Missy

Her skin is fair, lightly freckled and starkly
contrasts her ambiguous demeanour.
I always tip my cap, ‘Good day, Miss,’
but she never casts a glance.
I carry on my way, meandering
deep in wild thoughts that are always
honeysuckle, blue grass, rosehips
and my Miss.
The sun beats down on she and us,
but when my Miss smiles, the heavens open
and it pours, dare I say, it rains tears.
My thinking is, it can not compete
with the lovely lady who does not care
if I live or die, because I know us to be just
a part of my wildest dreams –
the place I go to swiftly as I pass
the dingy, rusted via duct
on my way to work –
I pass that way often, my dreams,
so as not to be seduced by the muggy
waters of brown stench lying along my trail.
Deep down, I think it may just take time.
Today, anyway, I saw a glimmer,
a near warming at the corners of her mouth,
but it could have been the damp, or
maybe, just maybe, as she meanders
to her dress shop,
bypassing her own thoughts and dreams, she is
smiling as she thinks of me.
Maybe.
But, ah, I hear the whistle. Time for work.
Until tomorrow then, Miss.

The Raven

Raven, black, atop a tree

Screamed religion spuriously

Bleak-black probed me; evil glee

Before I shot it dead

Raven crowned so hideously

In a dream he came to me

Pitch black, vacant eyes I see

Before he swooped on dread

Raven claws insidiously

Gouge my own indemnity

Black robe swoops to smother me

Before tearing flesh, he said

Raven, black, atop the tree

Why do you seek to crucify me?

I only ask as courtesy

Before I shoot you dead

Visionary Heart

‘Pinterest’

My trembles are you;
a part of you so ingrained,
entrenched within my mental and moral constitution.

I pity there is no eternal power
nor anomaly
in this wayward stack
of melting rainbows –
none at all, it seems,
to guide me.

Overwhelmed by a myriad
of colour,
I retreat and ache
in this dichotomy-
placed centrally in the valves
of my heart; unborn,
unloved, but aghast
at prospects of warmed honey
and dislodged membranes.

Within this dimension,
I seek solace
and that elusive eternal power
to catch all of the colours,
to hold them vehemently,
as potent, unadulterated lust;
a lust for life, a lust for equity,
a lust for consumption

of everything about everything
and something about you.

I have been too busy fundraising to write until I saw an email post of one of my ultimate female writers, and I was energised (and inspired by) My Valiant Soul.https://myvaliantsoulsblog.wordpress.com/2022/07/08/to-the-poets-i-have-been-reading-all-these-years/#like-5366 and some of her thoughts.

A Haunting

Pablo Picasso ~ ‘Muse’

A shadow’s clear face –
is that my haunted muse?

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.

Cherish the Mortal

Murillo

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

all, except for me.

Dreaded Whispers

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.

Such a Tiny Thing

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

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 Love, You Love – Me, Love.

Source: unknown

I love the calmness of your brain; thoughts –
the way they flow.

I secretly listen for hours
when you actually ‘talk’.

I love your strong arms too
the way they… Oh!

I just love the politics of your body.

I love how you love me,
and how you make me grow.

I know, I love you
as a whole, and not just for show.

I absolutely love your nose, too,
and when it is in profile.

And, I love that you suppose, like so,
that you know my style.

I absolutely love the politics of your body.

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