i write to believe.

i find the silence louder than any attempt to still the night pregnant with prayers the sky roaring with tears and heaven longing for earth’s saints what prayers have we buried in the soil of our memories? what promises have we not kept letting faith vanish behind the mountain? what candle can we light to let even shadows find home in the dark? what sound can keep us awake that even noise can embrace silence still?

i am banished from a place  where the conversations move freely between me and you the day ends with stories  i can no longer tell like a  heart filled tale  and i am absent from the words i say like a ghost lingering in the small white frame  where what exists is only a shell of what was left between me and you like an echo whispering  over and over in the dark  remember my name remember my name remember my name or a dream that was left back into the night what has become what has become what has become and the words which are all that is left as the remains of conjoined journey forgotten become empty as  dried up seeds  of trees longing for rain

aboard the Bateaux Mouche the cold and crisp air of Paris sang hands folded inside knitted gloves scarves like cupped hands around our necks the warm taste of coffee from a 4 inch cup held tight to last the 45 minute tour we waltzed through the canal the Eiffel loomed over shadows of its height all gray against the orange of fall the ride was slow and every bridge there greeted passerby made the foreign visit home Paris unveiled quiet dreams all forgotten in the backseat of desire stories whispering peace anticipated the holiday of trees we passed the bookshop where books hid lives and the clock ticked of time the clock ticked of time she waved goodbye and her heart gazed through her eyes but her smile, her smile a rosy colored bloom against the autumn Paris sky I write this in memory of Tita Lisa Caro.  One of the fellow pilgrims who travelled with us on Bus Number 5 during last year's  Europe tour. ...

This post has been a long time coming. I wrote this assignment last Sunday and was able to receive props for it from Peggy, my mentor.  I've mulled over this for 2 months and ended up changing the whole thing entirely.  The writing assignment is about "walking with a poem".   Unlike the other assignment I finished last November on Yehuda Amichai's poem , the way I had to go about this one was different. Walking with a poem was supposed to get to me listen in for the details.  To try and understand the lines and the words and how the sound of the words created images for the reader.  This was difficult for me because I could not find the right voice to go into "listening" or the right "way" of listening.  It troubled me for 2 months and sent me on a writer's block again. Finally, last week felt like a breakthrough when Peggy kept on encouraging me to just  "try without trying".  To have fun with the poem.  So I did. photo cr...

My next writing assignment from GlenOnline's Workshop has taken a while to gestate.  Working on understanding poetry in a different way simultaneous to working on a day job has been a challenge.  But I am still determined to complete it.   The rhythm of poetry can only be captured in a moment of silence.  Where thoughts quiet down and you can hear the sound of your own breathing.  It's impossible to digest a poem with a noisy mind.  The words do not penetrate and the meaning behind it is lost.  Yet, when you get to the discipline of being able to sit with a poem and be patient with the words while they unveil themselves to life, the wait is worth it.   Earlier this week I expressed a bit of frustration about how I'm not able to remain consistent with the writing flow.  Somehow I've accepted that the creative flow come in waves and what nurtures an artistic pursuit is the perseverance to make the attempt again and again.  Remai...

It took me a week to finally choose a poem I resonated with among the six poems I was assigned to reflect on through the ancient practice of sacred reading called  lectio divina .  The experience of being in a writing course (albeit online) has given me the liberation to explore the power of words and unearth the gift I know I've long locked within.  The gift of realizing I have the same power as well. My writing process was a painful unraveling.  I could not write immediately.  I could not catch the thought and pin it down on paper.  I tried reading other books that would get the flow of creativity going and to no avail the anxiety caught on and forced me to take a break.  So I did.  And went back on it again this weekend.  I had to recalibrate my mind for 2 hours.  Removing the residue of the business mind that forces me to constrict my definitions of life in a less human sounding voice.  I began my  meditatio  o...

Oh but I'm seeking for truth Is it where you are? I knock and search Up hill and down low In every breathing conversation I check the things they know I find it absent and lacking In sugar-coated sighs I fear the lack of meaning In praying through these lies Oh where is the soul Where is the soul In the worship colored life? When will the truth Birth pregnant aching cries? I can't be satisfied With driving windows down In circles up the highway Oh what does it take to cling hard to the vine? I'd laugh this away And put on my guise But I no longer can ignore The Jewish man calling Come and be mine.