Posted on by Ruisi

Our Butterfly

Disclaimer: This poem is my original content that I have additionally published through UCSD’s Other People Literary Magazine.

Were it by chance when stars had cross’d unseen
Our paths now joined perchance made course a-part
We playwrights, though, set up our present scene
from impulse down and up to pair-link’d heart.
Spoke first time we when shared event had hapt 
Had I stayed hour less, or you come in hour late
Had we spoke not of that which keeps us rapt
My appetite may’ve ne’er known your gift to sate.
No tears have I cried since meeting you
and all I’ve the need to give is my laughter
Our moments joint painted peerless hue 
Born of friendship’s bosom all thereafter.
T’was our gossamer wings bringing us high
Praise our choices made as our butterfly.

With you your compass, me my trusty sailboat
A pair from birth, the day we set adrift
But we had a row and now here we take note
the scarlet wings of fear we feel inside ocean’s rift.
You are the one who reads for us meant direction
I am the one who listens silent at shared helm 
You accuse me, for fault of my failed navigation 
As I respond, that instruction is your realm.
But you’d seen east and angry, said west
I had heard west but spiteful, turned east
We know but our choices keep us at rest
and we face not treasure but tragic beast. 
If only we could blame this on a fate worst
But ‘twas our butterfly that left us curs’d.

Posted on by Ruisi

Voice

Your voice, signature of person as it exists,
lives to be found in the stories you tell.
It lurks behind the words you speak,
between the gaps in your breath
and within the way in which you punctuate your text.
But–it also is in every part of your gestures, your laughs
expressions the voice to which others bear visual witness.
Oh, how does your face alight when your loved ones call you?
and how does your laughter ring out when you hear a joker’s tale?
Your joy distinct, and your sorrow unique
A footprint of its very own,
caught in the strides of your name and self
and that voice, that individual, irreplaceable voice
lives to be found in the stories told about you.

Posted on by Ruisi

Self-Chosen

Disclaimer: This poem is my original content that I have additionally published through UCSD's Other People Literary Magazine. 
----

A fortnight ago,
          when the wind blew gray and nigh
he left his doors to enter
through the sullen quiet of the forbidden moor
in search of something he could call more his own
          a quest, a journey, love or adventure’s sake
his destination along the horizon.
Beside him existed neither roaring seas
          nor sublime cliffs
No trials almighty to be vanquished by heroes
But there is nothing quite like the open sight
of lilac heather amidst sage brush; still, 
he looked, and turned, and averted his eyes
His gaze affixed to the line of light 
          breaking ahead of him.

At a fortunate intersection of brook and path
was he met by a lady of comely dress
Said she, 
with a gesture to a pair of weeping willows, and a nod 
          to her lawn manicured with the riches of a thousand men,
—Welcome to my grounds, do join me inside, 
          I’ll put on a kettle of tea and bring out my good honey
           I’ve not much company, you see.
          I’ve waited so long for someone to talk to
                    Won’t you sit down with me?—
but our fellow laughed and 
denied her with neither a glance o’er her valued domain
          nor o’er her tender smile and eyes.
You’ve not what I desire, said he
          I’ve no time for distraction.
Then farewell and continue on, she said,
and looked the other way
as he returned to his path in the weeds.

After some days, and nights, and afternoons too,
he wandered into an assemblage of persons, all ages
Said they,
with gestures to a flourishing table of hearty laughter, and nods
          to the greenest pasture in the land, 
—Please join our feast, celebrate with us a strong harvest
          we’ve meat from our animals and wine from our grapes.
          and you need not starve a day with our bounty of crops.
          Come, take a look around,
                    we’d be delighted to show you the grounds—
but our man smiled small and
rejected them with neither a look o’er their precious gardens
          nor o’er their glorious fruits and blossoms.
Your food and drink are not what I pursue, said he
          I’ve no time for distraction.
Then farewell and continue on, they said,
and turned their backs on him as he fell back into step
in pursuit of his ever-chased light.

Rolling hills, scarlet birdsong, jeweled dew
Dandelions nodding their heads 
All to the side of his path
And a small mouse, scurrying by, invisible
Accidental companion to the one forging 
          his way through the landscape
 Asked another—
           for what does he abandon such opportunity?
           for what does he ignore such chance?—
The winds echoed his inquiry
          as did the persons left behind 
          silently, in the depths of their minds
But our fellow’s sight remained steady.
And he walked,
          and walked, and walked
                    and found nothing as the grasses passed him by
Satisfaction he sought
and for the welcoming calls he cared naught
A lonely journey, self-chosen
And the moor, well.
She said good riddance.

Posted on by Ruisi

Time -novel excerpt-

Time is the tatter-wingēd butterfly that flits, delicate, among the petals, occasionally pausing for a bead of saccharine nectar. It is a tree’s scrapbook of leaves, considered but never truly admired– when even a breath of air itself takes time.

To bask amongst the fresh fragrance of the tulips standing withered a decade later, the forlorn memories of a forgotten beauty taken with—

to dip one’s feet in the bubbling brook flowing still, but without the liveliness that made it so bright, brilliant—

—that is the feeling of a lost life, of lost time.

Articulation of dreams is no simple task, and at the intangible door of thoughts do wisps of hope await, intertwined, with the silken filaments of regrets and roads-not-taken; alas, one worries he may never live out his dreams, for the days, seasons, years—they pass much too quickly.

Wisdom grows with age, they say, and perhaps that it is true, but only if the entire definition of the word is flipped. Adults say, and they always will say, how children know nothing—that children are naive, ignorant, yet in reality they are the ones who see the world for what it is. The covert masks of strangers melt away in their eyes, their previously veiled shadows struck by the light, for the gentle hearts of youths find it effortless to trust and to love without preoccupation over ulterior motives or repercussions. As it is, it is only later that the absolute fickleness of human emotion and thought is discovered.

Some age faster than others. They are the youths whose sight can end up changing not only their lives, but even the sorrowful temporariness of other beings.

To them, life is no such dalliance.


Posted on by Ruisi

Indents

Cross over the shallow running water
to where skyline meets buried rootstock
Jagged rocks peek past overgrown reeds
and the brushstrokes of rosy flutter plastered
with invisible droplets meld into ticking clockwork.
Indents in the wood worn over time remain
a Game played by Children and Adults alike.
Posted on by Ruisi

Chaos

Amidst the white glare of the stars
you reach out your hands and feel only
     the flames scorching your fingers.
Blind, you remain; yet you are the one to see
     [the plagued skin of the defiant]
Deaf, you remain; yet you are the last to hear
     [the warning screams of the fallen].

From whence the crying comes you consider not
     because whilst the noises and voices conflate
into a disembodied greyscale hum, untranslatable-
a labyrinth of intangible faces to one’s sanity bate-
you stay mute by throwing down all reason
     so that they may skitter away to beleaguer
     the crackēd bones of those already desolate.
Repulsed by the taste of your own venom
its pungent acridity pervading every bud
you spit on the entrails toss’d safe astray
     and rely on the imprints in the dirt for guidance
but the ground before you crumbles away
     and you find yourself lost without ever taking a step.

Seeing still all visages through the smoke of the pyre
wondering why their masks are dripping at the edges-
Weep; glass tears scrape at the film clouding your eyes
     -and fear- then, if you are finally seeing clear
for all you shall discover when the sun doth rise
when the shade departs and the weak-hearted cower
be the pyrrhic ravages o’ crimson ash mix’d with burnt souls-
     all the carnage of Armageddon a simple hand-mirror.
Posted on by Ruisi

Place of Travel

She always meets them in a place of travel, when the mode of expectation is polite quiet and careful small talk. She sits by one in a rollercoaster car–before the ride, he asks her where she comes from, and she laughs and answers in passing. He’s from another city. They share contact information once they exit the ride, once the thrill of shouting a conversation whilst speeding through the night sky above the lights of the amusement park below wears off slightly. He messages her after the fact, and they pass a few texts in exchange. Her responses slow. They met once during an intersection of travel—that’s all it’ll ever be.

When it happens the second time, she wonders what she’s doing to end up in conversations so easily with strangers. She’s on a plane for home–she arrives late in a rush, staggering into her seat with a heated flush across her cheeks. The man who has the seat beside her says hi and introduces himself. Well, she thinks, as least we’re traveling to the same place. The flight is long; they spend time chatting, checking out the media systems on the backs of the seats in front of them, listening to music–this is fun, she thinks. She gazes outside the window as the plane begins to touch down, watching the yellow and orange lights below signal the end of their little interlude. They find each other on social media. He’s years older than her. Later, he sends her a message. She doesn’t respond. Same flight, same destination, but she tells herself it’s asymptotic. A rollercoaster, a plane—she thinks afterwards, I wonder if this means something.