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.
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 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
