to hide.
iii.
Lost homes, futures gone.
Naked, people are equal.
Death's sword strikes you, me.
iv.
Lost on roads and sea,
Grim winter, many starving.
Heaven gives refuge.
v.
Dark, dark moods of night.
Children ripped from parents, weep.
Cruel world. Fie! Fie! Fie!
vi.
Bones grind down to sand.
Sand specks grind down to ethers.
All return to Tao.
i.
Cold moon rising high.
Fingers numb, broken bodies.
O lamenting heart!
ii.
I fear the unknown.
What is, and cannot yet be.
Where did our love go?
iii.
Tomorrow rises.
Sun and sky glow together.
We return homeward.
iv.
Forget the pearl mist.
Come! See clearly what is hidden.
You awaken now!
i.
Sea drunk, desert dazed.
Walking blindly two by two.
Captured souls bow low.
ii.
When young we were brave.
Angry seas rise stealing homes.
Old people grew still.
iii.
Sea colors changed hue.
Seas too hot cannot cool earth.
Perilous folly.
i.
Cold, wild screeching winds,
lying with you is sweet bliss.
Swiftly dawn rises.
ii.
Bodies young, beautiful,
stay but a moment, wither.
Yet, what is pure lasts.
iii.
Pound raw silk firmly.
Recite prayers with full heart.
Life a fleeting dream.
Two elderly monks in a remote cliff temple perform sacred rituals by candlelight, then begin a pilgrimage to the mountain summit — contemplating impermanence as they climb toward a sunrise ringed by a solar halo, an auspicious symbol of luck, while chanting OM MA NI PAD ME HUM.
An excerpt from Black Holes and Other Prospects
"The day was soupy. Heavy gray mist you could scoop up in a ladle." An unexpectedly catastrophic fog engulfs the world — those in offices, shops, and streets find themselves unable to navigate as the mist descends "like a colossal snuffer over a burning candle," extinguishing daylight in a worldwide mega, blotted blow-out, gray-out.
Millie bears the endless burden of her husband Joe's constant relocations — packing, arranging, sorting their secondhand furniture while he packs only his golf clubs. She dreams of Bali, Fiji, and the French Riviera. "Hope was her chalice for survival against monotony and disappointment."
Short pieces, reflections, and fragments from Laila's ongoing writing practice.