The Grandfather Clock

the sound amid silence
the forlorn grandfather clock
its pendulum a metronome for life
chiming it away with each hour

the dead of night
time seemingly stands still
memories over spill
like a boiling pot
persistent as the ticking clock

The mind darkens
thoughts swinging to and fro
like the pendulum, tick-tock
mimicking the beating heart:
lub-dub, lub-dub

each sound marking the passage
of a life passing by;
lub-dub, lub-dub
mimicking the pendulum;
tick-tock, tick-tock

the grandfather signals mortality
is the stark reality
each tick and haunting tock
is a chink of life ebbing away:
tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock

Nuts in May

Ah spring sun!
ready to run!

winter is over
rain has gone

windows open
doors unlock

ominous grey
to azure blue

spirits lift
like morning dew

a sea of dark
turns an ocean of color

flowers blooming
bunnies grooming

California poppies
fill the scene

blue waters fill the bay
white horses sparkle away

nothing like May to put
the wind in your sail

long shadows
grace the trails

maybe it's nuts
to run while it's hot

then again, may be not

maybe it's time
to go nuts in May

time to run?
"you must be nuts," they say!

My Silent world

I cannot see

I cannot smell

I cannot feel

I cannot tell

I cannot speak

And I cannot listen

But upon my head

Morning frost glistens

Making Waves

ride the wave that  few dare to ride
there's always one from which folk hide
get in close
watch the wave start to crest
kick furiously with the best

you may have the ride of your life
you may wipe out with a tumultuous roll
dumped along the sea shore
in a barrel of a wave
and hear the ocean roar

you may ride alone on the wave
gliding safely to shore
assured by the roar
in an ocean of approval

however you end up along the shore
you will sure to have been seen
creating a scene
going against the tide
and enjoying the ride

drowning in a sea of despair
is not an option

Creative Writing Workshop 1 : A "Lost" Experience

So here I was feeling like a high school kid suddenly daunted by being assigned a phrase and three words: "Early Spring", "Tempted", "Dangling" and "Lost". Our task was to write creatively for 10-15 minutes using those words and phrases in our prose. Writing poetry was also an option.

I wasn't used to on-the-spot assignments outside of English exams. I attributed my anxiety to those past  high-school experiences. Even in college, we got to know to some of the material ahead of any exam. My own writing for pleasure usually included things that inspired me rather than assigned to me. My most productive literary musings were produced during the dark hours of insomnia rather than Friday afternoon and an impending happy hour beer after a long week. I certainly wasn't used to writing under the gun of time. But I was excited about my first creative-writing workshop. Despite being exited, anxiety momentarily filled me with dread as a blank sheet of writing paper and a pen stared back at me. However, age, inspiration, imagination, life experience and a willingness to share my despair in the form of poetry and prose took over from the momentary despair. I surprisingly found that the task in hand was relatively easy...

The rambling of my 10-15 minute hand-written blurb that includes three of the four words assigned in the workshop started ended up with a sad appraisal of how I thought about the past twenty years of my life. One of the things I have learned from writing is that it can be a stark insight into an unknown world within us. It is one that only becomes visual when we apply the written word to our innermost thoughts.

My work began:

I woke up one early spring morning with an alarming thought. Had I really slept through the seasons of my life? This morning was the dawn of a new experience -- an experience I'd never felt before. Where was I? And why all of a sudden in a very familiar environment did I feel lost?

I got up and looked in the mirror, but the reflection glaring back at me wasn't me. Somehow, I got lost on the way. I had been in a deep sleep for twenty years. What had I been doing and missing? I had been missing me... Yes, me. Somewhere, a part of me died. Most importantly, where was I and where was I going? Then it dawned on me. The early spring morning of my life had arrived.

Time dangles like Damocles' Sword above our heads. My awakening on the early spring morning was to know never to get lost again and to keep the dangling sword of time in sight, overhead and ahead...

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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.

Beerspiration

heat, sun,
a balmy breeze
caressing arms with no sleeves
flowing dresses
lady writing in a straw hat
man reading
laptops
laptops open
laptops closed
tables adorned with beers
sometimes coffee
heads down
forward, focused
heads up
talking
engaged
a face pensive waiting for a friend

necks crane forward
scrutinizing screens
strained
drained heads on one side figuring out what it all means...
hands animated
explaining

heads nodding uncomplaining
different color heads of hair
no one stares
who cares?

tattoos, glances, trances,
interesting stances eliciting ladies glances
they hide behind dark frames where they look discreetly in vain
buses pullup right outside
how do they feel as they watch us inside
outside having fun in the sun
the straw hat looks up; she smiles
what a style

Isaac Maimon "Cafe Paris 2010"

Isaac Maimon "Cafe Paris 2010"

Night Highway

1:26am
mind in the fast lane
no exit
what if there was?
where will it lead?
some place better?
doubt it
no sign of sleep
that's miles away
or did it pass?
past ex-lovers --
a desolate
long gone
lonesome place
now passing through
town of regrets
still no exit 
ah! a sign of hope
northbound
the opposite direction --
southbound
heading nowhere
where now?
running outta gas
slow down
the night is long
time stands still
the mind keeps going. 
5am
a few hours away
a red line
a horizon
signifies dawn
as orange appears
with azure blue
the madness fades
until the next mad ride
along night highway
a highway to nowhere
that never ends

Image: http://kevkevuk.deviantart.com/art/Tales-from-a-night-highway-157960780

Green

a field after rain
a face in pain

a light that says "go"
moss where a river flows

a jealous muse
a mix of yellow and the blues

a carpet where snow once lay
the beginning of a spring day

leaves shimmering in an evening sun
a glow of a cat's eyes when day is done

the fourth color in a rainbow
and of city signs that glow

Evergreen branches blowing to and fro
the color of life that ebbs and flows

Yosemite National Park - Karen Bayley-Ewell June 2013

Night Run

I saw you running across the parking lot. You didn't hear me at first. I thought you were ignoring me. My heart sunk and I felt hurt. Maybe you didn't see me? Hear me, or even remember me? It had been so long. I ran to catch up with you in the morning sun. I was surprised at your pace. I called again. You turned -- and the smile returned that I remembered -- the one that melted my heart.

You were hot and sweaty. Clearly you'd been running for some time. I didn't care. We embraced once more. We held tight and resumed a night flight. We ran, and we ran, and talked and talked; I can't remember what about.

I don't know how many miles we ran. Such pleasure was immeasurable, but each mile felt as good as the last, regardless of how many passed. The run lasted the night. I thought I had died and gone to heaven, but still the moment was against a back drop of melancholy. I knew where we'd begun and that this run would end and that I would never be yours -- my friend. And indeed, the run ended.

A tear flowed onto my pillow.

It was time to get up. For once, getting up was easy for I was away from an unreal world that lies and deceives. A world that raises hopes to be no more -- like the sea disappearing along a shore.

Later that day, I took to the hills. Like an old time cine movie, I replayed the dream over a five mile run. You were beside my side again. Only this time, no tears, just a fond memory flowed. "Miles" can be recaptured anywhere and anytime. An unreal world, but a creation of mine. An action replay of a love sublime forever captured until the end of my time.

Alone

one grey day as morning broke
a silent voice softly spoke
"it's time to wake from your sleep"
lost feelings started to seep

togetherness -- what a chore
how much time is really yours?
always ready to appease?

did you ever feel at ease?

journey on the back of time
intersected by love sublime
a sign pointed another way
you saw how you couldn't stay

oh why did you stay so long
when it all just seemed so wrong?
time is the only one who knows

it's just how the way life goes

a waterfall of time flew by
when a droplet caught your eye
loneliness was always there
so why do you so despair?

alone ain't such a bad thing
no questions that make your head spin
no more actions to explain
you are ready to soar again

Adrenoverse at Glazier Point, Yosemite NP, California

New Friends and Old Friends

So here I was venturing through Chinatown to North Beach  to see a friend playing in a band at the Old Saloon Bar on Grant Street. My brisk walk through the Stockton Tunnel enabled me to savor the air of an early Saturday evening at dusk. The hustle and bustle of Chinatown was quietly going to sleep as Columbus Street in North Beach was just awakening from its daytime slumber. The street markets slowly dismantled and merchandized wheeled off in crates for the night as darkness fell over Chinatown. I could avoid the the usually slow pace of dawdling tourists and local last minute shoppers by joining the not much faster traffic in the road to continue my walk unheeded to The Saloon.

A couple of blocks from my destination on Grant Street, I stumbled upon an old music store. Curiously, I had passed this store many times before, but it only caught my eye this evening. Vinyl records in boxes were on display outside and in the light-filled windows gleamed instruments of old: saxophones, bongos, drums, speakers, turntables, keyboards, amplifiers and bass guitars filled the store and windows in a display what can only be described as an Aladdin's cave for musician buffs. I paused for a moment and browsed through the old boxes of albums of yesteryear. Memories of old times flooded back of a time when I possessed some of those old vinyls. Album shopping used to be a regular weekend treat; not from old shops like this, but bright busy mega-stores like HMV and Virgin Records. One could never miss these old mega stores with music blaring inside and outside of the store. I moved over to a box of old posters that formed  testimony to San Francisco's musical past of the 60s, and 70s. A voice over my shoulder exclaimed, "Oh I remember those too...!" A somewhat shabby, but not unclean man peered down over my shoulder as I flipped through the posters. As we chatted about music and the store, it emerged we were the same age... But to me, he sounded like a throw back to the late fifties, or very early sixties..., "You should take a look inside, man. You'll trip out!" I replied, "I sure will..." In a brief moment, we were completely equal on a narrow level based solely on a love for music. But economics, and happenstance saw to it that we were far from that. I felt mildly guilty that I had a bed to sleep in and had to explain that I had no change... And for once, I really didn't have any change. Awkwardly, we parted company...

I continued browsing through the posters of old artists and concert announcements of Santana Live at the Fillmore and many other artists. Another voice arose, "Where 're you from then...? Sorry, but I heard you chatting while I was inside and just had to find out where you were from." Oh, I replied, "London, Walthamstow." He was clearly an Essex-boy. I knew that because he sounded exactly like my dear friend Nick from Essex who lost his life a couple of years ago. I was friends with Nick for close to twenty years. Nick played the saxophone years earlier and would have loved this store. The man I started chatting with outside the store even had the cheeky wry grin that Nick possessed. I immediately felt a rapport and familiarity that raised a smile in me. It was that depth and warmth that I felt whenever I saw Nick and shared many a pint with in a London bar -- a depth and warmth that I'd missed. I found myself hurriedly asking him if he lived in San Francisco now, "No, Luv, just visiting and passing through and buying up this store!" My heart momentarily sank as he got in his car and drove off... "Nick" was gone again once more...

I ambled on to the Saloon to meet my relatively new friends, but for some reason, I just could not bring myself to the present. I stared down at the dancing feet, but was still back in a London bar with Nick and other old friends from the past. And I wondered; is the past always present? Memories of the past are always present... And with that thought, my brief moment of melancholia vanished. I joined the dancing feet and embraced my moment of memories and again became present in the moment.

Writing Graffiti

Graffiti is the modern day cave drawing forever changing form and color as slates are wiped clean with a new coat of paint.  Walls of the past form the canvas of the new. The spray can transforms into the artist's brush.

Graffiti is the poor person's post-modern art and expression. The graffiti artist clandestinely enters where nobody else dares. They venture towards high places: not in status, but scale scaffolding and delve deep into the guts of abandoned buildings to express their creativity. The work of a graffiti artist is frowned upon by a society grounded in convention unless it's commissioned. Commissioned work loses the rough edge which is the appeal of graffiti. However, that does not remove the quality and creativity of commissioned work. Commissioned work has transformed stark gang-tagged neighborhoods to colorful  urban art galleries. Graffiti is supposed to be subversive and underground which gives it that edge. Unlike music, paintings, or words in a novel, play or book, the work is often temporary. Graffiti is a subculture that bucks the system by purposefully deviating from the norm.

My admiration of graffiti started four years ago in the Marin Headlands after a visit to Hill 88; an abandoned military site emblazoned with color and bright images juxtaposed by green hills, the ocean, and wind wailing through the concrete abandoned barracks of yesteryear. I recently returned to admire the work that I had  photographed four years ago and to see what else the graffiti artists had added to the abandoned walls that formed the open air canvas.  Alas! All of the work I'd photographed four years ago was gone. A blank wall stared back at me. It's blankness screeched conformity:  dull, colorless, and uneventful. No beginning or end.

I felt glad that I had captured the colorful spectacles years before and the work continues to exists on a photo sharing site and various other social networking sites like Google+ . I realized that I had unwittingly preserved the work of a few for many. I wish the artists knew.

I like to think of myself as a curator for the disenfranchised artists who are often seen as vandals for their often illegal, but creative work. To follow in their footsteps tracking their work by venturing inside forbidden places is both thrilling and engaging. Within the bowls of abandoned bunkers, cracks of sunlight  illuminate the art work like track lighting in a museum of modern art. In the starkness of abandonment, there is detail. In the darkness of it all, there is light. In the shallowness of the words, there is depth and color. In the desolation of it all, there is company. Graffiti is the life after death of abandoned walls.

On one wall, a graffiti artist declares, "Everything was beautiful ...And nothing hurt." I wondered what the author of those words meant? Was it a psychedelic drug experience filled with color and beauty like no other view or masterpiece? Were the author of those words making a sarcastic commentary on armed combat?

Another author warns, "Swipe your life away..." Those words resonated with me. Lives are swiped away constantly by the hand of meaningless toil, stuff, and sometimes tragedy; just like the paintbrush that swipes away the work of a graffiti artist. Lives are swiped away by not stopping and seeing the writing on the wall. The graffiti of life needs to be read. Stop and look at the color, the detail, the depth of the words, and a thought for the people behind the words. Like the words and work of a graffiti artist, a life won't be there forever. Block the hand of meaningless mundane toil that swipes your life away. Pause... See the detail that no one else dares to see, go to places others do not dare to tread, and embrace those moments. 

Everything will be beautiful and nothing will hurt.

Swipe Your Life Away - Hill 88 Marin Headlands 2013

What did the author mean?

Creative Writing Workshop - A Strange Signature

I often spent a fine hour exploring all the nooks and crannies of my favorite antique shop while chatting with the owner. I had no idea of the age of the couch way in the back, but my dealer friend guessed around early 1900. The couch soon became my latest treasure despite being covered in worn leather and in need of a good clean. I just couldn't resist the character of this vintage piece of furniture or a good bargain. Its disheveled appearance just added to its charm.

My not so new treasure looked grand in the living room and it complemented the hardwood floors.  It was the most comfortable thing I had ever had the pleasure of laying on.  As I laid back into its welcoming leather arms, I wondered what lives the couch had seen and what conversations it had heard... Perhaps it had witnessed fanciful parties of the roaring 20s, or overheard war stories of the Great War as people danced The Charleston...? My hand wondered around the sides of the couch and I dug deep into its dark depths. I felt and dug out an old thruppenny bit with George V and the year 1913 on the back confirming the approximate age of the couch. I recovered a beautiful sapphire ring which I am sure someone must have spent hours looking for and who died wondering what on earth had happened to it. Lastly, my fingers stumbled upon a piece of paper. I spent a good moment grappling with it trying to get a firm grip and eventually pulled it out. The letter was post marked, Oct 3, 1917 from Craiglockhart, Scotland. I took the letter from the opened envelope and noticed a strange signature at the end of the letter. I started to read the letter, but could barely make out the handwritten script. However, the words, "Dulce et Decorum est" jumped out at me. Of course, these words form the title to one of my favorite Great War poems by Wilfred Owen, the author of the strange signature.

Before my mind wondered a million miles, I got a zip lock bag and placed the ring and letter inside... Further research led me to find that this was one of the earliest manuscripts of the poem. This manuscript was older than the oldest known surviving manuscript addressed to his mother. The manuscript I held in my hand was an unknown, but priceless treasure; a treasure that later found itself in the Imperial War Museum in London. I was even more proud of my ownership of the Owen family couch and now knew that I had no intention of ever getting it cleaned...

A Tribute to Madame Bovary

you aspired to all not there
and found love you couldn't declare
lovers jilted you time and again
with no one there to dull your pain

you shielded Charles from all you knew
your true self revealed to only a few
your dreams hid under a veil of smiles
your mind meandered many fanciful miles

starved of sophistication you so admired
you sought what your heart truly desired
boredom encompassed your life external
fashions of Paris shimmered in your journal

but sadly Paris you never did see
alas your story is now history
forbidden love stole your life away
and now you'll not see another day

arsenic was the answer to your life pains
convinced you were you'd never love again
yield you couldn't to mundane contentment
your end was Charles' long death sentence

alas poor Charles he found your letters
leaving him estranged and torn in tatters
his awkwardness you grew to abhor
he hurt 'til his heart could ache no more

now Madame Bovary you'll never know
you were loved and tears for you flowed
but poor Charles just couldn't see
how both your lives were a tragedy

Madame Bovary and the bust of her creator, Gustave Flaubert

My Favorite Tree - Writer's workshop...

we came upon the village green
our old chestnut no long'r seen
where is our tree we so adore
our childhood tree we see no more

her branches held us way up high
she kept us safe as we reached the sky
silently she'd watch us play away
until dusk fell at the end of day

sometimes on a hot summer day
we often tired and abandoned play
we'd lay beneath her shimmering leaves
mindless of how we'll one day grieve

she graced us with her autumn colours
her beautiful leaves were like no others
we gathered conkers and climbed w' grace
a vacant patch now marks her place

this fine lady the subject of sonnets
100 years she'd graced our hamlet
there she stood still as time flew by
her death made you want to cry

what happened to our favorite tree
the tree that we no longer see
like all good things they fade and die
but on she lives in our mind's eye

Peaceful Moment

I reached the top of the segment where the trail flattened out before me. Specs of blue and yellow danced about a sea of green greeting me as I caught my breath from my first climb.

Yet it was not this breath-taking view of above and beyond that caught my gaze... but a golden gleam of orange illuminated by the warm early spring sun that captured my glance and warmed my thoughts.

My what a splendid sight of this jewel glowing so bright! Her dance gave me a feeling of warmth inside... Shimmering and bobbing up and down with pride, as if in praise of my every stride. I pause for while to admire her show. I exclaim, "Oh California poppy! You raise my spirit so! You are the sign of spring!"  She nodded her head in agreement as the soft warm breeze brushed her petals.

 She softened and embraced me with her beauty and glow. I resumed my own dance along the trail embracing my encounter with a moment of peace.

Words

A fine young woman dies 

Words of comfort and goodbyes 

Scrolling down a screen of tears 

Distant voices lending ear 

Words failing those apart 

Hundreds unite with broken heart 

Sharing many words of love 

Flying wildly like a dove 

We hear words as if said 

We listen to invisible voices instead 

How can we love who we never heard? 

Young Candy existed behind those words 

Feeling the flow of virtual tears 

At her abrupt end of just a few years 

She made us think and laugh out loud 

And left us reflecting under a cloud 

Her powerful words touched like a hand 

Yes, it's difficult to understand 

Unless you knew a silent friend 

Whose life tragically met a bitter end 

For Candy - RIP

Silent Minds

Screaming loudly in silence
Getting used to self-reliance
Yelling out loudly - no one cares
They are nothing but just scared

Reminded of their own deaths
No thought for your last breath
Listen to their priest they will
But their minds are never still

Watch them look in all directions
Oh so many introspections!
Easy for them to look away
Thoughts can wait another day

Gotta go here - gotta to do that
No time for your sweet back
Beware the offer when in need
As it arrives they'll quickly recede

As you plough through life in vain
Do lies comfort your dull pain?
Lifeless like a long lost pond
You wonder what the hell went wrong

You lost yourself along the way
Worried about what they'll say?
You never knew what to ask
Answers lost in the distant past

Truth hides deep in your mind
Fearful of what you'll find?
Take a look don't run and hide
Inner voices need to confide

Invisible

Darkness is falling without delay

As she wakes in her silent room

Led lights signal yet another day

More hours of persistent gloom

There's no reflection in her mirror

She only sees her invisible face

She misses all those who saw her

Perceiving her youth as full of grace

Alone she wonders around the shops

Everybody is busily running around

The faceless crowds cease to stop

Nobody hearing her silent sound

Nobody stopping just moving around

Heads with no eyes blank and blind

Oblivious to others' sights and sounds

They fail to see her tumultuous mind

Nobody stopping, just running around

Mouthless heads utter useless words

Always mute to each other's sounds

She's so weary of this restless herd

She wonders why they never call

How did she become so invisible

Just always talking to a brick wall

They never listen to one syllable

Making her way towards the midspan

She silently scales the four foot fence

What a beautiful day for such a plan

Will the faceless crowd express lament

There she ponders for a little while

A passerby stops and yells hey

The shimmering sheet greets her smile

She's already in the deep blue bay

The unknown neighbors below her floor

Had never heard her dog before

The frantic bark could not be ignored

The next morning they called the law

Coast-guards found her along the shore

The heart ripped from her aorta

But really she'd gone years before

Nobody said a word not one iota

The paper makes an inch long story

Neighbors silently shake their heads

Mutter platitudes reading her obituary

She was always so quiet they said