I too am wary of past’s ghosts, squeezed by daylight into ethereal painted diaphanous landscapes,
and where equally pellucid capes waft in the nothingness of such a delicate dimension.
Sunshine filters through the interstices of arching trees – their spindly finger shadows pierce the throb of my ripened veins resting under the mirror of spider branches hanging lazily –
adust words tease the vastly hollow chambers of my heart and mind
whilst unwanted ghosts, these stark strangers, pass by me trying to scavenge my thoughts – thoughts once hid, but which now bustle briskly under this fair poplar – but adamantly refuse daylight in their presence
my muse blows timidly to rustle up my tired parchments not scratched since autumn opened its eyes on the majestic fade of green –
before it reawakens – under these dreaming spires, I will write a sonnet for her –
to coax, to not be afraid of ghosts, nor reconcile me with my own by her very absence –
me thinks I’ll keep it safe in heart, away from prying eyes and strangers’ judgement at least until summer comes again.
I see you, haunted muse come out from the shadows.
I speak low lest my love evaporates before e’en kissed by your infant’s breath, and beg before day’s whispered hush ascends to nightfall; small child, look at me one last time before you crawl away as slow as time roams vast.
Too soon, tomorrow’s branches laced with the chirp of sweet song will bow to cradle this dear life – and since time nor death show mercy – warm arms shall send him safely unto a strange, beatific world, where all will be waiting
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.
Majestically, she strode to the edge of sun baked sand, like an hourglass held up by time, before she became still; her long legs equidistant
man lay heel to toe with a savage sun – humanity encrusted with parched earth, it had partially eaten him –
a dried out white dove clung to an exposed ribcage; a much needed perch for a wasted observer tired of flying, tired of singing, lost in his search for peace. Its feathers, etched from fine, dried clay – were fissure like veins devoid of faith – baked outside of death, badly in need of rest.
Her elongated shadow buried them both before she knelt on the earth for water to pour from dainty, silver rivulets that ran her body, which was smooth and flowing sand
he watched her rise, striking the sky with her cool, black silhouette but on the floor it lay outstretched – as an amber pool of honey; he placed in it his hand to taste her
immediately, he was quenched, fed. Arid skin of dust and clay fell away, as did the shell of the dove, which had replaced his heart – its wings shattered into a thousand pieces like baby soft powder dusting the gritty, sparkling floor
in the breeze, billowing white clouds conjured a magnificent topaz bird; its plumage was a thousand lights of peaceful nights held in its tail eyes of beautiful iridescence – tail eyes that had once glimpsed peace in a thousand colours: turquoise, ocean green and gold …
quill feathers wafted the zircon grains of the sand, writing new rules, posturing and reshaping –
beautiful but cruel foundations of peacock ore too brittle to walk on, created swank waves of peacock blues,
and it strutted till a thousand feathers fell on the sand rising once more as blood red poppies that poured in an avalanche from the gaping mouths of soldiers still inside tin helmets – grown men like babes still fighting inside their dreams
he tried to pick the wild flowers for her but barbed, razor wire snagged his crumbling fingers, and hidden behind those were children’s faces pressed against wire mesh on the shores of green, unpleasant lands lapped by oceans that gulped and gagged; force fed a rigorous diet of helplessness and hope each time sand was flipped inside the hourglass
he gripped her waist, but, his reflection caught on her glass bosom, it shattered her hourglass frame
she was released
a thousand more grains of sand flowed like the salt of his tears – sprinkling gently from a watering can’s wise rose to try to feed the presumption of green leaves between his toes
his flaking sinews were pulled to his chest; he wore a crude hole where the dove had nestled – dust stung his eyes and, his tattered hands rose, forming a bridge that the sun rode across to join him at his journey’s end
red jewel fish swam ahead of her in shoals of beating hearts – riders corralled the sand storm’s cloth approaching like a whirling dervish; her titian hair draped those black, almond desert eyes,
and their glinting sunlit flecks consumed time in their frenzy – she placed the convergence of jewel fish; a plump, red heart, within his rib cage,
she was a belly dancer for a while on the sand’s hypnotic gyrations prompting creatures with a spin of time to play music inside of their shells
her lips were kissed by one thousand butterflies, and her open palms let loose a chorus of titanium white doves; all of the notes to harmonise with man’s discord – all willing one more time to fly away in a relentless search for peace and to sing for another one thousand years –
time enough, she thought, before they’d need a place to rest
I’m apparently celebrating three years of WordPress, which also means, I am reminded of the reason for my blog and the bare, three years without my dad. But, please, when you find yourself there, do not despair; remember that life happens. It is what it is. Enjoy your life, regardless. I know he would be thrilled that I have embraced more than he ever saw as an inclination within me. I got married. I continued to write, became published, even became the activist in word and deed. He always saw that, but I did not.
I don’t have it in me at present to write. I could reblog, but for me, that doesn’t always matter. What does matter is that the souls of the young are not tarnished, not disillusioned by life in whatever form it manifests. I can just ask from experience that you – love it, live it, create, and be your best to help this world and those that inhabit it. We are ALL sentient beings with feelings. To that end, we must campaign, build a better life for us and those without a voice. We need to campaign, petition and nag our political parties to eradicate endless suffering of us and our animal counterparts. We should not be allowed to rule with impunity… simply because we can! Climate change is real as is death and taxes. Learn from it. Use it. If only to leave behind common decency.
Golden yellow cups
dressing the fields in harmony
soon drowned in water
Quadrille for dVerse. Other entries can be found here.
Black gossamer strands,
like grasping fingers,
pitch against
the brightest moon glow,
reaching and writhing
effortlessly, beckoning
wild, tepid winds of the night.
Silence bore chaotic sounds,
nature’s heartbeat
quickened as thunderous hooves
brought seven stallions
majestically to the bough of a leafy bend.
As it Comes 