come, stay and let's talk. it's a good day to be alive
Even in the coldest darkness,
The fire won’t desiccate.
Trailblazing time and space,
Engraves hope in others’ hearts.
I dare to hope again.
I’ll carry the mountainous pressure,
Trudge through mud and broken glasses,
I will alight the fire again.
I dare to hope again.
9.29.2019
perhaps the ice cream is where it all starts
perhaps people will notice how fast it melts,
and talk about how to slow cooling of the earth,
so that future generations can have this joy of birth.
Icecream seems to unite people somehow,
I’ve seen infants on the carrier to elderlies with bingo,
teenager girls proudly complaining their fathers
ten minutes ago they had already told their flavors,
solemn couples taking the ritual of sampling spoons,
to youthful professionals flirting like goons.
Perhaps ice cream is where it all starts,
from the birth to redemption, and an awakening.
9.28.2019
Before I can start commenting about this artist, please first watch this video:
If you have finished watching the video, yes, you’re welcome.
Not only is the music astonishing, but the performance, the act of weaving the music itself is a matriculate art itself.
Joey Alexander, a 15-year-old Indonesian prodigy classic jazz player, has teamed up with Reuben Rogers on bass and Kendrick Scott on drums to create a dynamic performance.
When you watch Joey Alexander play, you can see and hear his intensity, something that’s beyond the flesh and bone. Perhaps, his soul is expressed through his ten digits (watch how his fingers press against the keys). A soul that reverberates with such strength and profundity that creates resonation in your core. As you absorb your attention into the fingertips that flick the bass string, smoothly swerving with drum sticks, and dancing on the keyboards, you will realize you are in for a trip.
This trio will carry you through a stumbling journey that you’d think will fall apart into a total musical mess, but they swoop you up and bring you back onto the joy of rush, that feel-good sensation of freedom. They keep you on your toes; one moment you get used to the repetitive rhythm, and then you bump into a period of silence or a sudden pitch, that turns things around for good.
There is music that seeks perfection. There is music that seeks freedom. But rarely, can you find music that perfectly syncs, orchestrates, and interweaves musical instruments as these three.
Don’t close your eyes yet. The journey continues.
I can’t forget her.
I can’t forget the way she shyly lowers her head as she said she memorized a beautiful Arab song a week before,
in front of a crowd full of confused Americans
and she said she was happy she did it.
I can’t forget her petite black bicycle she told me
she pulled apart, into her luggage,
through the airport security check,
so that she can fly,
and then land in a new place where she can ride her black bicycle.
I can’t forget her white teeth
that innocently gleamed,
as her pride glowed in halo
against the sun that left her home.
I can’t forget the picture in her smartphone background,
an impromptu portrait of a woman elegantly poised with a scarf wrapped around,
and her bitter lips spreading over her teeth,
smiling against a shadow so thick.
9.27.2019
clicks of your shoes on a dark asphalt
echoes through an empty road under the night sky
fireflies flicker about the light post,
chilly winter breeze hurriedly pass us by,
Perhaps a bundle of fiddles, we are
dancing on a gentle breeze, harsh breeze, tornado,
earthly bound, soaking underly redoubtably grand sunlight,
perhaps we grow a little,
perhaps we spread out a little,
perhaps we laugh a little.
clicky-clack, dancing through this infinite night.
9.26.2019
For a drop of soul lost in an silent ocean of darkness,
For a rusted needled buried deep beneath billions of grains of desert sand,
There is a resonation.
An invisible, perhaps unbelievable, resonation whispers a promise.
Rise tomorrow.
Repeat. Again, and again.
We shall meet in our glory atop of heave of our works.
Overcome and repeat,
Within a blink of an eye, we’ll be there.
9.25.2019
It’s getting hot in here
There is no way to turn
Sight is getting blurry
Forced breathing becomes harsher
The harder I run, more difficult it becomes,
More angry I get, more oxygen I lose
More bitter I become, further the door goes away
A fine line between anger and panick
A tiptoed balance on a cliff
A dice throw to see where we land.
9.24.2019
Don’t accuse that man playing guitar sitting by the side walk bench in his melancholic tune.
Perhaps you may wonder how he dares to waste his time so imprudently away while you walk by trotting away.
Perhaps you may want to consider if the man had a crash of tragedy in his life.
Perhaps you may prefer pondering if you had a violin string snapped, sprung into a spiral.
Don’t accuse the man. But just walk away, listening to this music.
9.23.2019
Taken a few blow,
Still standing, waiting to make a final move
What’s it going to be
A fume of smokescreen
Or a dashing punch.
Only in this moment
When things are idle and soft
For this very moment may perhaps be brief
Soak your feet into this pond,
And coast in a breeze of summer sunshine
9.22.2019
Autumn air carried a matured scent,
Like a soft young girl’s hand,
Once fresh with all the possibilities,
Now toughened, acquiesced to sensibilities.
Buried deep within thick skin and smiles,
Spiraling with bitter humor and lyres,
One foot at a time, one jump at a time,
Hopping jovially, crimson sun rises
One last time.
9.21.2019
Ralph with Coffee 
You must be logged in to post a comment.