May blossoms everywhere
pink and bruised.
a full, bulbous heart.
torn,
trampled pulp of
fleshy petals on the sidewalk
bleeding into
the thick veins
of summer’s gleaming cobalt.
watering the day
with the
timbre of another lie.
night buzz and
stagnant warmth, hung
a secret laden
with humid pain
and his laugh.
vacant sorrow that
laid a stone with
belief.
May’s tale is
May’s shame.
Yellow fields of brightening joy
Singing out to the lackadaisical day
Painted by wishful thinking.
Penetrated by languorous breathing.
In pure poetry you assimilate
Into you the violet needs of
Glorious fireweeds .
Tired eyes bearing dreams
As much as you repress the
Sunshine somewhere within
The thick vapours of strange lands.
Allow me to cast, that which cannot
Be seen or shown.
Rejoice in this day as
The needles of light from heaven
Percolates into the collective conscience of
All that perished and shall,
But lived the running colours of every
Landscape they imagined-
Length, breadth and
wiser upon departure.
I let gratitude crumble into
My hard bed today.
Just my breathe is enough, thank you!
The heat outside has churned the
molecules of time I have lived yet
Into a pile of obscurity.
A pale column of steam, I am.
The birds outside are chattering housework and tomorrow,
The sun burns a hole in my escape plan
And dreams. Ones forever without an origin,
destination or route.
Wayward and wanton like a rogue elephant.
Just when we thought our legs and words
Have found their respite,
Here’s arriving a thousand restless tiny clouds,
And to all the climes living in our house upstairs,
that can claim nothing anymore, but a few well spent seconds, while here at home.
This week I am going to publish a poem from a rare gem of a find that I made earlier this year- the late Egal Bohen’s poetry book ‘The Navigator’.
Egal sadly passed away the morning after his book was finalised and published on Amazon, by his amazing daughter, Helen. This book is a must buy and should be up there in your shelf, for later reading, again and again. These are pearl words of wisdom that has come from a man who has lived, what I would consider from his words, a rich life.
I only know Egal through his words only and often, there are times when I have felt their tangible guidance like a spirit, especially when life brings about its dismay.
I am savouring this book, bit by bit, and I carry this in my work bag, making sure too read it only when I am in the mood for poetry, because even in the slightest of ways I do not want to disrespect Egal’s words, by not giving it my cent percent attention.
Celandines is just one poem from his book. I can ensure you it’s filled page by page with the kind of words that should never be overlooked or unheard.
The Navigator is available on Amazon, for those who are interested. Pic as always by yours truly.
Woodland floor
Morning sun
Hearts of green
With yellow hung
Some have seven
Some have nine
Petals
In the light to shine
First messengers
Of spring
A sign
Cheerful
Cheeky
Celandines.
Forget me never
Forget me not.
I am the music in your heart.
I am the soul of your art.
Forget me never
Forget me not.
I am the faint whisper in the sweetest of your dream.
I am the wisp o’ air caressing your face, in the deepest of your sleep.
Forget me never
Forget me not.
I am the remnant of your love for tomorrow.
I am the remnant of all your bygone joys and sorrow.
A midriff lay slumped on a chair.
The spine an adage of another existence.
Crumps and foils have been cleared away.
Breakfast long served before the bell breaks
again,
another blush of coral in a vase, like
a little child screaming for that what it knows not.
As always.
The sun has esteemed our resilience. Idyllic fair-weather uncle.
The soil has been trowelled for him to feast and
lush worms exposed in their hideouts.
Little sylphs of the earth, mopping up the dried salt
of this frosted mud.
I lay a bulb, inch apart, and hoped for some gross vanity
as spring disrupts into shoots and roots entangle the mess that we call life.
I let the water flow out wondering what it would taste like. A drink of brine inside.
A tongue for foregone rains. Outside.
A silent robin looked around, perching its hunger on a barren branch.
There is a burning fireplace
In every heart gathered here.
A dark chamber of secrets hidden
In the deep recesses of their ever burning soul.
Embers of dreams lost to a sallow, callous youth
when the blaze of arrogance danced to defeat.
They now yearn for the spirit of passion, that no longer
lodges in their withering flesh,
Longing to be ignited by the lick of a flame,
A touch, a swig of the tender fuel
Of love that can never be lost. Only found.
Again and again.
Our lives lie in this furnace, these lumps of burnt charcoal
That we are.
Waiting to be picked at, from its state of apparent futility.
These cold and needy times pleading for
You and me, again,
To be burnt to the end of being burnt,
And nothing more to give but
What was already there.
Yet another chapter being written here. Sat by this fireplace.
To warm another’s belly.
To warm another’s hearth.
I am fascinated by Georgia O’Keefe’s paintings. Sensual portrayal of flowers is indeed the essence of art for me and in a way observing the birth of life on this earth. I try to photograph flowers in my own humble way, inspired by her work which those who know will know.
Just sharing a few lines of my own poetry here tonight. Hope you enjoy!
Woman
Woman.
Like an instrument.
Play her right
She is a melody to the ears.
Play her wrong
She is a nuisance to all.
And if you don’t know how to play her
Don’t bother keeping her.
A thing of beauty,
A joy forever.
Untouched and unowned.
Unaffected and unmaligned.
Pollinators taken a few years back when the lavender fields were in full bloom in Snowshill.
Taking this opportunity to share a poem of mine that got featured on Poetizer as Poem of the Day. Hope you like it 🙂
I sit in my garden for a respite
From hungry mouths and unguarded minds
Don’t get me wrong, I’m one like my own
Talking to trees and flowers
The only art I know
A swift of the white breast of a magpie
And philanderer bees seeking for the sweetest nectar
They come to me on my own
Like a sweet lullaby,
A caress of the wind of
Clouds that move south.
I sit and dream of that cottage by the lake
Where unto mortality I shall ripe
No cacophony of my own ilk to grind
Just me and myself and the rustle of leaves
Bidding time a goodbye.
Today, I would like to share a few verses written by yours truly, inspired by my walk in the garden. I had planted and lost, and not cared and still won . That is what nature has taught me this year. To be patient. To be resilient. Hope you like what I have written.
I planted yesterday in my garden
Some hopes and
Purple dahlias.
And today they are sweetly usurped by
Little pale pink dreams I do not know
The name of.
Dainty and wild
like some of us.
Virgin blush enchanting the naked eye.
But their love for their mother remains like none.
Because they remember me in the wet lands,
Giving birth to
Amethyst stillborns.
wantonink.com 