Love lies in..
every gossamered
corner of
objects
and memories,
once owned.
Shadows
of yesterday
you thought
you overlooked.
Veins touched
by the soft glow
of an evening
longing for
impossibilities.
Wine half drunk
brooding into
the dissection
of maybes’.
Eyes that never
met to spill
volumes of
if onlys’.
Sighs dissipated
as cold smoke
into the wind
and fire
of tomorrow.
The pen is being wielded by
her misshapen fingers.
A child’s hand- like a supposed
joke, that is pumped by the veins of
A century old heart.
Wisdom grays, that heard a million
Stories, but never knew her own.
In the turbulence of whispers though,
She now sought her belonging.
A feeble, but a strong call,
Like the distant seething of a hurricane,
Opens the gateway, to what
Will always be.
They have had to fell fortresses,
Built of the cement of inherited love.
Over nights and over years,
Over the seven seas of unslept nights.
Her dismantled breath and an autonomous neck, still reaching out,
beyond mediocrity and not being understood-
The radio humming through the ticking pulse of the night.
Allowing the plastic biro and the ink of tomorrow to stain
The callus on a well rounded, cuticle bitten
Finger- to swear and for pleasure.
Setting sail on some once-upon-a-times and
Paperboat of dreams.
For what is poetry to a poet, but
A vacant essay, with
No beginnings and no ends, but
A scattered middle, shaped wholesome with,
Words strewn like confetti and
Cherished like a memory.
Through the looking glass
I see,
Deep wells of resolute.
Never ending chasm of
Another universe.
Blinking big bangs and
Enigma burnt comet tails.
Hearing the notes from
Yesteryears, the gentle waft
Of a piano lay in
The cosmic river of
An incense I burnt.
Deep into another’s heart.
A midsummer night’s shadow
Hugging a forgotten corner.
Stranger on my bed of thoughts.
The well of hope and happiness
Seems bottomless
Until a boulder is hit upon
A leap of faith.
And still we must.
Jump to know what
Being alive is. Like
a requiem for the one
In the looking glass.
An incantation for the one
In your star crossed path.
A hymn for the one
Who felt a never tomorrow.
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.
A storm brewed in her heart
The one she arose to, was just the start.
The cold gnawed into her breastbone where
A lair of desires convulsed
with the sorrow of a lost dream.
Suspended still in animation.
Your wet mouth she felt deep within.
Teeth seeking her spine up the navel of birth. The primordial canal of her beginning.
Where it is?
She couldn’t find
her insanity. When it is now, she
wanted to push you
and your blighty madness in her matrix that was becoming.
Words hanging there reachable, her arms paralysed.
Unable to pick them, as you lay absorbed, in between her,
raving in the layers of your twilight.
Within, beneath, above and through.
Feral tongue twisting in her softness and black.
Usurping the valley of sweetness and
fresh salt,
hidden in the forest you always thought you had sought.
A minute of you, is a lifetime of sin,
she thought.
The thunder agreed with the gale and the branches swayed in unison and might,
All day long…
A lonely sparrow cooed meanwhile, all night long…
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 gray day has bought with it
Some wizened thoughts
Of a past not long back
When the feet knew of stinging bites
And the heart found love in
Nothing old or known and
Thorns and stones
(and stupid idealism).
The hunger has died, but the burn remains.
The urge to purge the stillborn memories
Of many of our dreams we built callously,
(brick by brick)
Whetted by the stone of curiosity,
Licked by the blade of loneliness,
they have planted beautiful blooms
for the Gods in their slave’s garden.
To be enjoyed while taking a pinch of salt
With a drink to our sealed fate.
Grief comes to those who have the time to cry.
The rest of us keep on running until
we run dry.
And sometimes we remember to breathe,
As there is nothing any longer to feel.
While the gush of air in dissolves the body
Into the universe of our head rush,
And the clouds above roll out the drums and the show,
but no rains or tears from within,
I often question the distant rainbow,
I remember seeing while I walked a prayer for you, only to get
An endless reflection of vacuous colours,
in the mirrored room of illusions I built for myself. All over again.
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.
Shine on bright little ones
In the garden of
The month of May.
You sweet little lillies
Of apples- crisp and green
That will ooze tangy sugar
to coat my tongue
a dream,
with or without cinnamon
in pies bearing the colour
of autumn and the
cheer of being together
again.
Until then, my visit beckons
the endless charm of
your white blossoms.
Smiling at me from sunshine,
preening on my hazy thoughts
this fleeting moment
as short as my time here.
Your bowls that will shrink to
form the fruits of my joy
In the garden of
The month of May.
Sunshine streams through the heavy clouds above
Like a call of conscience from heaven.
Life outside moves with a horizontal vector
While I’m sat here, static and in inertia of limbo.
The lilacs I always looked up to for respite
Have grown pale into the spite of existence grey.
Time moves inch by inch, every swipe of the needle
But a smudge on our longevity and dent in our breath.
I have not spent much here, yet I feel like
I have been home forever,
The shadow of a stranger in the glass,
Some long lost friend.
I fix my gaze upon nothing yet I’m lost
Even the field of dandelions held like
Beads of crystal in the softness of dusk tried to call me out.
Maybe that is what it is. To be here and now.
When you are really no where any how.
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