Thy name is Krypton.
Your mantra divulged.
And my soul, my dear soul,
shivered and shriveled.
D. Yustisia 10/01/15
I know the picture is not a picture of a lake, but I love the poem and the picture side by side. I took the picture of Triphammer Falls during our spring break vacation to Ithaca in Upstate New York this year. The falls were simply amazing and I can’t wait to visit more falls there.
I feel like a little kid when I see icicles. They always amaze me in a way. To realize that icicles used to be some snow, how remarkable! They sparkle everywhere, even under the stairs. I wish I could snap one or two, and put them in a glass of lemonade. Meanwhile, I can only mesmerized by the glistening and glitters the icicles make. From afar, they’re like chandeliers and yet in the close, they become daggers. There’s something romantic about icicles. In a mysterious kind of way, they tantalize our imagination and create fantasy.
The man only needed to sit. He didn’t even have to open his arms and wave them around or whistle to signal the birds to come. Dozens of doves flocked towards the man as if he’s the center of the birds’ gravity pull. I was amazed by the sight and yet felt a little bit awkward. The man was sitting on one of the benches at Washington Square Park. The doves cooed and he listened. Once a while the man said something, speaking to the birds. It seemed they understood one another. I wonder what they were talking about. Maybe about the places that those doves visited or saw when they’re flying around. About a new food truck at SOHO, about the tourists who got lost, or about who won the game last night between the neighborhood boys. Like good friends, the man and the doves shared what they knew about New York intimately. While other people stared at them like they’re a peculiar sight, perhaps the man and those doves saw others the same way.
In the center of Grove Street Cemetery in New Haven, an old headstone stands. The writings on the stone tells a story of an extinct joy. The joy that David and Elizabeth Whitman so proudly hailed on their beloved son, but ceased abruptly. The son who was their hopes to reach the stars and the moon, but no more. He might have been a diligent young man and a man with wit. He might have been a carefree person, young and inspired. And yet, although centuries ago Isaiah was gone, but the sorrow that his parents endured is still visible. All were carved and linger forever on the stone.“Just as his parents hail’d the day, When joys should all their cares. Just as his own fond hopes aspir’d, To deeds by which bright minds are fir’d. Death snatch’d him hence in youthful bloom, And sunk those hopes beneath the tomb.”
One day at a carnival, some children and their parents were flocking for a horse ride. The children’s anticipations were showing on their faces. Their eyes widen, their mouth opened and they simply couldn’t wait. One boy was giggling when the horse and its handler approached him. He couldn’t believe what he saw, a real horse, a horse he could ride! While another child, a girl, was holding on to her dear life on her grandmother’s hand, with horror on her face. The girl’s grandmother soothed her and tried to calm her down. She led the girl to step up on the wooden stairs they used to get unto the horse. The girl cringed and hesitated. She pulled her body back, came to her grandmother again and hid. Sneaking up behind her grandmother, the girl with the blond hair, looking at the horse that patiently waiting. On the other part, a horse and its handler looked solemn. They were waiting quietly, no words or noise uttered. The girl squatted next to the horse, caressing its leg, preparing it for another ride. Their quietness showed a deep trust between two creatures.
I walked among the trees this afternoon, at the Upper Green of the ever-busy New Haven Downtown, and most of them are shrouded in yellow and copper. As I walked around, my mind tried to picture the place once, a burial ground where hundreds of loved ones were buried, a long-long time ago. While the living are walking, riding their bikes, jogging, sitting on some benches and chatting up some non-sense, those who passed away are sleeping soundly underneath. The world above them is shivering every time the wind blows and muttering about the gloomy weather. Autumn is starting to wither and the world is gray.