A small collection of poetry about magic in the everyday

child of the light

Photography literally means 'writing with light'.
Frank Lloyd Wright understood this
hanging light like pictures on a wall,
knowing it to be as important a material as brick and wood.

There's a certain beauty to the shimmering
of blades of light as it cuts through the dust of a family home;
the way it twinkles as it touches the drop of rain and,
at just the right angle, blossoms and blooms into all the colours of the world;
how it paints the mountains and valleys a smattering of different colours,
a different palette every morning;
enthralling people by the way the rays filter through the trees
and bounce off the waves.

Eratosthenes used light to figure out
the size of this little ball of earth we stand on.
I think often about how each ray of light
travelled 8 minutes and 20 seconds,
burned its way through the atmosphere,
bounced off countless people, houses, trees,
just to be stopped by our eyes,
unbashed and perfectly content at its destination.

Light enchants at every scale it is perceived.
The way it dances and shimmers, you would think it had a life of its own.

I am a child of the light,
striving to live each day with the beauty of the cozy light of a sunset,
the confidence of a single photon traveling 100 million miles to its destination.

'Striving' is the keyword.
On some days, my eyes get moist,
acquiring the same glistening as water droplets falling from the sky.
It is on these days that the light is especially beautiful,
taking on an almost ephemeral and magical feeling.

I borrow strength from the light:
a gentleness of the touch,
a twinkling of the soul,
a lightness of the self.

I see the light as beautiful
maybe the light will see me as beautiful too.


The shape of the sun is a contour, carved by its intensity, angle and number of
people who are awake to see it. In the evening, the sun sets the sky ablaze
with the vibrant shades of a ripe peach; a final spectacle.
Sunset: a time of day when a significant portion of all
people on Earth all glance at the same thing and
admire its beauty. A small act of cohesiveness
and shared beauty in a world that
desperately looks for things to
things to glue it
back together.

At night,
a million
stars pierce
the darkness.
A stillness,
by none other
than a
reflection of
the sun.

It is not by chance
that the first piece of art
made by a human in space is of 
the orbital sunrise. A promise that 
the day will start anew, a sign that tomorrow exists, 
that things dormant can wake once again, showing us that
something as immovable as the heavens and the cosmos can still change.
As the rays peek over the crests of mountains and waves, there is a warmth that wakes the world again.


    From   far   away,
    it   looks   like   we   are   huddled   close.
    A   community   of   stars,
    clustered   and   cozy.

Yet   the   distance   between   us
is   so   vast   that
travelling   at   the   speed   limit
of   the   universe
would   still   take   billions   of   years
to   traverse.

	People   used   to   tell   stories
	millennia   ago
	about   how   stars   are   just
	holes   in   the   blankets   of   the   sky,
	there   so   the   light   of   day
	can   peek   through   at   night.

I   wish   we   could   pull   the   blankets   closer,   to   keep   us   warm.
All    we    can    do    is    longingly    gaze,
watching     us     each     shift     red,
hoping      that      one      day      our      dust      will      meet.

casual magic

At 1:00, the sun streamed at just the right angle through the patterned glass,
splitting the uniform beam of light into a hidden spectrum of fractals,
bathing the room in a shower of brilliant colours.

The dripping of the water from the faucet was always erratic,
never settling on any sort of discernible pattern.
Drip drip       drip     drip drip         drip    drip            drip     ,
It was always 8 drips of the faucet before each perennial was well watered.

The clouds seemed to agree that today would be a great day to read at sunset.
A friend once commented how they found books so weird,
you just stared at marked slices of a tree for hours, vividly hallucinating.
I joked how the beach matched the cover of my book; they laughed,
our bodies bathed in the mellow yellow that seemed to melt the world around us
until it was just us, the ocean, and the setting sun.

There was a cozy spot to put my head,
just below the PULL FOR STOP cord,
between the metal frames of the bus windows,
enough space for me to have an earbud in.
I would spend the 40 minutes bus ride shuffling for new songs,
singing under my breath,
feeling and voicing the shape of each word,
watching the clouds slowly losing their tinges of colour as night fell.