The silver of dawn’s sword
has slit through the
thick, black shroud of
the armourless knight’s
fog and facade.
The orange flames of
a new sunrise has
set aflame to the
past love of all
of yesterday’s and
the nights before them.
Birds soaring up high
sing melodies of a
new day and a promised
better tomorrow,
while the world is
being held up high
against the backdrop of
mourning silhouettes of
trees and their barren fangs
in the dead of
January.
In this interlace
Between the branches
Of a hundred deserted trees
Where the light chose
To shine into
Their deep marsh
Underbelly of unknown.
Here life has arrived again
Into another year,
Into her,
As she learnt to
Melt into time
And smile from
Within her heart-
The warmth for her winter.
At this oddity called
Time.
There is a reason why everything happens.
A reason why you are born.
A reason for why you were born on the day you were born.
A reason for the home or street that brings you up.
A reason for your existence.
One for the way you are.
And the unavoidable one for how your life turns out to be.
Every emotion, every thought, every act, every word- spoken or not, is accounted for with a reason not always known to the limited consciousness of our human minds.
Like all these rivulets, we are pooled into nothing but the sea of humanity.
And then all these reasons, at an uncalled vertex of moment, will flood into your awareness of making any sense at all with vague words for explanation.
Why they were always there in the beginning.
And why they will always be there till the end.
Nothing is a coincidence, and yet everything is.
In the quiet hours of lassitude, between the waking and rising hours of dawn, the soul of this forest yearns to be clasped in the crush of your old wide palms, a visceral map of all the worlds you have touched and healed.
Skin at every arousable tip stretched tight upon these mountains and hillocks pine for the wetness oozing from the music only your parted hungry lips can sing.
The alluring darkness of her secret alcoves and explored caves awaits to be played upon by your nimble, long, calloused fingers that have caressed the softness of many a lovers’ lips.
The feet of her earth aches to be entwined with your downtrodden ones, to infuse your roots with the vigour only her soil could give, even if you have to trample upon her,
again and again.
And somewhere between the beginning, the middle and the end of her terrain, when you have trespassed all her rocks and marsh and pits and lakes, she lies wide open and awake, to have all of yours in her, in union and unison until eternity.
Letting the glaciers of all your unshed tears, hitherto, melt into the river that would make her deltas fertile, as she gives you life, while you sob into the wake of her earthy bosom, the ravine pit of her forbearing arms, the undying throes of your passion and life.
I prayed.
A little block of
the burdened sky
dropped down.
And the sun blushed,
In the West End of
my bizarre idea of
Paradise.
Letting be, and
a trickle of
Letting go.
All for me, and
All for mine.
I chased
another bubble of hope,
and threw
another reckless of a wish,
to the brooding
handover of twilight.
Fancying always the
Canny, crescent smile
of an obscured shadow
of the two faced
lunar,
(A full blue moon only to usurp my heart)
Upon the transitioning palette of dreams
of tonight.
And it brought me
to you (once again),
And a song humming in me
all week long.
While the winter’s fire
and the abandoned echo
of a child’s laugh
down the long road home,
crooned away the passing
of this evening,
Walking all the miles in
thoughts between
the hearts of
You and I.
Just re-visiting an old favourite poem of mine simply titled, ‘December’. Hope you like 🙂
Little bird.
Are you lost amongst
the thorny brambles
knitting up the clear freezing sky.
Are you hungry?
For the grains, the kind, placid strangers of summer
Once threw your way.
Are you searching for the voice
that you once used for
singing the forlorn ballads of
autumn love that
died along with their leaves.
You know, I am here
Waiting with a basin full
of love and salt, shed
this bygone year.
Soaking in them the
seeds of tomorrow for
a much brighter morning,
a much silent noon,
to plant in the soil
of my little strength.
Don’t leave me a trinket.
It is nothing but another memory of you.
Another memory of you
Owing me something.
You may have heard of this,
But my love knows no debts,
or simple words of gratitude.
Just pay me a visit,
A flutter of your beautiful wings,
And those colourful plumes
to frenzy my ill heart.
For to see your beating bosom,
Throbbing with a million unsung songs to be proud of,
And your eyes meeting a million friends
amongst yours or otherwise,
Bring a thousand rhythms of joy,
to my winter soul and
December thoughts.
In the passing of the thin day,
In the midst of this whirlwind
where I stand,
An axis held by tutored lungfuls
of cold, hard, breath,
Presides over the leftover will
in my tortuous veins.
(Like an autumn leaf that refuses to fall)
My eyes,
Marbles of fading memories,
are guided to the tremulous stance of a robin,
her chest, an orange crescent
in this bluegray, beaming pride
of a relentless November.
(Like an autumn leaf that refuses to fall).
The moon rises early
Her soft cream of translucency
Diluting the pitch dark of winter-
The silhouettes of the night
A still reminder of
Seasons and friends
that come and go,
and the ones that remain to fill my home.
(Like an autumn leaf that refuses to fall).
And for this,
I shall stay,
Rooted to the changing firmament of time,
My young, forming, learning, oak
The visceral bearer of
Life and her slow disclosures.
The rings and lines upon this trunk of mine,
An adage of all the stories
seen and untold.
(Like an autumn leaf that refuses to fall).
The weathered marks of yesterday’s
sorrow summers have
left an indelible pattern to
long for something
Forever.
Little droplets of jewels
kiss the leaf tips a little longer
yearned and adorned in
another life.
Telling fairytales of the
untouched trials of
a damp, damp heart.
Frost numbs, and sunshine blinds (which do you prefer?)
Stood in the wet grass
dazed, squared, and still,
skin of a strong, dry bone memory upon,
a jaded rose quartz,
bare and labile flesh amongst the weeds,
in an overgrown backyard,
reminding, remaining, and
remembering
a young girl in the
wild woman’s art.
Elusive sunshine, playmate of the cassock clouds
Let me soak you in, until you allow.
The birds cackle- happy silhouettes of freedom
In a happier blue sky,
A song of chores and forage, amongst the thicket of
Coloured woods of a depleting August summer.
The gentle breeze, that was yesterday a storm to reckon,
Makes the trees sway and dance to soothe our listless souls
That lay basking in the afternoon drizzle, believing
they will escape what they cannot.
Home is much cherished with pride until
Love is replaced with the truth of what it is not.
And I breathe to myself, a silent whisper-
Heaven and winds churned by the same skies know,
These trees can bend to break and destroy, but do not.
As much as they know me, indefatigable
Beneath the placid armour of livelihood I don,
To make everything simple and worthwhile.
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.
