In Defense of Making Sense in Writing

I was told I didn’t make sense in my writing

In a mission which had projects that weren’t fit for the task.

Projects that were all over the place and showed trivial strengths

But I was to punch above the weight of this maddening bison

And write “technical” non-verbosity that sounded elegant

When the company was banking on millions in their greatness

Weren’t so great if you meant bright marketing and dressing up

Of mediocrity in their data and technological “breakthroughs”

With a kind of lacklustre speaking, seeing or knowing.

I didn’t want to think twice or thrice

Out came my art of writing in a piece of work that made little sense

To a person known as “C” like “C” knew everything about the world when in truth

“C” knew nothing at all about the work and me.

Yet “C” took all the words I wrote which “C” deemed little sense to go for a spin

And spun entire new meanings for it.

Making words sound lesser than any sense I’ve written

All the while describing my text as frustrating to read.

That words must sound in its image a cognitive “correctification” all the time

To words only subjective, perceptive and dependent on who, when or how so one thinks.

This became an anxiety that made me think what the hell was wrong with me

If I couldn’t write the way in the doneness of being correct to the T

And typing “like everyone else does or should be”.

C’s comparison of my work to boring writers in their “well-doneness”

Lands the finishing stake to the heart and the body is not the same.

So I strayed far from writing for a while.

It made me think, that not making sense in writing

Might be the world’s wrongest sin,

An injurious insult to art and science.

- Vania (Vander)

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

Luckers

All the lucky ones were the luckers.

They lucked out everything on the first bullet to the bullseye.

They didn’t need to shoulder slipping loads of slime,

Wait for hours for a turn to say or hear words they didn’t pine

Or try again at the hurting fourth or fifth go,

For not getting right at the indifference of a warped, backwards toll.

Luckers disappear completely at the right place and time

No hurry in a pickle

When meeting the pestilent drunk and deranged.

Luckers were fantastic, voicing chirps of agreeable notes

Saw laughter relatively close and bonus winnings come towed

While it all boils effortless to the watchers who could only blink and cry.

Lucky, lucky, lucky, four leaf clovers smoothed them over

Tamed their frazzled hair and mind, the auto dispenser kind.

Cinder blocks house their feet straightening up their backs

Over empire state they have stood to sponsor and compose.

Every year, lady luck made sure luckers’ birthdays never pass without love and attention

More than three dozens of handful wishes must show up as “handy” guide to their presents.

If I was unlucky, the luckers wouldn’t know

Why, it was unlucky to know what is unlucky

Luckers habituate the habit of lucky.

- Vander

A Humble Garden

If the world said “the best life” goes by premium biggies,

Big house, expensive car, designer clothes on clubby fancy

Stuffy price tags with enough zeroes on number backs,

Cosmetic faces negate plump bags of belly fat

Add cool pretentious vibe, bougie to a hashtag, prime time

I will tell you that a humble garden is all I need, just fine.

Fresh flowers, bushy green leaves and new buds to see,

Where warm sunshine hugs and welcomes the party of any

Lonely, tired, or anxious kinfolk for hours on end or the

Excited going to shout, share rare compliments making their day.

Sweet grandmas and granddads, brouhaha toddlers, gossip queens,

Wheelchair couples, camp mates, and queer may freely come and stay

Around lush, inviting landscapes kinder in sharing the good air anyway.

Conversations can go on repeat forever and might suddenly change but

Candid brotherly love passes the torch over to offer solace.

When the rain comes, there will be shelter and

Someone with a book might use that over another head.

The father of trees enjoys napping in the deep,

As the roots of trees are long!

So goodbye, lusty and materialistic fakers,

The odd lot of you may order greed and a cheat

For all the richness and creamy mania dreaming up a catch,

Lying full circle on an honest day and pacific night.

Would you EVER, ever laugh like a child again?

Liberated from your wanton wants and gains,

Hide and seek pang no dishonour champagne,

This humble garden is for humility’s fun group to play.

- Vander

The House That Had No Magic

There was a house that didn’t know magic.

Not that there was no magic but the inhabitants,

Nobody wanted any magic to think otherwise

And so there was none.

That imagination at all cost

Couldn’t have enraptured a magic of sorts,

To move mundane and petty goads

Glister goodwill from the heavens,

The magnificent pie impressing the plate.

First of all, there were no lights when it was dark in the house.

Only when they had to see for the benefit of seeing,

They put on the lights for awhile that returned to a

Darker than moonless pitch to startle in comfort.

For what else was there to see

Other than the rise of the electricity

Which must sting and be paid on every month’s due.

Let everywhere be dark and even the orange light,

That resembled the sun was taken away,

By the exhausting work daylight,

Rid tranquility, meditation and romance.

The dog sat through the black nights

Slumped and glum in lollygag

Among toys never so well played.

Second of all, there were no books anywhere.

Not in the living room, not in the study.

All the bedrooms, living and study only had things

“They must use”, “they must know”.

Anything else was “nice to know”,

Foremost “no need to know”.

And perhaps a “luxury of time to know”.

So the nuanced words of the ancients

Sending exotic knowledge messengers to inquests of

Inexorable thoughts troubling the future of mankind

Went unnoticed and slipped by untouched.

The house inhabitants were not privy,

Their minds eroded the magic of erudition.

Third of all, there was no such thing as art to be admired.

No one knew Van Gogh, Monet or Matisse

Of colours, shapes and objects invoking love, hate, fear or courage.

Artists or designers who made the bag or skirt they wore

Or the trickled down cheap wares they busily haggled for.

They said art was not practical,

Seldom an allure as it should the opposite

Wasting time, work, and effort uncooked.

None thought beauty surrounding them was almost always magic,

Unexpectedly done in the deed of the maker’s heart.

Fourth of all, there wasn’t any sound of music,

Not once echoing through the halls or rooms.

No one pumped to a catchy beat,

Banged and jumped to a bass drop

And swayed to the melancholy of sensual keys.

The speakers were left silent and musty

That restful birds had sung so beautifully unheard at the windows.

And if anyone tried to sing or rap or harmonise

They were tone and pitch deaf,

Mouths gone dry they rather not have tried.

No one clapped out loud or cried at the tune,

A tenor or lyrical pitied, magic blew and flew.

Last of all, the house did not have plants.

The evergreen from a pot of shrubs or two

Was nothing like flowers they didn’t strive to keep alive

To cover the concreteness and brutalism cascading the four walls,

Meeting dead ends to the four corners’ floors.

Flat without life, hiding away earth’s natural character

Dog and cat make better companion needs,

Why make with the hassle of climbing vines,

Watering intervals, inaccurate gardening guides.

Magic in a bloom out of cracks, they missed

New growth they hadn’t grew.

- Vander

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).

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).

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).

Beautiful Stranger

Beautiful Stranger,

Whoever you are.

Stealing away my soul,

Steps you build in your stride.

Is this the lover I never had?

Clothed in luxury brands while cigarette on hand,

Chain-smoking like a chimney,

Face in the fog of that nicotine pack.

Portly and tall in silhouette,

The voice of a high price, high road player.

You are wild and uncouth a ruffian,

Big and rough like a bear,

But quietly in fur tenderness,

I wish I could draw in closer.

You strut like a storm,

A tornado wind in the mindful heads,

Like the earth have no hold and won’t soil you.

You say grand words stopping short ever so clumpsily,

As though it should be understood vague,

While the rest of what it means is just action to take.

That Man should not say much but prove change,

To be more than the young ways of youth.

You are not for me,

As I am not for you.

But you seem to last and stir the blood in me,

Leaving behind the longing of you.

So here you are,

I have only seen you so brief,

Again trying to sniff your wafted breath,

Just moments you spoke, walked and left by.

-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).

Nobody's Child

Harry sat on the wire of a fence,

Looking at his life melt away,

When Fog came today,

Into the dusk of the demesne.

Blur shadows overcast manors,

Dancing different forms with the light.

Same forlorn figure at the bus stop,

Travelling his own reflection years ago.

Ashamed, remembering why all this while,

This empty and heartless world,

Never gave more chances to exile,

Hard truths, bitter moments,

Back to ready budding, consoling warmer homes.

Am I loser? Am I not wanted?

A nobody’s child without protectors or guardians,

Roots cripple to its shorter brother,

In the dead search of safer earth after earth.

- 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.

Like The Sun

Like the sun that rises and sets again,

Every single day with ever more days,

The eternal beam forces its bright lights,

Onto everything and everybody.

Healing and putting you and every back on their feet.

Like the sun conceived by warmth and energy,

No moon can eclipse you for too long,

Clouds too dense to sever your summer everlast,

Mountains too high to block your vista.

Like the sun who will go up into the sky one more time,

Not gonna care how long it can stand on its own,

High above till the timely right hour of rest.

Sometimes late at arrival and departure,

But always better than never,

Pulling the big and small of planets together.

You, the Captain Leader of the Solar order.

- 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.

You Are A Firebird

You are a Firebird,

Glowing through the skyline.

Blazing hot onto cool clouds,

Taking flight against pushing gravity.

Not bothering about the petty and minute,

A lion among the sheep.

Sparkles rivet by your flame igniting,

Ashes from your wings drizzle trailing pass.

Your gaze seeks our minds for understanding,

And we seek yours.

No one said you were real,

As the myth engulfed you in mystery.

Soaring above me, you the Firebird.

Frost can wait wherever you are,

Darkness goes away as you star.

- 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.

Cool Girls Cry Too

Tears and fears, by minute or years,

Might be the cool girl’s will and power,

In delving for hope in struggle.

There was this girl who knew she had not been loved,

Felt like the world gave her away,

Her removal, banded and planned in foray

By Her quiet reserve,

An obvious genre of abandonment.

A missing forever in the hearts of men.

A fire burns out of her gaze as she looks out upon emptiness.

Having a “cool” poised strength and independence.

Living life’s trivialities didn’t bother her,

And true love was unimportant.

Cool girl was supposed to smile as though

The sun, moon and stars collided

And lifted her to supreme.

As though luck and the entire universe conspired,

And made her the impossible deity

Capable of doing and undoing the impossible.

Cool girl never kept her cool at all times,

To be every while the great ineffable,

Chain-crying, if turned.

- 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.

Boulevard of Broken Dreams

Like the ghost walking the empty road,

The long boulevard of broken dreams.

Where sometimes it wants to be seen,

The ghostly existence thins, fades into translucence.

Lighter and lighter by the silhouette,

Soon it’s shade mistaken for nothing.

Longing for a voice to let all hear the ghost,

Only multiple footsteps thudding the pavements,

But no one can hear ghost talk.

A former writer never famous, rich or loved,

This ghost had a dream.

It writes with the madness of passion and forlorn,

A convincing statement for a conviction,

Though efforts punctured into dust.

So ghost walks the street boulevard of broken dreams,

Lost into the night,

And forgotten by time.

- 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.

Hate, Hated And Hatred

When we stare at the mirror to soul-search,

Hate sears into our reflection.

Are we a person judging in prejudice?

Have we received the unfair prejudice?

Now, they say hate will run its own course,

Devouring anything in its footpath.

When nasty thoughts bring out impossible diabolical behaviours,

Are we still led to think that there is still a remnant of humanity?

Might humans not forget themselves?

So, how can we throw out the hate,

If we don’t believe in each of our differences?

We have to move in the high resistance opposite direction.

Commit leaps of faith, accept difficult love,

Any love that will build arks against storms.

-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 Wolf Behind The Smoke

Behind smothering thick smoke,

Revealed in the gap of a gradual diminish,

Is a wolf staring out in waiting.

Decimated lands and houses burnt to crisp,

Nightmare still heard throughout

Of the screams that reverberate across the hills of massacre.

The lone wolf, like the lonely witness in the wake of tragedy

Stands before the smoke in clearing,

Shooting pains out of its wounds,

Tall on its paws and foot.

The power of the wolf’s will allows it to live like it demands

As though the wolf had a fire that fought fire.

When news broke that the town was set ablaze mowed down to a still,

They did not know that behind the smoke

Was the one wolf who saw and knew the malice,

Like a dearest friend behind the wheel.

- 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.

Chopin's Embrace

Windows open,

The whirl of a breeze enters the room.

The mellow piano in soft tinkling keys

With a propelling force,

Accentuated a steep turmoil in its menace.

Calm and restlessness,

A spring leaf on thin ice.

Halcyon afternoon tea next to a music-laden window,

Complexity to the senses in revelation to octave progressions,

Held by the warmth of a Chopin’s embrace.

-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.