They saw the end of the world;
They weren’t supposed to be there,
let alone at that time.
More terrifying: they saw the beginning
(after the end).
They weren’t supposed to be there,
let alone at that time.
Repetition had scared them,
once they got used to the cycle.
Yet they started enjoying the song.
They never could get enough of it;
they could not afford to die.
They would rather be a maestro,
yet they were the audience.
T!el Fajardo
Apr. 07, 2024
My imaginary friend,
How have you been?
Long time no see
O, long-forgotten
…
Time to let go
Time always went
Reality check…
“Well, check that again”
Don’t worry about me,
Trust me, never better
My real friends…
Who would have imagined them?
T!el Fajardo
Jun. 24, 2024
Mondays are just fine…
It is I that feel depressed.
Sun days are nice
(spiritualized);
Moon days are nights;
Saturn days are the trickiest.
But my soul is a naysayer
—as we all live in denial—
(“No, we don’t!”).
Well, if that’s a crime
—and this an alibi—,
my spirit was with it the whole time.
T!el Fajardo
Mar. 1, 2024
What’s with the poet’s vision?
What’s with the reader’s bias?
What’s with this line of reasoning?
I can’t see where this comes from.
What’s with the building blocks,
Those in favor of the writer?
They are words, the writer’s blocks.
They are words, you know, so what?
What’s with the writer’s block?
My free verse, where are you going? Breaking that line, you’ve grown up a monster. You’ve gone too far, when a few words would do it. Argh, you started looking like a prose.
(By the way, you look pretty…
ugly, you know.)
Now you constraint yourself
to a word or two
to be disguised as a poem.
You like to believe you have a lot to say. “Not so fast… Poet, don’t stand in my way. You granted me freedom of movement.”
‘Right, but time to sleep.
Tomorrow I hope I find you under my bed.
T!el Fajardo
Mar. 4, 2024
̶I̶’̶v̶e̶ ̶n̶e̶v̶e̶r̶ ̶m̶e̶a̶n̶t̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶w̶r̶i̶t̶e̶ ̶t̶h̶i̶s̶
This, on the other hand…
I miss much more than I hit
Crumpled papers into a wastebasket
Five hits in a row
Is’t by chance?
Perhaps a blossom of skill?
Paper toss is quite a sport
You even start mistyping on purpose
For the sake of the game
T!el Fajardo
Jul. 04, 2024
Welcome here.
Reveries That I Call Poetry 