Monday, June 23, 2014

Hidden views

From the high trails of an Island across the bay, a cityscape gleamed and sparkled in the haze of an early morning sun. Silver slithers shimmered from east to west from across the bay. White horses decorated with diamonds speckled the bay and sparkled as they bobbed up and down in their azure blue arena. Occasionally, a flair of color would help the white horses along their way. Thin wisps of early morning fairy-tail mist enveloped a small island castle like fingers hiding a secret. White wispy fingers reached out across the bay and crept under the red span of a bridge whose towers watched over the enchanted city. The city shone and glistened like a jewel in a crown as sunbeams bounced around glass towers piercing the blue. Alas, this enchanting surreal scene exists only in the eyes of a few.

Hidden behind those sparkles are boxes of burnt-out candles entrapped in a cage of age, loneliness and poverty. Their flames long extinguished, the candles remain boxed up and invisible, but other candles burn through the night. Twinkling champagne juxtaposes extinguished flames.

The silver slivers are snakes of black with holes in their back squished by heat and heavy machinery slugging lost candles from hilltops to dark boxes below.

Those beautiful white horses had the wind in their sails whilst lifeless candles hid behind screens unseen by horses, champagne and flames. The unlit candles remain in their dark box waiting, and waiting for a match to strike that will signify their dawn... Locked in their box, not seeing the sunrise or the sunset, they never know when it is day or night.

And so it was; way up high on that lonesome trail where everything seemed so still. The scene was just a screen forming a backdrop for what is rarely seen.

Friday, June 20, 2014

Past Reflections

There she was. I caught her gaze through the window of a darkened store on Polk Street. Her platinum blond hair and half-closed eyes gazed in a haze back at me. I stood mesmerized outside my favorite antique store which had closed for the day. I never noticed her before. Fascinated, I stared back at her through the window in wonderment and admiration for this young woman's beauty and charm. Her tousled hair had the look of someone riding in a vintage convertible along a 1950s California highway. Perhaps she had embarked on such a journey?

There was nothing sharp or angular about her features. Her features were small, soft and rounded like that of an innocent child.  I wanted to stay and ask her all kinds of questions, but I had to leave. I wanted to tell her how much she reminded me of a friend who had similar looks and style and whose life also ended in tragedy at a similar age. The timeless, but vintage beauty of this woman looked on at me through the window. She seemed aware yet vulnerable. She could walk the modern streets of Paris, London, New York or indeed San Francisco, and still not look out of place.  I left, but with a promise to myself that I would be back. I returned a few days later, but alas, she was gone -- and the frame containing her image was gone. Wherever Marilyn Monroe is hanging, I hope she is gazing through that window of time reflecting on the past with no regrets.

Tuesday, June 3, 2014

Not Me

Sitting in an office 9-5
following deadlines

not me

why me?
it doesn't have to be
why think it of me
because you want it to be

for appearance
(well may be a wax)

not me

brown bag lunches
fake breaks

not me

climb dizzy heights
up a corporate ladder
lose your footing
half-way up

not me

feet firmly bound
to the ground
stress free
with autonomy

that's me

wine sun
beers and cheers
chat and relax

that's me

so heed of my plea
listen to me
leave me be
to be me