Candy's Food Dreams

Candy was an impecunious woman who did not have enough to eat.

She was called The Welfare Deposit for donations went to her.

Her vacant purse never could fetch the ostentatious clothed menu

Loafing on bedazzling table settings, fine cutlery and white napkins.

Could people really use those? Why and whatever for?

She didn’t know what a true feast had meant.

Her thoughts of it were only in dreams,

For it was just pondering far heavenly to be.

So those dreams had the poached salmon fillet in the lemon sauce

With luscious greens and sublime blendered mash whispering of

A faint memory of tucking into tarty salmon when her father was alive.

Then lately it was the steaks which was a medium well

Again, why was there a medium she couldn’t tell

It was probably of medium temperature right for her tongue.

Or cooked to take on the well and healthy “medium” of communication.

In kitchens she wondered how chefs adorned the plates

To make palatable textures and colors dance.

She saw and salivate at restaurant windows,

Whole families with their little ones chop and chomp

To juicy squirts of meats around flowery broccoli strings,

Soups smelling like lobsters took smokes in heady brews

They sat and enjoyed the spoons, licking residues in reverie

Waiters had the piping tray of pies coming their way it

Was cloud nine but Candy was cloud ten and none.

Cloud ten for she saw the joy of others to their food a fantasia,

Cloud none for she could not deign to have them.

Why was she named Candy when life was stained hand-me-downs,

Outdated belongings and rations which helped her live but

Sweetness shall and must evaporate by her sprig.

- Vander

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).

A Love Letter To Boss

Halsey, a sweet, intelligent girl had a job at a firm.

Doing her best always, she tried to prove herself as an upcoming success.

Even when alone, she worked past office hours,

Loving everything she did no matter how hard

Failure and criticisms stole her smile on the longest day.

One day, there was something Halsey could no longer forget.

She had loved her boss, so deeply so that,

It was more than fleeting love at first sight.

The boss on the oafish dictatorship voice seem

At times a scum, at times a soul so divine that sees and knows

Halsey not as a bird trapped, but an infinite talented star

That took all the sun, rain, clouds and thunder into her hold.

Three hour pep talks often he gave,

Were in the spirit to get off the dime, better than unsaid.

But there it is, this love wind blew in from the windowless,

Anticipating each call from this name madly in office.

Her heart had left elsewhere, already taken.

But Departure told this good girl to call it all in.

Goodbye, Mr. Boss, I had loved you too much so.

Remembering all the things he had told her,

Thinking if any kisses had any meaning,

Words that cared and cared not,

Never even a spark of an affair.

They were not meant to be, he a father, a husband,

A millionaire owner player feeding but never offering affection.

This time, a final glance at his distant frame,

Was all she could get, so by the last Friday,

Halsey packed up and left,

Mind and body would rather get the sack.

- 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).

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).

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).

The Expressionist

The expressionist is like an ancient woman,

A goddess of language.

She shapes the fabric of modernity unperturbed by retrospect.

Undefined by superficialities and plastics,

She infuses meaning into words Herculean.

So the expressionist doeth and sayeth,

The common and taken for granted by humanity,

Into new light and the necessary.

It is said the expressionist is hypersensitive selfish,

Master to a set of rules and expectations.

Denouncing the impudence of the brazen, shallow gauche. 

Her perception only permits for her to perceive,

And the naming of that perception is for her to claim.

The expressionist waits for no one to decide for her,

All the imaginations of the universe to uncover.

In any age, people wait and chase the expressionist.

Only the expressionist remembers for them, 

What they have lost and long for.

The expressionist concentrates on the finest moment of the second. 

It will pass her, but she has received the emblazoned fact.

Her gentle strength follows an order,

Her unspoken speech implores the conscious.

-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.