How I Came to Writing

This entry is part 18 of 63 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Autumn 2011


In a faraway city in the mountains, monsoon
rains descend and it is soft typewriter sounds

on the roof all day and all night, rain
and fog all month; not a sliver of sun

returned, in a carriage or otherwise. Dark
pink bougainvillea blossoms give up

and plaster themselves closer to the wall.
Crevices flourish with signatures of moss.

They might not know it, but even they
have stories to tell. All is elegy,

departing or gone; incessant rain,
language the earth understands.


In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Series Navigation← Landscape, with a Glimpse of the Soul as it Leaves the BodyWhen does the hunger abate; →

5 Replies to “How I Came to Writing”


    Even the crevices will be covered with moss,
    and grass before it. Cracks on these memorials
    are stories told and retold where burial grounds
    are salons of the lingering undead, memory
    hounds like incessant rain. Nothing is ever lost.

    Only elegies stay, a language of remembrance
    for all who would care anyway. Like tombs,
    they have embellished narratives of kindness,
    gentleness, rectitude, abiding flames of love.
    Like Taj Mahal, these remain unextinguished.

    Stones or pillars, marble markers, or epitaphs
    recall these lost lives and loves from crevices
    covered with moss and grass before it, but all
    will sprout from mute and scorched earth
    like words cranked out of pain in an empty heart.

    — Albert B. Casuga

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