I’ll Still Be The Moon, She Said | Poetry

Will you be the sun
or the moon? I asked her.
She said, I’ll be the moon.
Why? I asked, the light
does not belong to the moon.

I’ll still be the moon, she said.
To borrow from elsewhere
and light the dark,
that is the moon.
I would always want to
be the moon.

The moon is lost,
the moon is eclipsed,
the moon is tainted,
I argued.
So is the human heart,
she said.

Our hearts are like
the moon, reflected over
a broken glass;
it isn’t the moon that’s broken
only the reflection.

I’ll still be the moon, she said;
navigating the dark
under it’s light.

I’ll still be the moon.

Keys | Piano & Poetry

I have been wanting to mix poetry and piano for a while now. I love them both, and so I headed out to try by playing my tiny little keyboard and recording the sound using my headphones and a cool software called Garageband.

You can watch the video up there, or even read the poem below.

Keys

I’d like to make believe
that we’re like the keys
of the piano,
you and I,
never close-far far away,
and so you see we rarely meet.

Maybe you’re the C#
and I’m the B♭,
and if we go right
we’re exactly 8 keys apart,
but if we go left,
we’re only 2 keys away.

And despite the distance,
when a song strikes,
we meet –
every once in a while,
inside the notation of
a musical piece.

Perhaps we’re both Gs,
but an octave apart.
We sound different and
yet alike.
You see these keys,
how they have wonders in them.

And so I’d like to make believe
we’re like the keys
of the piano,
and sometimes
we do meet
inside of a
musical piece.

I’d like to make believe
we’re just
like the keys.


I’m a basic beginner with the piano. I was learning Mia and Sebastian’s Theme from the movie La La Land. The song wouldn’t leave my mind. I searched and practiced the simplest version available. While practicing an epiphany hit me. It wasn’t something big or marvelous, but I found it sweet, the idea that far away keys come together in a musical piece. Perhaps people are just like that too. We meet every once in a while inside the notation of a musical piece. 

My Old Shabby Shoes | Poetry

Sometimes when I visit
the supermarket,
I see the big mirrors
reflect my old shabby shoes,
perfectly covered in a layer of dust.

I step into the elevator,
I see the reflection of my shoes
on its translucent glass
side-by-side.
It moves higher, and higher
and higher,
it gets clearer, and clearer
and clearer,
that my shoes are getting
older, and older
and older.

I head straight to the section
filled with shoes.
It never fails to amaze me.
I wonder if you wonder too,
how many pairs stacked
in the room?
Sparkling light
to make it feel like day
even though it is already night.

I grab a pair, check its size.
39? Do you have 35? I ask.
The answer: no, we’ve run out of stock.
Oh, you see I never seem to find
a pair that fits just fine.

Sometimes when I visit
the supermarket,
I see the big mirrors
reflect my old shabby shoes,
perfectly covered in a layer of dust.

Against my old pair,
all the news ones –
each one of them looks
strikingly good,
even if I know they’re not.

It makes me a little sad
thinking that my shoes has gotten
shabbier and bad.
Oh! I remember,
it was once new too,
perfectly polished,
unknown to the road,
unknown to its owner,
my new pair of shoes.

So I know
all of the news ones must
one day become old and shabby too,
somebody else’s old shabby shoes.

Sometimes when I visit
the supermarket,
I see the big mirrors
reflect my old shabby shoes,
perfectly covered in a layer of dust.

I think my shoes are at the
wrong place,
in my shoe rack they look
perfectly good to me,
as I step in
to conquer the streets
in my old shabby shoes.

Sometimes when I visit
the supermarket,
I see the big mirrors
reflect my old shabby shoes,
my old shabby shoes.


I do, I always notice my shoes most of the time I visit the supermarket. It always feels old, even if it is not.

Visiting the Ducks | Poetry

A body of water
and a family of ducks,
it is home to them
what for us
is momentary exile.

A body of water
and a family of ducks,
I wait for them to swim
as they first fill themselves up;
two are caged,
three roam free.

A body of water
and a family of ducks.


I wasn’t very keen on visiting the ducks. I pass them quite often, but as they say in popular culture, there was a gust of wind and I was drawn. What was waiting did not confine to a body of water and a family of ducks, a poem was hiding near by. Visiting the ducks. 

In the photo above, you can see three ducks having perhaps their evening meal which mostly seemed like bread.