the night is just starting to get real they clutch at their heart and rock themselves to sleep they see the sparkle of the moon behind their eyes their thoughts are white flags waving on high in a storm their bodies are empty logs washed out by the shore outside is the empty street that leads to other places they are in another world in a different time no one asks about them, no one knows about them in the morning, they rise up and squint at the sun as if a stranger is asking them for a light except that they did not know what that meant what they are supposed to do with their hands mapuon na naman magbanggi, kapot-kapot ninda an saindang lawas, nagpipirit makaturog sa likod kan saindang mga mata iyo an laad kan bulan an saindang mga naiisip garu mga puting bandera sa tahaw nin bagyo an saindang mga hawak mga gapo sa gilid nin salog sa luwas, yaon an solo-solong tinampo yaon sinda duman sa iba man na kinaban sa iba man na panahon mayong naghahapot sainda, mayong nakakabisto
the moon is a red gash on the sky's face stars are the delicate moles in a vision near a kiss darkness leans into the grass, lowly beside the trees a forgotten root slips into the water close to the land as if dying for love or hope there's nothing else but a kiss beyond the lights the wild signal of time the sound of crickets and the blood in my ears
love, what it truly feels like by StephanieLeeMira, literature
Literature
love, what it truly feels like
when you love, you believe it is forever, at that single moment, everything resonates you do not resist faith nothing is as good as hope when you lose someone, you believe it is forever, it probably is, every reason to love fails because your heart is breaking you lose hope for a while and then, every day, little by little, you miss having faith, nothing is as good as hope, you reach for your old self, you ache for the things that were, so you try to love again this time, you know it is forever, the love you give stays even as you fade away all the love that were, they are for always and the lover knows it, even if they lose the beloved
I want to be free, but the silence keeps me, so the moment stays, and the quiet is all there is my heart aches for something, as deep and ancient and unnamed, so why do I fear at the last minute, all of the universe is for this world a thousand times, a hundred ways, I am back to where I was, making tiny motions of living, to add to some pent-up meaning I want to be free, yet there is nothing to be free from, I watch my life as if it were someone else's, but I remain the same I go back to the beginning, the air clears, the vision of the night is perfected by the moon, life is here to stay
the heart is a deep shade of blue by StephanieLeeMira, literature
Literature
the heart is a deep shade of blue
I. once young, I would look at myself, to see how far I have come, to see if I have changed, to answer what all of it means then my mind would fill with the moon, how it stretches the sky with light, that I feel hollow within its reach, my thoughts cling to shadow underneath II. the same sea has been crashing around for centuries, I clutch at my heart and inside is the same feeling, the boat is steered towards the sea, the same men keep sailing for the moon the waves crash around me, the night is faithful always, the questions remain the same, only I have erased the answers
bicycle, rusting in the rain by StephanieLeeMira, literature
Literature
bicycle, rusting in the rain
someday, when I am old, I will regret having lost at so many things only because I have lost so much of myself trying to win at things and then, I will tell you about them, and you will listen, then I will know that I am not alone, except that I will be alone, with the regret of losing you, after so many things but then, I find myself now, brave and young, alone, with all my regrets, of losing you, before so many things that someday, when I am old, I will regret, after having lost at so many things
amidst this life, the center that contains a glimpse of what is not chaos but not peace the moment that stares at the eye that holds the entire gaze is futile in its reckoning of time that slips becoming something else as soon as the change is realized in the becoming, life turns abrupt and it's not just those days before the years, to hang one's hope, to frame the meaning before the scope of what I can behold between the spaces of old judgment the predicament of life is that devoid of a heart it stays the same, first and last lines what is there to love even with the best of us what is there to see, even with all eyes open, and what is there to say, what is there to say? what is there to say...
she holds the unfurling of desire in her heart her mind carefully holds still in the flowering dark they are aware of one another, but keep silent as if the forthcoming of a thought the foreboding of a feeling would mean the end in sight of something meant to stay hidden and cannot be helped at the same time this, her upturned face towards the sky that signals rain in the loom but floods her insides with warmth the trampling and banishment of dirt and stone underneath the stratum enclosing itself from the trespassing streams of perfect imagery her naked form from beyond the copse of trees towards the ceiling, the banisters, unto the last columns of the light of day, and the rows of minute black lashes, from where flesh and blood transform to the sprays of indignant presence she longs to hold still in the trails of her mind
a long time ago, you wrote us your friends something like a poem you wrote it in a way that tells about us going our separate ways without meaning to, without letting each other know of anyone leaving, that we'd drift apart, each alone, turning cold, but that we'd come back for ourselves, pretending we did not leave in the first place, we'd say hello to one another, and make excuses for drifting off, if someone was not able to make it back, we'll throw in our jackets over the cold, over the ash, just enough for it to last.... forever
I wanted to be tall grass or moonlight, just not myself, but the tall grass stands strong and similar, like one leaf to another, a green expanse above my shoulder, and moonlight casts itself apart from the rock, from which it has come, fissured without pain, still magical like the silver-tipped points of mountain peaks Or I want to be someone else, without knowing why, but when we look at the same mirror, you are generous with our reflections, as if all four of us are blood-related, or do you see four different people, I want to be with the stars, swallowed in the musings of a wish, unfurling from whose lips, to be found on the other side, without being fixed into a point, that if someone asks of me, I could be the same person asking, or being asked, I want to be all over the place, like the air that we breathe, and the thoughts that come to mind, and appear once again in your heart, when you least expect it, I want to be where you are, without wanting to be with you, or letting you
the night is just starting to get real they clutch at their heart and rock themselves to sleep they see the sparkle of the moon behind their eyes their thoughts are white flags waving on high in a storm their bodies are empty logs washed out by the shore outside is the empty street that leads to other places they are in another world in a different time no one asks about them, no one knows about them in the morning, they rise up and squint at the sun as if a stranger is asking them for a light except that they did not know what that meant what they are supposed to do with their hands mapuon na naman magbanggi, kapot-kapot ninda an saindang lawas, nagpipirit makaturog sa likod kan saindang mga mata iyo an laad kan bulan an saindang mga naiisip garu mga puting bandera sa tahaw nin bagyo an saindang mga hawak mga gapo sa gilid nin salog sa luwas, yaon an solo-solong tinampo yaon sinda duman sa iba man na kinaban sa iba man na panahon mayong naghahapot sainda, mayong nakakabisto
the moon is a red gash on the sky's face stars are the delicate moles in a vision near a kiss darkness leans into the grass, lowly beside the trees a forgotten root slips into the water close to the land as if dying for love or hope there's nothing else but a kiss beyond the lights the wild signal of time the sound of crickets and the blood in my ears
love, what it truly feels like by StephanieLeeMira, literature
Literature
love, what it truly feels like
when you love, you believe it is forever, at that single moment, everything resonates you do not resist faith nothing is as good as hope when you lose someone, you believe it is forever, it probably is, every reason to love fails because your heart is breaking you lose hope for a while and then, every day, little by little, you miss having faith, nothing is as good as hope, you reach for your old self, you ache for the things that were, so you try to love again this time, you know it is forever, the love you give stays even as you fade away all the love that were, they are for always and the lover knows it, even if they lose the beloved
I want to be free, but the silence keeps me, so the moment stays, and the quiet is all there is my heart aches for something, as deep and ancient and unnamed, so why do I fear at the last minute, all of the universe is for this world a thousand times, a hundred ways, I am back to where I was, making tiny motions of living, to add to some pent-up meaning I want to be free, yet there is nothing to be free from, I watch my life as if it were someone else's, but I remain the same I go back to the beginning, the air clears, the vision of the night is perfected by the moon, life is here to stay
the heart is a deep shade of blue by StephanieLeeMira, literature
Literature
the heart is a deep shade of blue
I. once young, I would look at myself, to see how far I have come, to see if I have changed, to answer what all of it means then my mind would fill with the moon, how it stretches the sky with light, that I feel hollow within its reach, my thoughts cling to shadow underneath II. the same sea has been crashing around for centuries, I clutch at my heart and inside is the same feeling, the boat is steered towards the sea, the same men keep sailing for the moon the waves crash around me, the night is faithful always, the questions remain the same, only I have erased the answers
bicycle, rusting in the rain by StephanieLeeMira, literature
Literature
bicycle, rusting in the rain
someday, when I am old, I will regret having lost at so many things only because I have lost so much of myself trying to win at things and then, I will tell you about them, and you will listen, then I will know that I am not alone, except that I will be alone, with the regret of losing you, after so many things but then, I find myself now, brave and young, alone, with all my regrets, of losing you, before so many things that someday, when I am old, I will regret, after having lost at so many things
amidst this life, the center that contains a glimpse of what is not chaos but not peace the moment that stares at the eye that holds the entire gaze is futile in its reckoning of time that slips becoming something else as soon as the change is realized in the becoming, life turns abrupt and it's not just those days before the years, to hang one's hope, to frame the meaning before the scope of what I can behold between the spaces of old judgment the predicament of life is that devoid of a heart it stays the same, first and last lines what is there to love even with the best of us what is there to see, even with all eyes open, and what is there to say, what is there to say? what is there to say...
she holds the unfurling of desire in her heart her mind carefully holds still in the flowering dark they are aware of one another, but keep silent as if the forthcoming of a thought the foreboding of a feeling would mean the end in sight of something meant to stay hidden and cannot be helped at the same time this, her upturned face towards the sky that signals rain in the loom but floods her insides with warmth the trampling and banishment of dirt and stone underneath the stratum enclosing itself from the trespassing streams of perfect imagery her naked form from beyond the copse of trees towards the ceiling, the banisters, unto the last columns of the light of day, and the rows of minute black lashes, from where flesh and blood transform to the sprays of indignant presence she longs to hold still in the trails of her mind
a long time ago, you wrote us your friends something like a poem you wrote it in a way that tells about us going our separate ways without meaning to, without letting each other know of anyone leaving, that we'd drift apart, each alone, turning cold, but that we'd come back for ourselves, pretending we did not leave in the first place, we'd say hello to one another, and make excuses for drifting off, if someone was not able to make it back, we'll throw in our jackets over the cold, over the ash, just enough for it to last.... forever
I wanted to be tall grass or moonlight, just not myself, but the tall grass stands strong and similar, like one leaf to another, a green expanse above my shoulder, and moonlight casts itself apart from the rock, from which it has come, fissured without pain, still magical like the silver-tipped points of mountain peaks Or I want to be someone else, without knowing why, but when we look at the same mirror, you are generous with our reflections, as if all four of us are blood-related, or do you see four different people, I want to be with the stars, swallowed in the musings of a wish, unfurling from whose lips, to be found on the other side, without being fixed into a point, that if someone asks of me, I could be the same person asking, or being asked, I want to be all over the place, like the air that we breathe, and the thoughts that come to mind, and appear once again in your heart, when you least expect it, I want to be where you are, without wanting to be with you, or letting you
the waves etch mountain peaks onto the sand pulling back into the water and leaving their mark like echoes all repeating the same message i was here . the swimmer disappears between swells like a fingertip drawing a curve behind your ear . all i can remember implies the vastness of all the rest which i’ve lost the same immensity as standing at the water’s edge with an ancient horizon starving my heart . one wave surges upward onto the sand farther than the rest. reaching a dip in the slope it pools, rippling gently in satisfaction, able to doze at last in a nest shape of sparkling light. . the long tan grass curves upward fin-like and buoyant in a persistent state of weave, sway, drink. i look at it the same way i would look over the rim of a cup at you without your knowing. the grass makes a sound part breaking water part drawn curtain. i have to turn away eventually but they remain . the earth tilts and the waves approach, pins and needles of benumbed light shattering
the beginning is like ending: a forward run
'round the same spaces as before
as spaces before now seem
same as the runaround, and end
like they began
these circles don't stop halfway in the moment
always stuck reliving mistakes,
some not yet even made
shaking snowglobe futures
and pondering the past discarded with every flick and tremor
full erasure- whiteboard, wiped clean
but an after image seen
in negative space
how all this happened, and happening still
but only barely felt
and what if
you look out the window with your heart in an open flow. the light knots up inside you, as clenched & gnarled as the light trapped in an ice cube bleeding its own water. the clouds rest in your mind somewhere between mountains & memories & you fuss the fullness out by touching one hand to the other, you nourish a growing ache by leaning closer to the glass as if it were the warmth of a winter fire or a sleeping lover. the land slips away beneath the weather & your heart tilts slightly in the boozy light as it paints the clouds into melodies of orange & pink blossoms. not a long way to go now. the plane, half-stone, half-wind, skirts the atmosphere in a seething, jetted arc. you measure unimaginable distances by tapping one fingertip after another to your thumb as if each touch sparked a new star into being. you take a sip of water as the moment starts bruising the light on the clouds & a flower opens in your mind, staying open at its peril: you have never
evening the sun plays piano on the treetops, the cat rubs her cheek against the edge of the hour & looks through it at something i don’t see. a few tiles on the kitchen wall mismatch, turn the straight line into a hieroglyph mimicking the numeral 1 dipped partway into clear water. the humidity makes all the doors stick, but the breeze comes in through all the windows at once and everything feels forgiven. skull a candle flame sprouts inside a half-orange, half-moon shaped room filled with the starting & ending of time. the room breathes light, i breathe time, & the air flattens to a horizon as sharp & nameless as frozen water. tangent not sure i live here trying to fall asleep inside a dream dwelling on faintness, on remembered light zero i wish i saw more. i wish i knew less.
comfort can be found
alone, in the backyard
with the fresh laundry.
comfort likes being at home,
and the ambient quiet.
“i am afraid of needing
other people,” he confides.
there is a cotton bedsheet
folded over his arm. it smells
of clean and sunshine.
“i am afraid of this need
in me to receive kindness, and
that is why i must be by
myself.”
September rain falls on the house Refusing to make haste As though it were a wall As though in some strange way You miss each other The falling leaf inaugurates Sounds our parents heard Echoing over housetops Though I am old with wandering What thoughts I have of you tonight
1a. staring out from a railroad hotel room- sunlight arrived in an old sedan then fell down an elevator shaft leaving everything the color of old pennies mixed with burlap and coal dust 2a. a battered wingtip, black as a priest's robes, left behind... crows sit on telephone wires and boxcars watching- stooped men in track gangs, switching cars to build trains shuffling men in loden overcoats, searching bottles for dismantled dreams faceless passerby, adrift in a sanitarium playground the air is scented with traces of exhaust, baking bread, cigars, and cinnamon 3a. gulls work the wharves and bridges- tugs, liners, ferries, and derelicts barnacled denizens of the fog slip beneath soaring spans of black Victorian steel mumbling and bawling with horns... horns with a voice of roaring subway tunnels of winter light reflecting off 90th floor gargoyles of newspapers flapping around a sleeping hobo of tail lights on Checker cabs, belonging to the past even as they
All my life,
alone,
scattered thoughts...
thunderclap;
I’ve raised one effigy--
hoisting my feet off the ground--
but I’m desperate to bow,
to kneel, to forgive.
Water falls
fruit grows
what’s dangerous
I know...
but this language
I hold is hard
to let go
to fertile furrows.
Water falls
fruit grows
it’s a miracle
I know...
but someone else--
I need someone else
to hold these words;
I need another
to walk with me
beside the water
within the grove.
A storm is moving
so low
and darkness
shared with another
is easier,
I know.
A stone, it was a stone,
brother,
and they are everywhere
strewn like bones
when
guilty
I am a writer. I published my first book of poetry in 2018. I have a book of short-stories, pending publication. I am a Registered Nurse with creative aspirations.
Favourite Visual Artist
Vincent Van Gogh, Paul Signac, Georges Seurat, Claude Monet
Favourite Movies
Shawshank Redemption, IT
Favourite Bands / Musical Artists
Gregory Alan Isakov, John Mayer
Favourite Books
Celestial Navigation, The Dark Half, A Home at the End of the World