Porcelain chalk white mask
moves with silence of mime
that hides a lovelorn face
moonstruck by orbs of light
with shadows to embrace.
Porcelain chalk white mask
a cloak of much disguise
hides from the world a heart
that has lost its amour
and yet, performs for art.
Porcelain chalk white mask
a jester, clown, for all
veils verbal tongue held still;
liminal space for words
lest written by a quill.
Porcelain chalk white mask
masquerades as muted
gestures on staged display
hides tumbling diamond tears -
Pierrot to portray …
She haunted me as a child,
Staring quietly from her watercolor world.
Her strange presence called me.
Powder-white skin and rouge cheeks,
Pencil-thin brow over
Dark-rimmed eyes
Shedding a single tear,
A pale rose between slender fingers,
Seeking its fragrance.
Quietly she slipped away,
I never asked after her.
Years later, her likeness appears.
Same raven cap,
Impossibly flagrant and frosty ruffles,
Porcelain cheeks without a hint of blush
Wide eyes tinged with sorrow,
Flowerless hands,
Her watercolor world mixed to black.
Then they came to me, together,
A dark evening in Paris.
Delicate in their lightness,
Impishly prancing in the streetlights
As if giddy with some tantalizing secret.
The first hands me her rose
As she cups my face,
“Dear one.”
They move to either side,
Taking my hands
And we run.
We run until we reach a dimly lit park
Where we sit cross-legged in the damp grass
Silent except for the panting of labored breaths
Returning to their natural rhythm.
“Tears bring fullness to life.”
They wandered off into the night
As suddenly as they had come.
Leaving me to deliver their rose
And share my tears with the people.
A girl stood alone,
In a broad daylight; I admire,
Days changed, but she stood alone,
Will this show end, I desire.
Like Pierrot, she stood in aware,
They enjoyed the live performance,
There, I can see her seeping away,
My hands tied, permanent stance.
The last time she stood,
The deed seemed effortless, I bet,
There, she reached the goal and crushed,
All the act, performance, angst upon it.
I contented and pray that the standing girl retire.
edited 2/12/2020
without warning, one day, i shall close my eyes,
i wonder, in that moment, i will say “indeed i lived a good life,”
or i may say “i lived my unpropitious life shoved and dragged
by the power i have no control over it.”
if it’s to say that one who survived through
his given days is already praiseworthy by itself,
i should, at least, accept my last moment open armed
with a smile on my face,
however, my worry is that if i can smile at that moment or not
because i saw too many horrible things throughout my troubled life,
because i underwent so many harsh trials that broke my back,
are all these negative notions coming from my narrow-mindedness,
or from a shallow view, or caused from my disagreeable attitude?
—A certain weather forecast—
for he has no home to return
a pierrot painted with snow-white make-up
walks under the moonlight up and down restlessly
under the sky, the pierrot
sleeps all curled up because of the nightly chilling air,
now stands with both arms stretched out to the air;
the moonlight streams in through the openings between
the pierrot’s spread fingers dyes his face to pale blue
a leaf that was blown off by the passing wind is
being shoved and tumbled all about the lakeside
like the pierrot on the stage,
now returns to the tree where the leaf was conceived
and clings on the tip of a broken branch, and asks
tomorrow’s weather condition for his bygone days
were the series of miseries
on tomorrow,
the rain that is heavier than the moonlight
comes through pierrot’s spread fingers
may fall and hit his face pitilessly
on tomorrow,
the rain that is colder than the spray of a breaker
hits the lakeside breakwater
may bring a wild wind
to push the poor pierrot’s back
and shove around here and there cold-heartedly
A lonely soul lying in the carriage
driving by the Grim Leaper is Pierrot,
the third class theatre performer who pretended to be happy
though he was sad hiding his loneliness behind thickened white makeup.
Pierrot who lying in the plain wood coffin,
not even a stem of flower on it, tears for the first time;
each time the carriage jolts, though it was unthinkable
to those who knew him, tears clearer than early morning dewdrops
roll down his cheeks.
[While he was alive,
tears were the luxury that were
way, way more than he could afford.]
Today too, as usual,
the curtain is up though the stage is run-down
it’s the only and most precious stage available for Pierrot
to perform his act.
When he glanced through the box from the stage
he found it was emptied though one seat was occupied
the occupant was no one but his other self.
Regardless of the poor performance
the audience who always watches his act on his side
was his other self, he was his shadow that moves along with him.
Occasionally, after a little bit of a quarrel between them
the shadow leaves Pierrot, but the shadow always comes back to him.
For the shadow is there
it enables Pierrot to perform today’s skit to stage alive,
that’s why when dusk falls and the shadow returns to throw himself
in Pierrot’s arms, he welcomes the other self with a smile because
he cannot abandon his own shadow for any reason.