Ocean and the Shore

The ocean ceases to be
what it had been for
the waiting shore---
A light years gap between
her and the hazy terrain
from afar, where
an unlaunched boat lingered,
like her, waiting;
Indifferent to her longing
that one day, its waves
will not just come and go...

The ocean ceases to be
what it had been for the cynical shore;
Now, it cradles the boat
that unleashed itself from
its deep anchor.
And, the waves still
come to the shore,
but, only to bring her
when they go with the boat...
In a journey to the abyss
where everything is unknown
except love.

-- Lorie

Random poetry

These are a few quotes I received recently from a Capricorn friend.


What a chase of spins this thought with two hearts holding hands through us on the moonlit evenings and the mornings when city and sea take shape from dark while the nightingale sings.
11.07.2011 2:18AM

The vain beauty cares most for the conquest which employed the whole artillery of her charms.
10.07.2011 11:06PM

Beautiful may be the lies from the deceiver's lips, but when revelation descends with full force, his grossness is undraped.
06.07.2011 1:42PM

Feeling is deep and still; and the word that floats on the surface is as the tossing buoy that betrays where the anchor is hidden.
03.07.2011 3:43AM

Fallen leaf

I had just been dumped yesterday. I'm still a bit intoxicated not by inebration (or herbal high), but by compunction that has chagrined me since the day my heart was broken. I have been drifting mindlessly with the wind like a weightless leaf fallen from an old tree.

My head is a dam of thoughts waiting to be released freely through the river until they reach the ocean, where I guess my love has drowned me. Sometimes, ocean speaks of death, a silent one.

In the meantime, I'll let Pablo Neruda express my feelings with his poem, If you forget me...

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine...

--Pablo Neruda

Thinking about P.N.

Oh not again. I don't know why I'm thinking about Pablo Neruda again... I'd rather post his piece here.

If You Forget Me

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.

Pablo Neruda

And, I'm glad you didn't forget me...

Cat's Dream

How neatly a cat sleeps,
sleeps with its paws and its posture,
sleeps with its wicked claws,
and with its unfeeling blood,
sleeps with all the rings–
a series of burnt circles–
which have formed the odd geology
of its sand-colored tail.

I should like to sleep like a cat,
with all the fur of time,
with a tongue rough as flint,
with the dry sex of fire;
and after speaking to no one,
stretch myself over the world,
over roofs and landscapes,
with a passionate desire
to hunt the rats in my dreams.

I have seen how the cat asleep
would undulate, how the night
flowed through it like dark water;
and at times, it was going to fall
or possibly plunge into
the bare deserted snowdrifts.
Sometimes it grew so much in sleep
like a tiger’s great-grandfather,
and would leap in the darkness over
rooftops, clouds and volcanoes.

Sleep, sleep cat of the night,
with episcopal ceremony
and your stone-carved moustache.
Take care of all our dreams;
control the obscurity
of our slumbering prowess
with your relentless heart
and the great ruff of your tail

by P.N.

Only when I write

Like right at this moment, finally done with four stories (my quota for this week).

It's only when I write that I feel like my life has a sort of meaning. (Grin) I'm pretty much sure that I'm not really expert on this skill, but this is the only thing I know I can do right.

Like what I always say, "It's only in writing that one can be exact." In writing, I can still delete an idea, add something that just came up, control the number of words I have to say, and even forget about the entire idea that I tried to compose.

In writing, I can take all the time in the world, as long as I know I still have enough before the deadline. And, in writing, I can have a conversation with myself without opening my mouth, like a schizophrenic.

In trying to write a story, whether something that happened in my past, or somebody's that I witnessed, or something that I totally made up for the sake of immortalizing my fantasies or imaginations, I feel like a writer. And,it's where my dream of becoming an author begins, when I feel like a writer and behave like one.

And, only in a moment like this, when I'm done with my quota and submitted them to the editor, that I feel like I'm working, and deserved remuneration. Huh! Life is good!

You're still normal!

One day in a breakfast meeting with my co-author, who is the owner of several business establishments here in the city, I spoke about a predicament preoccupying me lately.

Should I be thinking about how to make more money than how much I'm earning now? Am I already too old to plan about my career which is synonymous to income, considering that business plan or career path will cover 10-15 years?

Then, he told me, "You're still normal."

He said if I would receive a million right then and there, I might be ruined.

True enough, I don't know what to do with such big amount of money!

Let nature take its course. We all dream of a good life and need more money than what we have. But it doesn't mean that's what we want right at this moment. Good life is relative. What is good life for you, anyway? For money is but a by-product of our so-called success or should we call it fulfillment.

If one dares to venture overseas for a huge sum even without an inkling of his or her job and life there, he or she may not linger especially upon reaching at the (big word) CROSSROADS.

One must be prepared whatever risk he or she may take whether in search for a greener pasture or for a meaning or purpose of one's existence.

I finished my breakfast not only with a full stomach, but a full heart and clear mind. Maybe, we all need even a single breakfast with a friend or someone who's not akin to us, to destroy some cobwebs in our minds.

Only to be reminded that amid pressures and anxieties, we are still normal. Live life each day!

(reveal your thoughts to me at lorie.cascaro@gmail.com)