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

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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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.

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

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

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...

Old Times

She never asked for a band of gold
Big house, two kids and life old
She'd rather die young and agile
Than old and cold feeling fragile

Sitting still with memories past
Just waiting for the next task
Getting out the sodding chair
Life's become such a nightmare

Able bodied in a strange land
Waking again is hard to stand
When will this nonsense end?
How much longer can she pretend?

Here we go again, another day
Bus is late again says the display
Hello Mrs Brown how are you
Hips ache as usual, shoulder too

To the doctors for a checkup
Another x-ray, what the fuck
Aching knees and back brittle
She pours a drink alas not little

She swallows a little from her glass
Memories unfold of a love long past
A tear trickles down her cheek
If he could only hear her speak

But speak she may he'll never hear
He's long gone over a year my dear
She listens for him hard at night
And tries to feel him hold her tight

But when she finally falls asleep
Into her dreams he quietly creeps
They talk and dance the night away
But in the morning he never stays

She wakes alone with a start
Damn let it be real she imparts
Who is this lady old as can be
Is she my fear deep in me

Montmartre Antique Shop Window, Paris

Fallen

They wanted to capture what was lost 

Both unaware of the hidden cost 

Mesmerized by their new connection 

But ambivalent about their direction 

She felt his leg against her thigh 

Sending her on an immediate high 

He felt her gently lean against him 

Arousing new feelings deep within 

She pressed against him on the street 

He loved the feel of such a treat 

Like wild teenagers on a dare 

They kissed in public upon a stair 

He wanted more with his tongue 

She teases him of more to come 

They're both dazed by new romance 

They venture homeward in a trance 

New thrills filled that empty space 

They had found that special place 

What was wrong felt so right 

Forbidden love they couldn't fight 

She warns him of impending danger 

But he's mesmerized by this stranger 

And eager to please his new treasure 

She grants his wish with reciprocal pleasure 

Expressing their pleasure deep within 

Gently carassing each other's skin 

Lovers blind to the sword overhead 

Precariously swinging over their bed 

The sword is suspended by a hair 

No strings attached they'd declare 

Until they felt like never before 

Sensually binding as they explore 

Forbidden secrets hang by a thread 

Like the sword above their heads 

The blade of the sword is so sharp 

Laying in wait to tear them apart 

Oblivious to the danger looming ahead 

Dancing to sweet music in their heads 

Her love for passion is her prowess 

Captivated he is by this temptress 

But Damocles sword glimmers above 

Now he knows he's in forbidden love 

Light from the sword catches his eye 

Catching him by startling surprise 

He aches for what he really wants 

But a guilty voice quietly taunts 

He relunctantly lets his muse go 

They tightly embrace as tears flow 

But Damocles sword can never sever 

Memories of passion that last forever 

A love that lives until both lovers die 

Existing in parallel in their mind's eye 

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

White Picket Fence

Oh how your garden looks so fab 

Looking like a home & garden ad 

How much time have you spent

Surrounded by a white picket fence

Waiting around for the 9:08 

Always wondering why it's late 

Time moves fast as you fall behind

Your watch is off by a decade you find

Oh dear what a crushing bore

You never looked behind before 

There's only the recording of your mind 

If only you could just rewind

What on earth have you done

But mother is proud of you my son 

Excuses excuses have you not heard

Your unseen play is so absurd

Happy family, wife and 2 kids 

Is that really all there is 

2 spare rooms mortgage paid

Bare as your future I'm afraid

Gaps wide open as a patio door

Garden furniture adorns the floor

Oh what a splendidly well-kept lawn 

Inside you suddenly feel forlorn

But you are the king of your castle

Trophy wife and a dog called rascal

Life is evaporating like a morning dew

And suddenly you ask where are you 

The question burns deep inside

A voice taunts your life is a lie

The unanswered question inside remains

Will you answer or just go insane