Visitation

I went to my old home.

There were new pictures on the walls
No books on the shelves
It was the same
But different.

My room was still a bedroom
Same floor
Fancy bed
This person didn’t use
A mosquito net.

I wandered through
Kitchen to dining
Dining to sala
Sala to my parents bedroom.

Why was I here again?
I can’t remember.
I forgot.
I forget a lot.

For nostalgia?
Curiosity?
It all looked the same
But different.

A tear dropped.
I was crying?
I laughed.
It makes no sense.
Why would I even care?

I smiled through the tears?
Maybe I grimaced.
I passed a mirror.
Yep.
Grimaced.

Maybe old homes haunt you.
That would be strange.
Wasn’t I to be the haunt
Here?

P#3 Not sure this is a poem.

Last week at work someone asked the group,
“What’s your favorite dessert?”

Some answers were simple.

“Leche Flan.”

“Mousse.”

“Chocolate.”

 

And some were fancy.

“Durian-flavored icecream.”

“Peach flambe.”

“My mom’s fruitcake.”

 

Mine was,

“Cappuccino-flavored sans rival.”

(I felt pretty smug when I said this.)

 

The answers kept on coming.

 

Then somewhere down the line,
someone said…

 

“Anything…”

.

.

(‘Meh’, I thought.)

.

.

.

.

.
“If it’s Free.

 

 

(Gasp!)

mbc

 

P#2 Wildflowers in Darkness

The sun in my eyes.
It hurt.
My mother told me,
“Don’t look at it.“

I kept looking.

My eyes closed, they watered so much.
Sun spots bloomed.
Wildflowers in darkness.
They Changed. Grew. Faded.

The sun blinded me.
I saw nothing else.
But new, beautiful colors.

I looked at the sun.
I grew older.
I looked.
Older still.
I looked.

Then Somewhere. Sometime. I stopped.

The pain hurt.
But the thought of it hurt more.
Just thoughts… whispers…
 
Today hurts far more than Yesterday.
Tomorrow will hurt far more than Today.

I knew they were there.
The Wildflowers in the Darkness.
I could reach for them if I wanted.

But Somewhere. Sometime.
In between growing up, I
Changed. Grew. Faded.

Now I’m just afraid.

P#1 Blank

I stare.

It’s blank.

I stare some more.

Still blank.

My hand moves.

(Is it having a thought I don’t have?)

It stiffens. Stops.

False alarm.

I return to the glaring whiteness.

We stare at each other.

Minutes pass.

Blank.

Blank.

 

Still blank.

I think I can see the future! In three hours time . . . it will be . . .

Miraculously!

.

.

.

Still blank.

(Sigh . . . ) This damn page . . .

 

I sleep.