pinning a note on the wall – artillery takes my loved one away again
Quote of the day.
“All in all, Russia has shot itself in both feet, the balls, and finally in the head.”
And something to remember:
“When I despair, I remember that all through history the ways of truth and love have always won. There have been tyrants, and murderers, and for a time they can seem invincible, but in the end they always fall. Think of it–always.”
Strokes of moonlight smother the inflorescent whispers of the smoke bush –
fighting, but wavering against twilight’s ghostly dreams, it drapes the water, pondering depth and death,
and, whereupon streaks of my childhood run wildly ‘til they bleed into the perfect pink wash – disrupted only briefly by daubs of my more morbid notions –
a thousand indigo butterflies dotted like inky death become pinned to the eerie flatness of still water and life –
finally, my drowning memories are absorbed by stagnant fluid – the whispers are hushed in the black, dead air where mosquitoes live instead, and for the first time, I begin to thrive.
Wishing you all the best for this season! Take care and stay safe! Today, years later, this poem resonates with me because of what we are all going through, and who we have lost, and our resilience. The tone is hushed, but strong and fast, as we encourage the bird to fight to fly and to finally sleep after all its endeavours to survive. Just, as I imagine, like us all.
Sing little bird, fly overhead, rest in the trees’ wavering breeze.
Lift the curtain high at dawn let the flickering candles yawn.
Tall trees aglow, clouds full of snow, laden with light, sing black on white, snow flurry sneeze small feathers freeze.
Fly little bird lift up and fight, go little bird circle the light, sleep little bird, a peaceful goodnight.
Try little bird, lift your wings while you’re still singing soon the night will warm your dreaming.
Fly little bird reach for the night, go little bird, shy winter’s light.
Warm your body, melt the snow for the daylight crisp below.
Go little bird, sleep little bird, find the songs you sweetly sing, nestle there ’til winter’s still.
Go little bird, up to the night, fly little bird soundly tonight.
See the moon she’s smiling for you shivering stars their arms are open too,
so go little bird, fly little bird, high little bird, hush little bird,
soon will come the voices of the morn joyous little creature of our dawn.
Go little bird, fly little bird, sleep little bird, twilight is heard. Go little bird… go.
Shah Jahan built the Taj Mahal as a tomb for his favourite wife, Mumtaz. He longed to preserve the love that he had for her. With its creation, love, magnificence and memory has been preserved. I had the privilege of falling on the stairs inside that lead to the tombs proper on a visit – a treat from my dad while we were visiting family in India. The anniversary of his death and the reason for my blog is coming up, and I am taking a moment.
Shah Jahan
She wilted, and he slept for one year, fading like the blush of twilight – riches do not protect the human flesh or soul –
death permeates even our innermost love.
In his darkest dreams, grief struck at his aching bones and tortured sinews; the surrounds of a heart heavy from drought, until, he was woken with a vision to transform her death into beauty – as she was in life so she shall be in slumber.
‘No more tear drops on cheeks that pain compared to her touch, but across the naked sky, to prolong this innermost sorrow,
just the last one –
a gesture to sear my longing in this lonely, mournful place – the last cry will be affixed vapour laden with jewels and precious splendour to pierce the clouds saddened and heaving constantly as sorrow.
On the south bank, ribbons of the Yamuna river will stare at a true reflection of beauty created from your passing – it will remain a last kiss on the cheek from my final tear as it rolls through Agra.
Your splendour will ignite a restful place, and make magical this white opal – as opaque, as my grief and as magnificent as you my love, Mumtaz –
soon we will sleep until we can no longer, and we leave together through the ghosted marble of the Iwan.’
I say goodbye holding your hand, desperately searching for raw comfort, but from clay cold skin and defeated flesh, words will no longer form, nor draw me close. You hold a smile, and it squeezes my heart softly with a palpable sense of who I am and who we were. I think you have just found a dream inside of death, and see a vision higher than we, one rich in vitality for your journey or destiny – I don’t believe we are really saying goodbye, and so, sweet dreams, my love – stay far from errant shadows – so I can see you on the other side.
‘Miss me not ‘til I have died, then always remember me…’
In the early glow of dawn, silence rolls on the bosom of heavy clouds – solemn doves in a new formation accompany sunrise, hearing the sound of an abundance of rain.
Above tumulus soil, peace remains a warm blanket for all who were lost there since death is an aching cold, and mired in these fatigued and embattled lands; lands where life spilled into dying, and courage became mulch to the seeds that were sown. Acres of crimson mist undulate to waft forever in cool breezes; its pitch black eyes peer though the ruddy murk, we feel the pulse of its stoic heart, and, we are touched by the dew atop each poppy’s blade. All are there to remind us still, and without words often drowned by time.
Raindrops sheet in silver threads to lace our silent tears. And, as the flight of doves let loose like windswept petals, to surrender one by one, we humbly promise
The election has just been called by Decision Desk HQ. I hope this is not too early. I posted this at the start of the dark nightmare of 2016. Here’s to one down… a few to go – join together and we will watch them all fall. Heal the soul, heal the world, heal this planet and its observers, and its destroyers.
“When I despair, I remember that all through history the ways of truth and love have always won. There have been tyrants, and murderers, and for a time they can seem invincible, but in the end they always fall. Think of it–always.”
A little rant and a p-o-e-m in light of increasing domestic abuse numbers (within this Covid period) and ‘legal’ /unrecognised domestic abuse – depending on country, perspective, bribery and misogyny. It is not OK to condone the notion that women exist to be beaten, abused and trodden on.
unknown source
Bury me deeply so that the sun can’t find my heart. It will not oblige if torn from my smouldering flesh; soothing fractals in the shadows of my skin still glow with the pearls of my faith, a faith that now runs as sweat down my beaten face. My soul was always on fire – the reason your hands are now burning.
Bury me deeply so that the crows you tame will not abuse me for all eternity, when solace is no longer a sacred place and death becomes an arbitrary mulch.
Bury me deeply, so that when your fists rage and pound against the rise of dank, dark soil, I will not feel you. And when you scream and shout, begging for grief and release, since I am not there to torture, the crows will gather once again, but, you will watch them shield me. So, you should bury me deeply.