Hues of departure

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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.

Hypnagogia

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Clouds are drifting away

Like a dream.

The frame in this movie

Guilded by golden

green leaves.

Sunshine percolates through

Our veins.

The day’s honey seeps

Into the gold of

Your iris, as I watch (you).

We watch the blue sky

And hear it telling us

A story (of ours).

 

We are now somewhere

Hanging in between scenes

Of a timeless motion between

The thresholds of a

Slow and sweet slumber. And summer.

To piano keys and

seconds of cogwheels.

The evening has yet again

greeted us with

A fairweather smile.

Abiding into night,

abiding into something

We are going to lose.

Like this date.

 

So long as we dance again

In the music of

Each another’s

Wholesome silence,

Our brief interludes

In the twilight and

Waking hours of the other’s

Will and desire,

Time and space,

Will run the

Rest of our show here.

In the garden built

On the loose soil of

Our love.

Kanmani (Creation)

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She held her palms open on a blue,

blue day, while the sky poured open

in honour of her mind.

A wistful grey cloud lay out beyond.

The cracking whip of a thunder and

cold whispers, tore into the

Nodes of her guileless heart.

She sought for answers amidst

What she grew to never be her own.

The damp air reaffirmed what she

never thought would have.

And there lay, like a curveball, even before

It’s life began, a hatched young lifeless bird,

The membrane of its creation, holding

every untold story of it, in her skin.

Pale, opaque beak that almost formed to sing and shut eyes that almost opened to forage,

Thin filaments of wings, that would

One day be strong to fly away, far away,

And beat the strongest of winds, up to ascension.

Though now, here it lay, in her hands, pointless, waiting to be salvaged into the earth,

That has brought all of us here.

She threw a piece of her heart, and trowelled

a lump of mud heavier than her breathe, and

Placed this lithe creation, which was here,

If only for a drop in the expanse of time,

A few inches deeper into the circle of life.

And as her praying hands buried the esse,

As deftly as she does with her dreams,

The ritual of love gave away, the embers,

The tears wrung from tired eyes, called

Another mother, who perched on the

highest branch and cooed away all the hope

She held in herself, once upon a time,

and sang a solemn requiem,

for her soul below.

H is for Hamlet

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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.

Celandines by Egal Bohen

 

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.

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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.

Apple Blossoms

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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.

Here

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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.

Cemaes Bay

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The sun has cast a magical spell

Over the Cemaes Bay.

The lambs shudder in their

Ironical coat of dismay.

The sea sings a tune of conundrum

A lullaby of dreams far away.

Whispers of rain cling to the

Windows and doorways as

The grey waves usher in the

Palliative joy to a

Heart that lay splayed.

Stones are thrown to awaken the

Limbo of a mind in fray.

Sway, sway, curtains of crystals.

Move away to the beaming sun rays.

The wind ha caught the eye of the

Meadow and my lover today.

My eyes have seen the pinecones

in their branches

Still and snuggled and

Nestled in their hay.

And they will never

Look back again.

Harvest

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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.

 

Goodnight and Good Luck

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veins over tendons course

like a meandering river,

topography of lands and jungles

thicket, sinewing through muscles and bones,

in the lonely hands of a winner.

the thick gossamer of a deserted winter,

lush tones of yesterdays summer

allured in the wine crushed by another’s feet

percolating sin into another’s words

clouds like fresh cream, only in yesterday’s dream.

bright red stars and bells chime now

to bring in another chariot of time.

 

Decades more to sleep.