Author: Ralph

life. coffee. stories.

Clown

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Where should i begin with this

This bottomless pit,

The craziness that has not started

Nor stopped where does this go and where does this end

When can i live and when can i say what i want and do what i feel like i want to do

Do do do I live like this? for how long how long does it take? what does it take? why does it take so much?

Ah the dance, the dance of a clown is so funny, so ephemeral, an apotheosis of an arterial flow of living things on this earth.

Why should i bother

Why should i care

What can matter?

Where is the death? Where is the light? Where is the truth? Where is the warmth?

Is there an end to this suffering? Is there anything else than the denials, the roman honor and all the glories in the world?

Why

Why

Why

What is an answer to this? Is there an answer? There must be. It must be. What should be done?

Ah, perhaps I know. Perhaps i suggest we sing. Sing out of our lungs the dances, the whistle and the thrusts.

Perhaps, that’s what all it matters.

Perhaps, that’s where it all ends.

Perhaps, this is where we say good morning.

10.4.2019

Happinesss

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Grenade balloons won’t do it

Serenade by millions of clowns won’t do it

Cascades of golden milk won’t do it

Perhaps the dance of last summer is what counts.

But poems soak and bleed their ink

Heated strokes of heart cool down

Flesh so tender will wither

Well then.

I hope my probated story will last,

And that my eyes now are clear

10.1.2019

Shot

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After a shower of sweats,

Cold tears in a dark room,

Dawn breaks beyond the horizon.

“You took the shot”—

Yes, this morning glow is what I’ve been waiting for.

All the swords that dug deep within my flesh dissolves into a shadow.

“You took the shot”

Yes, I did. And I’ll take more shot,

Until I hit a star.

9.30.2019

Icecream

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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

Joey Alexander

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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.

Yemeni Girl

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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

 

Fiddle

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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

Lunch

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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