Paper Boats

boat paper, water, dream, water, fullscreen

I would ask for meanings, if allowed,
Of the many words which float
As messages in paper boats do;
There for all the world to see.
Because I am afraid now
Of falling off the cliff of difference
That seems to be present
Between what is said,
And what I understand.

These words seem miraculous
For they sound as if spoken
From the depths of my own agony
Instead of the writer’s;
Perhaps it is the same?
But the words are not mine
And I dare not claim anymore
To understand what was meant.

To ask for meanings,
I must sail my own boats
And that plan suffers
From the same flaw of interpretation.
But I must, of course,
For there exists now a vast ocean
And only a vessel made of feeble paper.
I can only hope
That the ocean does not engulf it.

Then again, the ocean is free after all.
Who knows if the boat was even headed my way.


Photo by Alex Wigan

The spark of smiles

And innocent longings

Turned to a flame;

Deep red and pure,

Of passion and warmth, hopes and dreams.


As she watched the flame turn to harsh fire

That threatened to cremate the very love

Which it was built from,

Panic washed over her,

And she stood paralyzed,

Forced to watch the destruction all night.


The fire had burned without restrictions

And brought to light all good and bad.

She now surveyed the landscape of the hearts

Where residue flames still burned around;

Bright stars in ebony dark.

The venom had flowed out due to heat;

In rivulets of poisonous green. And the love?


The memory of the pure, red flame

Danced in front of her eyes

And she saw the light igniting far off,

As crimson sun broke the night.

Gaining strength from warming rays

She promised aloud to burn just as bright

And sent her word to the fiery being

With messengers of both lands still stirring;

Phoenixes, after all, are reborn from the ashes.

Puppet Show

Photo by Dikaseva

Both hands are tied;

The strings, an intricate pattern

Just barely co-existing,

A mere second away from getting tangled

And messing up the show.


She manages to maneuver

All important pieces of her soul

Separating them, letting them meet.

Dancing a delicate dance

That only she knows the steps to.


But tugs at both her hands continue

The tangles keep getting tighter.

Her platform is now a stage

And her strings are controlling her;

The puppeteer now a puppet.

Bus Ride

The rhythmic movement calms her

If only for the time being.

If only in a bus ride,

At least there is some movement in her life.


She can see why people are attracted

To dangerous, adventure sports.

There is such beauty

In choosing acceleration.


Such power one must feel

Falling headfirst, bungee-jumping.

Not being dragged down, but shooting like an arrow

And assurance of bouncing back up.


Such peace one must feel

While running a marathon

Follies and stabs of regret

Not catching up for some time.


The fears start bubbling up

As she sees  her bus-stop in the distance.

For when the bus halts,

So does the variation in her life.