Storms Come in Raindrops for Paper Boats

 

Some rapid drops of rain
Cruelly sank the paper boat
Behind the scene of the drift
A short but crisp leather whip
Mightily lashed at a fragile skin
The rain just won’t stop

A thunder cracked above the teary sky:
A body was shaken, a little voice cried
The paper boat cringed beneath
The broken shards of bloody rum
The wind blew hard, the angry sky howled
The muffled cries, heaves, and sighs drowned out

As raindrops cut through again like blades
The wet shred of paper boat flowed down the canal’s end
The tore up page loosened up, the bold words stared:
“Coming Storm Suspends Classes”
From drainage afar, more paper boats sailed
The sky just continued to bleed

Art Pedagogue

 

I once created a work of art—just brown hand marks splattered on a giant paper mache ball. I installed it one Sunday at a vacant lot beside the schoolyard. Every day since then, students would stop by my workshop to ask me what it was. I didn’t tell. I just smiled and shooed them off to class. Soon they would know, I thought. The curiosity on my masterpiece did not wane a bit. For some reason, a group of students started doing techno-rituals around my giant paper mache ball. Funny how children can get so weird. I didn’t see it coming, but things have gone south of good. A fortnight ago after that, a petty quarrel ensued at my classroom. It involved members of the already cult-like club of the giant paper mache ball. The incident hurt one student who accidentally stepped on a loose spike I owned. I was eventually fired on the charge that even school officials cannot spell right. That was bizarre to be honest. In one spat, suddenly I was the fly. I think it just took all the oddity of the whole affair. Before I left the school, I thought of bringing with me my artwork. But then I decided to just leave it. Heck, it was just a giant paper mache ball. Every day since then, students would stop by my house to ask me what happened. I didn’t tell. I just smiled and shooed them home. Soon I would know, I hope.

Myopic

 

Allusion to colors—the world remains blind as millions of visions skewed to lie. Though we have different colors of skin, there’s no reason that white folks be the noble stock and the ill-fated rest are those brown, yellow, or black. It’s not mere retinal confusion but a disturbing racial myopia. Yes the soil is brown and the Earth will always be green, but there’s only one true color of men. Even if we are in a grayscale world, our blood will always be red. We live as we blend; we die as we bleed.

Butterfly Effect

 

Beneath the thick green foliage of Niger Delta, some tall, sharp blades of grass vowed to a short hush of wind just as the monsoon rain showered the Indonesian Metawai Islands. Down at New York Central Park, balloons popped in the air while a flock of Arctic Terns in the North Sea flapped their wings. Millions of miles away, an old stem broke at a garden in Sao Paulo, Brazil while a long procession of logs passed through a stream 150 miles north of Canadian Border. Two hours passed and dark clouds formed above the fertile earth of the Kaghan Valley in Northern Pakistan at the same moment when a patch of soil eroded in Iroha-zaka in Japan. As a moth slightly moved in a sanctuary in Tajikistan, a tropical cyclone developed over the tropical Northwestern Pacific Ocean. With a maximum sustained winds of 130 kph, it crossed at 260 km East and dumped heavy rains. CNN reported: “Powerful Typhoon Nesat hits Philippines.” Over 7700 miles away down at Cambridge, a yellow butterfly fell dead on Edward Lorenz’s grave.

The Lark that Sways the Plaid Board

 

The old plaid board atop the merchandize store swayed as the lark swoop down and rested its feet to the board’s jagged edge: the sod of its ancestor’s flock. As the bird perched, it gazed at the storm of dusts that blazed like a dark fog out of the earth’s crust. Below, echoes of chaos numbed the stifling air as metal centipedes crisscrossed against iron beetles’ flair. Soon after a silent prayer the lark flew free to a place far away. For many years, this lark sat on thousand checkered boards yet it can’t still find the Tree. The plaid board already freed of the bird’s weight swayed and swayed and swayed. It sways until today.

Still Life

 

Spoiled milk, spilled drinks, and the tiled wall seemed about to close in through the liquid’s flow. A call from deep slumber sank in the stream of dream and was sipped back through. As the early sunlight flared and filtered through broken glass panes and softly soothed the cramped sleepy sweaty bodies with the humid summer heat, the old shafts and dirty bed sheets stirred like a plowed brown earth. Just as the rooster’s lazy crow was heard, the burdened chests and starving mouths heaved and shooed the crumpled paper plates on the rusty creaky bed. The room seemed like a barren scene if not for the swinging crib. Then an infant cried; a siren wailed from the street. The clock clicked at six. The room stayed still. Indeed there are dreams we cannot leave.

Enigma

 

Once I met an old fisherman who told me a life’s secret. He said, “The only way to keep this world moving is to always do something. I tell you this son, keep up with the tides of time—swim if you can, float if you want, or crawl if you must; just don’t stop. Soon you will hurdle debris of human failures and pass through broken shards of dreams, but still, don’t stop. I’ve done a lot in my lifetime, and though things are only getting worse, I don’t stop. I still hope for something good so I keep moving son…I keep doing things.” Puzzled at these enigmatic words, I asked, “But what is it that you do?” The old man sighed and said, “Living young man, just living.”