Are you the one the moon cries to when it sleeps in the darkness, Waiting to become full again? Are you the one whose light heals its crescent sadness? But never revealing your name.
Are you the one dreams seek out between moments of waking In that continent of shapeless recollections? Are you the one who gifts us mirrors that are beyond breaking, In that Stonehenge of reflections?
Are you the friend who comes in disguise, in strange faces, When our skin seems too strange to wear? Are you the violin you hear in the most empty of places, When the solitude seems too hard to bear?
Are you the image canvases think about when they stand alone, And wake up feeling too plain? Are you the sky where all the seeds of rainbows are sown, So they can sprout in the rain?
One day we will meet in a coffee shop made of metaphors. Acquainted forever, but recently met. Are you the one who writes poems in your idle hours, That poets may someday recollect?
Perhaps we all know why we set out from the shores of Our childhood, Besotted by a postcard from an imaginary friend. Now we all know why we write things we know we never could. The friend is real; it’s we who are pretend.
In the atlas of imagination, there is an island Only you know exists, That you must go back to someday find. An island where on a table, an unsent trove of poems sits, That has been left unsigned.
Always wide eyed with wonder, prone to reveries and restless with an inexplicable yearning to create ever since he was a little boy, Jay wrote his first poem when he was six. He discovered the ore of his creative endeavors in the writings of his sister from which everything else originated, in attics filled with vanilla smelling old books, in savoring the classics and in intricate poems of Wordsworth and William Blake inlaid with rhyme…. His poems have snuck under editorial radars and appeared in global anthologies, magazines, newspapers and online journals. He also runs an idea shop called the Centre of Gravity, draws cartoons, directs animated short films and conceptualizes communication campaigns. All of which originate from the same artery of poetic longing that destiny charmed into his soul.
Am I Alive, or am I dead? Is this all just a dream inside my head? I feel like I’m losing my grip. Quick say something, anything before I slip. Nightmares slowly creeping. Has he finally come to do the
Forget me not, my vintage friend, though life in me takes flight. I’m with you now and always, though far and out of sight. Remember all the best of times and love that we both shared, and let those memories
Deep ocean making a smooth calm sound It can only be God Dark skies with a trim of white clouds It can only be God’s power Birds making chirping sounds at night It can only be God’s creation Sitting next