He hopes…
Lives with death, learns to love it
more and more.
Mysterious,
never reveals his emotions
Wears a face, the mask of his subjects: death
Never smiling,
hands weary, strong like steel,
Breaking up the earth,
Building the final home
knowing one day will be his.
An Artist’s Portrait
Disillusioned,
I try to surprise them.
Nobody will see me,
but the woman in my painting
like she is not me and I, not her.
Alone in an empty room
An empty life,
Facing an empty chair,
Holding a coffee cup
emptied long ago.
I paint my life through these canvasses
as strokes of sadness
fill up its entire life,
No one would see the pain I hold inside,
Mistaking it for art.
Nobody would know
I only liberate myself
In the language of painting
trying to complete my life,
Finding company with my own work,
Consolation,
that someone is watching me
with unseen eyes.
I try to color my world
with best combinations of shades,
Yet nothing works,
On the canvass of my life.
Disillusioned,
I once again surprise me.
Santa’s Mailroom
Every year little boys and girls write their candid wishes,
Telling Santa they’ve been good, very, very good,
Some desire toys, others plead to do away their crutches,
Some asking warmth and love under a protective hood.
Every year around Christmastime, Santa gets busy,
Receiving and replying mails of little restless children,
Some reach the North Pole, others reach daddy,
Some requests attended to, others simply abandoned.
I look inside myself and imagine if I could be Santa,
The load and the pressure from the letters I’d get,
The simplicity and innocence of their dreams, Ah!
The smile or the sorrow brought with each line read.
Santa’s mailroom with bags full of hopes and dreams,
Anxieties of little children being tried and fulfilled,
Some answered, others a solution he can’t imagine,
Oh! Santa, how will you help these dreams being built?
***
red leaves fall and die
blue in the autumn rainbow
cries out in sorrow
***
Pieces of Emotion
A mirror falling from oblivion,
shatters to pieces,
various shapes and sizes,
No two, the same,
Like human emotions…
Big and small,
Among the pieces,
clear bits without luster
show no reflection,
Like those lacking emotion.
Others slide away to some unreachable places
Just as humans isolate themselves
to hide their feelings.
Every shattered glass
must be swept and disposed,
Just as every emotion must end.
Retired Teachers
When million words on the walls
become their last,
they walk through echoing halls
one last time
with fulfillment and bliss,
giving the world their knowledge,
time, patience and good citizens.
Growing older,
they walk through the halls
of our minds: the playgrounds,
where knees were scraped
and tears, never wiped,
hearing echoes of yesteryears,
cane whipping and choral greeting
straight lines
and hands raised upon a question.
They have seen more of their pupils
than of their own children,
just as parents have missed their own,
happy to have played the role
as they grew from kindergarten years,
to baccalaureates,
certain of a certain respect,
as they cross each other across the street.
Now, an empty morning,
an empty classroom,
they walk to catch a glimpse of sunlight,
and see the beauty of spring and autumn ,
summer and even the winter
and enjoy those life’s fine moments,
~ All missed in those sacrificial years…
Running on Green (for those who use their feet)
I often find people at signals,
RUNNING fretfully once it turns green,
as if the halted cars
would run them over!
I don’t understand this bizarre behavior,
These are the ones
who seem to be in no hurry at all
(for they walk leisurely after they cross)
There maybe some
who are new to the city,
That’s fine, they really don’t
understand the signal thingamajig,
But it makes me raise my brow
to see URBANITES running across junctions,
no sooner the signal turns green!
Waiting to Reconnect
Standing here with broken wings, pain devours my entire being,
my mentality, that of a dismayed child, wanting consolation
~ the solace that could come: from just one word.
It is so apparent, so transparent, this serenade of my ache
the wind around me is so melancholy, yet I am not waiting for you,
for I see this as something beyond the ending of a story…
~ there’s nothing else.
We had no name to this relationship, yet we were everything
there was no name, no title, no identity
We spent years in happy moments and making up
although, we didn’t have any fights
~ making up for the years lost without having each other
making up a discord by just agreeing, until we became…
like-minded in reality.
Your greetings from untouched medium only make machines speak,
words don’t reach this heart, words that don’t touch,
When, why and how have I become a stranger, a monster you’re scared of?
In this transient pilgrimage, you were all that was:
the one I adored, cared and was proud of,
and now, when I need someone the most, you’re not there…
Two Sonnets on My Departing
When you need your space and time,
I’ll await your thoughts to revisit mine
My prayers, tossed in the heedless air
like collapsed foliage in the howling wind.
Your heart illuminates mine, every hour
in stretched phases of primordial hypnotism,
Radiance passing through my soul’s prism
deviating the beams of meandering sadness.
When your wandering is over, I’ll still be here
standing between unpredicted quicksand
and sweet promises of my assuring heart,
Unless my last dying breath overtakes me.
When only clouds would moan and weep
in commemoration of my thirsting soul.
~*~
When tears form dewdrops on the ground
and the wonder of love is wholly burned,
Magnificent emotions of regretful past
will cramp the serenity of your countenance.
Earth’s myriad miracles will lose esteem,
But what use will it be to frolicking days?
You, like trees being swept by the cold breeze,
Swaying compellingly to their own bitter melody.
As dawn waits in silent reverence of your heart
lonely bird will sing a dismal song on branches
as reminiscences crisscross and stand forever
on the verge of the cliff at desolate dusk
within my soul I hear your calling whispers,
But I can never come back even if you roar.
Girl-child ~ Living is Harder Than Dying
Barbarians of twenty first century it’s time to transform
Fathers, grandfathers why you perform this heinous crime?
Blaming your daughter for bringing into your life, a storm
Killing her as she is born or in the womb before her time.
“Missing girls” often lie hidden, forever buried in a grave
tortured, murdered before being raped by brotherly blood
God, I’m sick of this deed of shame, it’s not of the brave
to filch a flower before we could see it grown into a bud.
Technologies and doctors support such crime for money?
“Safety measures” advised by way of high end ultrasound
to find a female foetus, that will cause a risk for mommy
an umbilical cord wound, easy excuse for fatality found!
Her brother is gifted with toys, shoes, clothes and books
while she’s gifted with talents to sweep and swab the floor
No dainty dresses or clips to compliment her pretty looks
Oh God, how can you sell your child to become a whore!
Oh little angel, I don’t know what sin you’ve committed
Along with you too, suffers the goddess who bears you,
She perhaps went through the same fate that’s been fitted
Wish she’d hide from evil men, but doesn’t know how to.
Barbarians it’s not your right to take another innocent life
or make living harder and death, as sweet as maple syrup
Stinking with shame of the suicide of your child and wife
Still seeking to find bliss to fill your unquenchable cup.
Barbarians it’s time to change and realize the importance
The importance of life, the importance of your daughters
Without them, you wouldn’t rule or even have existence
Without them our world wouldn’t be the gem that so glitters.
Thoughts of the New Millennium
Life Goes On (Lento)
Poetic Form of the New Millennium
Leave the stress of the day, throw it off the shelf
Grieve not for what’s gone or what’s to come
Weave the goodness of life, wear it on yourself
Believe me life’s good, I just don’t beat the drum.
Catch a glimpse sometimes of the sun’s red arc
Latch your worries and all that brings you strain
Snatch the chance and listen to the skylark
Match her song to the frail tune of your pain.
Listen to the children, watch them run and play
Question your silence and why you are lonely
Deafen the noise if you must, shut the world away
Hasten, don’t hesitate to do what makes you happy.
Know that for every man there is a friend
Sorrow too, is always accompanied by happiness
Throw up a fight and it always has to end
So is life’s trial, the same and nothing less.
A Ride With Lady Godiva
Her charisma still rides through the streets of Coventry.
Lady Godiva,
Changed history.
Sitting at the town square in naked bronze,
Watching the parade in her honour,
with Irish tap dancers and metal band,
A feast to the senses – extraordinaire!
and Tom peeping still, enjoying
beauty of another sort from his window!
The home of historical honours,
Criss-crosses Cathedrals like conundrums
in its heart.
Sundays and Boot Sales,
Harpsichord played on splashing fountains,
everything winning the hearts
and me,
~ a bottle of Martini Blanco at the church fete,
where kids on bouncy castles jump like wound-up dolls,
and games stalls giving prizes
as durable as coconuts (coconuts???), yes coconuts!!!
Broad verges backed by banks
of mature oak and beech,
Race down Warwickshire,
Through the verdure of the country.
Saturday evening, Stratford upon Avon and Shakespeare,
The breathtaking castles
of Kenilworth and Warwick,
Or an hour, quiet and peaceful at the Bancroft Basin,
Live forever as the Chesterton Windmill turns the time.
The Masseur on Bank Street
Office closing hours,
people rushing in twos and threes
in opposite direction:
to win the blinking signal
and to catch the bus trapped by it.
The ones walking alone seem tired,
wishing their body was kneaded
by their wives and partners,
~ to relaxation,
the other, wishing the same.
Just then, to meet such desires,
stands a rep distributing business cards
~ a parlor that offers
the A to Z of massage: Thai, Indian, Chinese, African;
occasionally talking to curiosity.
Everyday I walk past him,
making an expression: Oh you’ve given me one of those already! (and I have thrust it in the thrash a little ahead of you)
as he extends his hand towards me,
drenched in sweat
like how his clients should be, in oils.
Standing there in a sweating evening,
wishing perhaps
of getting a relaxing massage himself,
as the crowd thins out on the street
strewn with his own confetti.
Whispers of the tulips
Freshen up, the time has come
to parade to the graveyard.
We shall pass through vast patches
of wakeful peach orchards,
Where the earth beneath them
is fertile and resting.
Along with fragrances of mourners
Subduing our frailty,
And within the sight
Of new buds in the fields,
gazing in pain.
There, we shall bid our Master adieu!
Where saline tears think
they’re refreshing us.
Soon after the wailing is over,
The rays of illumination,
/> Piercing through a cluster of clouds,
will kiss us goodbye.
Fortune Reading
Looking at my blenched palms,
I see the lines, like dried roots of trees,
Many amateur mystics have read them,
As if gazing into a crystal ball,
scaring me about the expectations,
the destruction, like deforestation.
On satisfying their desires to agonize me,
I hold my palms for my judgment…
My eyes never lie.
I read what hope holds for me,
a future with challenging tomorrows,
My responsibility as a human
upon this patient and fragile earth,
To toil and strive to live,
and the call to save this planet…
the way I am responsible to save myself from destruction.
Typical Tramp ~ Alliterisen
Wakes wondering of subsequent cities,
Crams crumpled clothing in his heavy haversack,
Slumbers soon, as the dusk draws nearer,
Peeping passers-by through scruffy shredded sheets,
Tosses trash food for fortitude,
Soaks secrets deep, of a lifeless living,
Your compassion and care, he never needs.
Strums soulful songs on his gutted guitar,
Homeless hobo, may suffer, steal, beg or borrow,
Frisky fellow, thoughtless tomorrows,
Friend, foe, family to none, being blindly born,
Scorned soul with wretched reckoning,
Insensate emotions to wisest words,
Traveling through this life from day to day.
Morayshire ~
The High Dreamland
I reach the station at 04:00 p.m.
moist highland breeze warms my face,
I pour some coffee from the machine,
breathing together with the highlanders
the sweetness of broom flowers,
as we pass Nairn and Forres and countless golf courses.
The breweries exhale the temptation,
and drums of rolled barley wait for a pick up.
Late evening in Morayshire…
The sky is still awake
and so I must have another coffee to keep up.
The night turns pages of interesting stories,
Four Decades And A Poem Page 7
