Mind Your Time

Time to man swirls and goes in a turbine,

Never waiting for a change of mind.

Some only want to get out in the nick of time,

Sick of an early win, a late loss or what to choose regime

Picks the go easy that could cheat the times

Will all their fleeting joys just slip by?

Air of wind it allows nonchalance to be spun,

Deciding the next spin it could succumb.

If the breaking dawn passes into perennial dusk

Sooner than the lightning could charge its bolt

Does the life lay wasted and be left unknown?

What is the busy hour when it had gone and passed?

The intention and feeling of a memory,

The touch of a heart and kindly a thought flickers,

How bodies yours and others moved along in neat lines

On pavements and train platforms a recurring clockwork.

The smells of tangerine sweetened ahead spring

Of hinting perfumes drifting to a part of a dress.

The taste of soft bread pillowing your teeth on the morning bite

Fills you in on evoking moments not prone to the rush cart.

Go ahead to take it all in,

Things in the hours and minutes of serendipity

Things in the days and weeks you power through

Things that only you will know and forestall better

When regret changed its course and must show

The importance you could only get in time,

Mostly one at a time.

- Vander

Disclaimer: All poetry and fiction here are original material written by Vander or Vania (me). Please note that all text references, descriptions and indications are purely fictional (make-believe juices and in no relation to any actual entities).

Durian Durian Durian

A spike of taste not quite the intimidation

Bulbous, silky fillings of yellow gave the prickle a name

Smells aside, you might renounce its fame

Don’t forget to get the best bargain.

Boxed and wrapped around in neat white styrofoam

Or fresh from chopped shells and pulled apart pockets

Enjoy the fullness and tenderness in the fruit you shall

Share quickly or savour only for yourself!

- Vander

Disclaimer: Durians are taken at this enchanted stall that sells them. Eat in moderation, otherwise get sore throat.

Rumourmonger

Boggled by little imagination,

Rumourmongers are smaller selves

Indulging in tacky hearsay.

A flash and flutter delighted by trivial fables

This villager sings bygone cantabiles 

Older than the hill his hut sits on to rest.

Most days dirt climbs up his shoes

Not bothering to clean,

He spits on the narrowing which harrows

A TV kicked into a dam. 

That he finds the living rather damned,

Strange electricity good for shorting sights

Startling news! He savours a sanctimonious shame

Pinning someone for the bigger fussed blame. 

- Vander

Disclaimer: All poetry and fiction here are original material written by Vander. Please note that all text references, descriptions and indications are purely fictional (make-believe juices and in no relation to any actual entities).

The Spirit Twin Swords

Once, there was a girl with the spirit of twin swords. 

One sword of her soul burnt with the flame of a venomous vitriol, 

A volcano that pushed fear down the hills. 

The other sword also hidden in her,

Sent waters crashing through breached enclaves

Relieving the hottest, driest earth.

Whether flooding or burning was her nature,

It was not known further until 

She could heal while killing, reducing to ashes

Armies and troops that stood in her way at battle

Which she had won and still won again,

With or without the twin swords on her hands. 

It was as if all the Gods came in to the right rescue,

When girl appeared before the hundred weak ones 

Having threatened knives nicked at their necks.

On the wish of a destitute, she is called out to

The spirit swords carefree to enter into a vicious force with her.

Where fiery aggression can be smothered by a wet douse

As she swung both blades

Bitter, battered clanks against shields of the enemy front. 

None of the villagers believed she can ever be defeated,

And placed a lasting belief she is the destiny defender of the lands. 

As time goes by more wars broke, were fought and came victorious,

But Girl grew weaker each day.

Both swords were slowly cutting away into her,

Stabbing into her bones and bleeding her veins,

But she had the strength to carry out a will to succeed. 

And so one night, the dragon of the twin swords spoke to her in her sleep.

There was the third sword presented and raised at her to receive, 

This one capable of carrying the weight of both swords

And puts all pain into faith, and cruelty into compassion.

So now the spirit of the twin grew larger than before,

Girl no longer had to suffer anymore because the third sword

Was the lost love and grace that the twin wanted to restore.

- Vander

Disclaimer: All poetry and fiction here are original material written by Vander, or Vania (me). Please note that all text references, descriptions and indications are purely fictional (make-believe if you didn’t know what fiction is!) and is in no relation to any actual entities).

Cold And Grey

Afternoon at the exit of a train station,

Creo, a boy of 13 years, rummaged his pocket. He had no wallet.

“5 cents is all I have today. 5 cents....”

Blank space in his head, he knew it over and over again.

Because he was so poor, unintelligent and forgotten by parents,

He did not have enough to eat, play or be schooled.

Bored, stiffed to the stale and near grey-skinned,

A mere glance at himself made him cold.

So cold where wanting to scream and cry only brought pain.

He sat at the steps near the ticket counter,

Looking at little boys and girls disgusted at him,

Fingers raised at him with teasing ridicule,

Boy did not even know how to hide.

Then a butterfly fluttered and plunged at him,

Its wings had broke, where one of it had snapped.

So he said out, filling his lungs with air, “Are we going to be ok?”

Then the butterfly twitched again so

He picked it up and left it in a safe little mesh box he found.

It was the box that belonged to Therus, an older man.

Therus watched Creo from afar,

Curious to him taking up his box and then

His heart stung a broken note with the boy’s kindness.

Boy had protected the butterfly nearing its end.

Knowing this young one had nothing on him, nothing to say,

But was the light above himself.

He was convinced when it was cold and grey,

There would not be a silver lining

When flickering quietly it must be

A rekindling heart, lighting its last embers.

- Vander

Disclaimer: All poetry and fiction here are original material written by Vander. Please note that all text references, descriptions and indications are purely fictional (make-believe if you didn’t know what fiction is!) and is in no relation to any actual entities).

A Thousand Cuts

Wounds open, blood splats across the floor as if water

As though the body was now marshmallow and

Cuts were only softened to pain, mellow must not be felt.

How does it feel when you’ve worked so hard,

Gave it all and everything else

But failed at your job.

In a day’s letter for you to sign by office time,

You had to verify your failure with the heart

Nipped into a thousand cuts by your signature hand.

Binding it right into a buried shame.

So I went home, gashed my fingers open with scissors,

Fingers that held that mouse with that click a submit.

Where blood ran as though forever

Leaking onto anywhere it could land.

And then there it was, those open wounds

That could only wait for time not to repeat again.

Months away from August, countdown to resignation.

1, 2, 3, cold faces of corporate protocol will rework

Rewire old clocks with the bureau of compliance.

What is competence?

A sad place to be like everybody else,

To please a straight serve to get approved.

I look at the red under the skin which oozes on pressure,

Pressure which is set to burst the emergency bags of O+ and bad emails.

Is this the heyday death by a thousand cuts?

Adhere work for improvement,

To improve on superb work, for what?

- Vander

Disclaimer: All poetry and fiction here are original material written by Vander. Please note that all text references, descriptions and indications are purely fictional (make-believe if you didn’t know what fiction is!) and is in no relation to any actual entities).

The Kiss In The Last Rain

Carrie a sickly girl met a tall, dark haired boy,

On a wet, rainy day she knew would be her last

Hands clutching the rail, soaked to the skin out in the open

Standing still at the staircase leading to the hospital door,

Looking up at the downpour cruel to hit a weak bone.

Boy stared on at this strange girl then

Bent over and asked, “are you waiting for someone?”

Tapping the umbrella he did not use on the gravel floor.

“No, just for the rain. Waiting for it…. to end”. Carrie softens.

The boy who had destroyed entire worlds with the calm face of a God turned,

Eyes like fire but with a cold darting gaze retorted,

“Why do you wait for the rain to stop….in the rain?”

Brushing off large dribbles of rain across her face,

Carrie let out a whimper as though her windpipe had trapped.

With only so much voice she could force through her tiny mouth,

She smoothed over to him, a final moment of silence to gather

Pushing together a final resolve, said

“Would you kiss me here because I know, when this rain is over…,”

“I would..never..see you again..”

Boy saw her vulnerability there and then and knew,

For he was the master to the lands and dwellers that had to die before him,

Taking souls off names and farewells driven for change.

So he held her hand, gripped her towards him into a warm embrace,

And gently kissed her on her lips,

Drops still beading away their unreserved face,

A satin finish to a slow, ending regret.

He was sure a last wish was heard,

When both breaths touching collide.

Then the rain stopped and it was clear,

Her last rain was with Death as he came.

And Death loved her and took her.

Death was not up to her, not even her expecting it.

But the kiss in the last rain, so near to Death it had been,

Moved the lonely God, who now made her,

His dear friend with the other Gods.

- Vander

Disclaimer: All poetry and fiction here are original material written by Vander. Please note that all text references, descriptions and indications are purely fictional (make-believe if you didn’t know what fiction is!) and is in no relation to any actual entities).