22~14
Forever Proud
Of my ties
To the land.
Many times over
Told of her fame.
~Woman
Who runs
With fawn~
Handwritten
Into the copy
Of my family tree.
Who never existed.
Why lie to me?
Leaving – Hour Nineteen
In sorrow, I watch you walk away through no fault of your own. You were asked to leave. I don’t know why and I probably never will. You came here for just one reason. She was just nine months old when you arrived. Now three years old, nearly four, she will not understand and I cannot explain it because I do not understand it either. But, alas, it is happening and we will all miss you, while trying to embrace the changes destined to come sooner rather than later. Parting is such sweet sorrow, they say, but this one simply hurts. Maybe, one day, we will all be together again. Only time will tell this. Until then, we will cling to the memories. Those are all we will have left.
Goodbye is tricky
It is awkward and painful
Our loss is your gain
Hour 18_ the little seed.
I do envy that little seed
Who isn’t afraid of the Dark
Or afraid to follow the light.
Or give up when the earth resisted
But pushed and pushed against all odds
And what light and beauty to the earth.
nightlights
A pale yellow light plays against the white walls
and the ghosts stand empty or open.
If every moment is a waking dream,
there’ll be plenty of time to sleep.
Vancouver – Hour 19 Prompt
I used to love coming to you
the exhilaration grew as the miles lessened
I learned my lines and the border guards let me through
A new city sprawl, with streets and backroads to learn
secret hidden spots, sights to see
Soon we fell into routine
I thought I knew my way around the town
but you can only get so far
in a city with no left hand turns
For a city so familiar
you made me feel so foreign
Especially as the border guards tore apart my car.
Hour Nineteen – London, As Seen from Above
London, As Seen from Above
In all the best stories it happens
in the ones set in London, I mean
Peter Pan flies in through the window
kidnaps the children
then, with a little pixie dust, they all fly out again
off to Neverland
Mary Poppins arrives on Cherry Tree Lane
floating down by umbrella
later, her charges enjoy a tea party on the ceiling
all through the power of laughter
The Ghost of Christmas Past drags Scrooge
kicking and moaning
over the rooftops of London
and away into the Past
And Harry Potter!
Don’t get me started!
By broom, by hippogriff,
by thestral, and even by motorcycle!
Constantly traversing the airspace of London
And even Doctor Who
with all of Time and Space in his dominion
including all parts of the Earth he might desire
always ends up in the skies over London
Such iconic topography
We surely recognize London from the air
more so than from a street-level perspective
I want to go to London
just so that I, too,
might take to the air
and fly
My City
My City
The city wears the streets
on its sleeves
both sides adorned with buildings
glass paned windows
like numerous eyes
some half close and half open
modern clothes dangling on the balconies
cars of desire stand in front
roads and passways criss crossing
traffic moves on indulgently
billboards display latest fads
and nights and days become one
the bustling restaurants tempting
noise is a contrast inside out
shops and malls busy
buying and selling
where customer is king
The city also has streets
where beggars hop in between
potholes as marking points
somewhere signboards say
“Diversion, Men at Work”
back alleys and dark gullies
among them parks small and large
with signages that say
“I love My City”
Hour 19
@varenyas
Hour 19: directions to reach my home by the village bus
to reach my island home
once you’ve alighted
from the ferry:
lift your nose
inhale deeply the crisp and tangy air
tilt your head
inhale again
does that stir memories?
walk to the minibus
parked beside
the squat red cement shed
that serves
as a shelter
against the elements
but not against mosquitoes
and myriad other insects
that descend at dusk
board the bus
choose a seat of your liking
they’re all hard
and not at all comfortable
but that doesn’t matter
the ride begins
and the green hits you
at eye level
interpersed
with dips of silvery blue
slivers on land
while large swathes
of white pock marked blue
colour the open spaces
don’t mind the rattle of the windows
or the clatter of your teeth and bones
the driver has a good track record
but better to hold
the handle of the seat ahead
in case of exigencies
the velocity of the bus
barely allows you to appreciate
the variety of bird life
at innocuous play
around the mangroves
surrounding the place
as the bus climbs small hills
speeds around bends
squeezes past other vehicles
on the narrow, winding road
you’re forced to admire
its agility
the bus heaves
past the last hill
overtaking the fat
woman with pendulous steps
it trundles across
a railway overbridge
the road narrows
like a school master’s
piercing gaze
as a vehicle approaches
you wonder
how the impasse
will resolve
and you’re witness to
the magical expansion
of the road that
lasts a few moments
you exhale
realising you had held
your breath all this while
you stand when
you sight the white
domed structure
towering above the trees
Candelaria chapel
clutching every possible aid
you yell to the driver
to stop
and stumble out
at your destination
thankful of the use
again of your legs
Hour Nineteen – My Tale of Two Cities
Hour Nineteen – There are so many nature poems out there. Our prompt for this hour of the night is to write a poem for a city, real or imagined.
My Tale of Two Cities
Two homes have I, they’re oceans apart
Two cities, not one, I’ll say from the start
Two cultures, so diverse and different at first
Together, however, they quench my thirst.
Calcutta in Bengal, the City of Joy
I breathe in the grime, the dust, the whole
Rest my weariness on her ample bosom
She rocks me alive and soothes my soul.
Glasgow then, my home of choice
Where we have put down roots for many years
And raised our child with a Scottish voice
With folk so friendly after chips and beers
There’s a thread that runs through both
A thread that isn’t just me
The parallels are there, an historical oath
That most of you have yet to see.
The Scottish Cemetery in the heart of Calcutta
The Tagore Society in Glasgow’s core
The two bards have songs in common
Paisley, football, jute and more.
Wouldn’t it be grand then?
If I could blend the two
Take the best out of both these cities
And create for me a utopia new.
Joy is a neighbor far away
Joy is fleeting
rarely seen
I have no true recollection of it
possibly of content
it seems overrated
like an experience to have
not hold
not one to be
not one that stays
I am weary of drifters.
I have come to know and understand
my darkness.
It’s my neighbor
sometimes it comes over and bathes with me
drinks tea
and makes me reflect on the things I need to work on
within myself
Sometimes I welcome it
and other times
I shut it out
scream at it
tell it to leave me alone
and it does
for a little while
but always returns to see if its missed
to see if it can teach me a little bit more
about people that I don’t need in my life
it sends demons by
to glance me over
to trick me into acceptance of making more room
for it
It prefers me by myself
I don’t know what I’m like without it
Joy is a tease
a toxic false fleeting emotion
that stays only long enough for a sip
its harder to know
to understand
its too bright
and I work with the lights off