Prose Poetry Prose

and there silence was no more

Creation and Recycling

We get stuck in the rut of recycling. Reusing old objects of others’ affections. Reiterating others’ statements. Re-telling of tales which were once lived and thought of like book pages antiquated by the passing seasons. But rarely we plow the thick grass and create puddles for ourselves. We steal re-shared and reinstated old gibberish only once logical to its creator. We get stuck in the old river bed, traveling in comfortable pontoons, excusing our lack of inception to busy lives, half-drunk coffees, and sore brain muscles to mundane chores and patterned scutwork as the thread scuttles back and forth making the banal the highlight of our day. We are creatures of routine, easily lulled by the decrepit beat, hoary ideas, and wasted reprocessed thoughts. We long to create. Something. Somewhere. Other than the day-to-day. Other than humdrum. Else we endanger ourselves to riding the gentle wave and deepen the furrowed abstraction in tune with the wrinkling of our brows.


Until You Left

I now only realize that

People counted people
I counted you
On the many phone calls and
Text messages in the middle
Of chaotic days. But
Took them for granted
I now only realize
Our attachment was not what
You call ‘umbilical-like’
Not that I have a problem
With being seen with you,
Outside our reciprocation
Yet we were as
A roped river-bridge
Syncing and cinching two ends
While the waters underneath
Created niches and crevices
In our subconscious but
I took them for granted
Never granting more time than
The availability of sharing the
Most recent gossip, or the sound
Of trivial sighs and laughter
Never really close, always peppered
With social anxiety be it two or more
Never moments as
When Venus almost
Kissed the moon and the air warmed
By uncovered conversation 
And we always kept it at arm’s length
As if I was apprehensive to be
Apprehended by genuine answers
To genuine questions, 
Always relegated to shallow Hi’s and
Bye’s never deeper than the wading
Of a child’s feet on coastal shores
Never seized the small gestures
Until you left…