CAVEAT

There is a place called
The Crossroads.

An intersection.

An intertwining of shadows and colors -- shards from boulevards of broken dreams, dizzying prismatic cascades of brilliance.

Be drawn into the murky whirlpools. Drink from punctured holes of sunlight. Whether you seek respite or redemption, this is only what you make of it. But we remain, always, our own guardians.

Welcome, Traveler.

I welcome myself
into my own plane.
On a rock, I carve
with my dagger
an inscription of my name.
With the little, sordid, tangled
deaths of day-to-day battle,
I will ensure my immortality
when the dust has settled.

-- Blue Rogue

SCRYING GLASS

Intelligent Ash

Poetic License

Soul Phantasms

Unguarded Utterance

INTUIT DIRECTION

We always arrive
at our destinations
with the help of stars.
Their ponderous trackings
benign and benevolent
in their certainty.
Salvation mas merely
a twinkle away,
and vastness
becomes more measurable
if inhabited by constellations.
But Neverland
was not included
when they made the compass,
and stars are too silent,
too jealous of secrets
cloistered within their nebula.
I am a mariner
in my dreams,
where oceans
can never be chartered
and heavenly bodies
are more mischievous
with travelers like me.
The moon merely winks
at my telescope
as it pulls the tide
depending on what tugs
the edges of its mouth,
making it smile.
Instead I sit
at the top mast
surrounded by a breeze
coming from the sighs
of a thousand sleeping people.
And then I wait,
intent,
for the merest wisp
from the stuff
in which dreams
are made of.
I listen
with every fiber of my being
for the sounds of clouds.

-- Blue Rogue

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Site Design by: S.L. Corsua

Displacements

May 05, 2005

Blue Rogue: Why is it that our writings are usually cries for help?
Mashiara: It's because we know that pain is not the natural state of life.

SCENE

My coat dripped
of mingled rain and sweat.
It weighs heavy on shoulders,
aching to stoop.
The rain is about to fall again
and the little sunlight
passing through leaves
is about to be absorbed completely.
The bench where I sit is riddled with
scars: scribbled telephone numbers
and carved declarations of love and libido.
I have a pen except that
I do not know what to write.
Desire seems so alien.
And love, well,
I see you sitting on this same spot,
but you never really paid attention
to its history.
You were reading novels
about France and Rome and Spain.
I came from Seven-Eleven
down the corner with a newspaper
reading about wars in Israel,
skimming over bombings in Bali.
I am struck with how parallel our actions are.
You would stare off into space
dreaming of seafarers and poetic justice.
I would do the same,
groping for my ability to dream again.
Parallel lines never meet.
You were always here
when the sun shines.
Your bare arms, tan and strong,
while I try hard not to stoop
not just from the weight
of a soaked cloth.
I got down on my knees and ran my hand
over the rough wooden surface,
what I wrote was this:
Teach me, please,
to accept the rain with bare arms
and a tilted face.
I want to see if the sun can pierce
through the darkening clouds
to warm my limbs
and probe my eyelids to open.
I want to see if it can dry
this seeping weight
I have carried so long,
so I can shed it off
without remnants of dampness
clinging to shoulders
just learning to be vulnerable.
I know that it is only then I can learn,
to share this seat with you.

blue rogue