Terce
Sicut erat in princípio
Star scattered light
et nunc et semper
luminous trophosphere
et in sǽcula sæculórum
struck by infinity
Our rustic life #1
Thatched umbrellas snapped open.
Our village, our home already in pieces, broken.
The sky darkening into an ugly shade of grey,
Desperate for attention, ranted and raved.
Blotched and boiling with fiery rage,
Biting cheeks and knees (as if confining us into a cage)
Heavy sobbing and shuddering,
Thrashing, wailing and smothering.
Silencing the squawking migrating cranes,
It shot arrows of fear so cleverly well- aimed.
Swollen tears and destruction at its wake
Effortless done, in fact, a piece of cake
A torrential downpour with droplets
Like incoming bullets.
Hell bent on tasteless revenge,
The sky gleefully happy to see our world drenched.
The clouds churlish and smoky grey, brooded in the air,
All the green shoots below uprooted (this was its lair)
Again, the air cackled to life
Silencing our whispering and mumbles with a sharp knife.
Pitter, patter, pitter, patter- a monotonous melody.
Streaks of lightening arrived tentatively.
Only a blanket of silence, almost tangible, remained,
As we tried futilely to keep sane.
Think again
You say
You haven’t got time
Well, darling
I’ve got news for you
You have
Less than you think
Poem 1
Why I started writing..
Collecting hundred of thoughts
collecting memories..
but where are they?
After years, when we grow old, wrinkled, skinny, blind..
we forget evething..
only blur images left in mind.
I started to write..
to save all the moments of life
every piece of paper shows me the grace
with which I embrace..
counting the number of years i wasted
which left untasted..
But now, to give it a meaning,
I write everything..
Whenever, i needed or missed that charm,
I go back to that warmth..
It gives me joy, power, faith
encourages me to be more brave..
Sorrow, tears, struggle
all comes my way..
But reading those memories take them away
pictures, videos are one of the subsitutes
but writings re-creates that fruit..
what you felt, you wrote and then read, years after..
nobody can take that from you.
Ill-Prepared
Off am I to a rough start, a minute late, or two,
Scrambling to write a poem that is good enough for you.
I must apologize, for a tiny one it be,
But it’s enough to greet the day, and that is fine with me.
Hour Two: Georgia
Nostalgia can be such a beautiful waste of time
when you think back on the small, unimportant things
Past glories fade
into nothingness
Past defeats still sting
though perhaps not as much
The ritual of buying a can of coffee
from the vending machine
on the walk to the train station
is a memory that will never leave
If anything
the coffee will taste even better
as time goes on
(13 August 2016)
Freedom from Normal
How depressing to conform to the box.
You are the only standard to live up to.
Be you.
Thoughts On Love
I tried to love another
But my love failed
You made me cry
And I
Pushed you away.
Love is the emotion
That I hate to feel most
Of all.
Alone, nestled in my
Thoughts is where I’d
Rather be, not
With another that
Can see the softer side of me.
Love makes me cry, which
I cannot do.
Love makes a fool of me,
One I wish to hide.
Love makes me feel hurt
When I should feel happy inside.
I have to share my thoughts
And my dreams,
Set them aside to please
You, that’s something I
Cannot do
I’d rather be on my own
Than to love another.
Too many of my vulnerabilities exposed
You can see my weaknesses
Always used as weapons to hurt
Me.
Why bother with exposing myself
To another?
To watch me cry, to know
What causes me emotional
Breakdowns.
Lie to me, it never fails
My heart is a magnet to
Liars.
Push my button to set me off,
It never fails, I would rather
Be on my own than
hurt again.
I am not innocent
In all of this, for it
Was I that gave you
That power over me.
I’d rather be alone
Than relinquish myself to
Another.
Hour One
Nightshift at the construction site
Old road reconfigured straightened improved
No street lights in this bumpkin district
Civilization under construction
Pitch black frontage
A spooky sound ancient
Lizard brain working
A sound in the dark
Muffled rhythmic
clopping on fresh asphalt
From the north
Flashlight broken
Moving in my direction down the road
What pale rider this way comes?
What meaning?
My pea brain painted a probable
Stable down the road
A horse had thrown its rider
Was returning home like a cow to its stall
Programmed
Archaic
Slow and steady
Eerie my cat’s eye accustomed to dark watched the white flank move past
No rider No saddle
No street lights in this bumpkin district
Not this year
Horsepower receding to the south
Returning home
Making way for cars
That Place
It is there in the place
between slumber and awake
that I’m with you.
You wrap me up in all that is safe
and for that one moment
we are all that we ever wanted to be.
We are the versions of ourselves
we swore we’d turn out to be.
The two we never quite made it to.