Posted in heartbroken, original

The Seasons Of Us

He was summer
I was fall
I was spring
He was winter

We’d never meet
Not even able to greet
For when I was ahead
He stayed behind
When I stayed behind, he went ahead

I fell but he didn’t
And I guess it’s all well and fine
Because I realized his cold heart
Was what he gave to me

Maria Michaela

Posted in original

Summer’s Winter Rain

The sun is piercing hot in this tropical weather

Summer is creeping around the corner

 

Cold drinks abound

Chill under the coconut tree

with Halo-Halo in hand

 

The heat of the sun is melting the ice cream

while the kids lick as fast as they can

 

Some dreaded the rain when it was abundant

Now, they ask for it to come

Since the land is dry

and people flock to the malls and the beach

 

There they stay until the sun bleeds snow

or at least until it melts into the horizon

Posted in favorites

An Old Man’s Winter Night

All out of doors looked darkly in at him
Through the thin frost, almost in separate stars,
That gathers on the pane in empty rooms.
What kept his eyes from giving back the gaze
Was the lamp tilted near them in his hand.
What kept him from remembering what it was
That brought him to that creaking room was age.
He stood with barrels round him — at a loss.
And having scared the cellar under him
In clomping there, he scared it once again
In clomping off; — and scared the outer night,
Which has its sounds, familiar, like the roar
Of trees and crack of branches, common things,
But nothing so like beating on a box.
A light he was to no one but himself
Where now he sat, concerned with he knew what,
A quiet light, and then not even that.
He consigned to the moon, such as she was,
So late-arising, to the broken moon
As better than the sun in any case
For such a charge, his snow upon the roof,
His icicles along the wall to keep;
And slept. The log that shifted with a jolt
Once in the stove, disturbed him and he shifted,
And eased his heavy breathing, but still slept.
One aged man — one man — can’t keep a house,
A farm, a countryside, or if he can,
It’s thus he does it of a winter night.

– Robert Frost