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.’

Notification brings me in

hands conserv

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

Smells

326201072930PMst_bruno_flake_pipe_tobacco

St.Bruno-smoking kills-writingasitcomes

I have a section in my blog called Ghosts from the Shoebox.  I took some verse, accidentally stumbled on, and kept writing.  Anyway, ’tis there, lol.   My dad smoked a pipe, and in it he stuffed St Bruno pipe tobacco, which I loved the smell of and crave it now.  Probably why I became a smoker. But in November 2018 it will be 10 years since I stopped smoking, and 3 years since my dad died.  With my husband in the US for a family visit and me dwelling as the day is resting, here I am.  My dad is the reason for my blog to begin with. So bear with me .  And ever the activist, please, please do not be tempted to smoke, take drugs or anything you are curious about.  It is not worth it!

Newspaper clippings,
old stories spilled on the floor.
No smoke, no cigar.

All good stories emanate from
tall skinny houses
with their cracked secrets
and crumbling walls?

Great monologues
came from those giant shoeboxes
and pipe tobacco –
the houses I have left

to tobacco flakes
from an old St Bruno tin –
they inherit occupancy.

There are no rooms for emptiness
or spaces for grief.
There rarely is smoke
without heartache.

In Remembrance

160714125244-9-11-memorial-exlarge-169Roses were placed by the mother of an architect who died during the September 11 terrorist attacks

 

Their darkness has no end
or majesty,
and when visions,
blurred by hatred,
cloud our judgement
or ability to heal;
there creeps still a lonely
dust.

You Are Everything

images

How can I say
I must live without you,
for everywhere I go,
you’re there –
your face,
your stare.

Is there a way
to be without you?
For every shadow of doubt, I see you
in windows,
in mirrors,
in places.

I lost my way
without you,
but now, I‘ve found the path to
each step,
each corner,
each turn.

You had a way
about you,
so of course you’d be there,
to love,
to watch,
to care.

In my smile, there is worry
I have lost you.
I hurriedly search,
but soon
I hear,
I feel,
and I see
you everywhere.

Broken Windows

15012864410_c257be05aa_b.jpg

Did you see too much –
get woken up again
far into the night?
Cascading,
black, inky dreams’ shade
hides thoughts that
sneak into the white chalk of daylight –
deftly wafting to mingle
with the sad dust
far from settled
since she died that night.

You still see too much
now you’re alone,
reaching far in the night
to hold her hands, soft,
and warm until all those tender
thoughts
warp and realisation
stabs your heart.
I still watch you inside her dreams; sleep’s
invisible games throw
you from the bed.

Now you try to close your eyes
to sleep at night –
and dreams the dreams
before she died,
frantically scratching open
windows long since jammed
shut to breathe
the outside world’s hollow air –
the air waiting for her when she woke up –
all just to suck up
this fucking mess?

When Winds Weep

statue winds weep.png

‘Though lost in howling gales
that tether me to their tempest charm,
I can still nurture and carry you with me.
I left you only briefly to catch my breath,
that too is taken from me.’

Darkness clothes a fragile bosom that once held
in its clasp lovers and babes
who now suckle the misted air
around her still feet.
Cold and alone they glide as one, lost to her
until time can soften such stone.

Grief seeps the cleavage as its hunger devours a
faint grip – a moist hand touches her robe
and begs tears to heal the deep sorrow
that plagues her still.
Rivulets run away from her, but never very
far or for very long.

Trailing Echoes

imagesW40L7DF4.jpg

Just as the season
howls its might in my face
flush with twilight’s
fine colours, and just as shy
echoes trail
like vine leaves
climbing my stone wall’s
surround of cold comfort,
as if to say farewell,
I think of you.
I oft savour our soft voices,
evaporated since, and remember
a warm breeze as evensong
amid the petiole’s dance steps
tickled by a flickering moon
caught betwixt branches,
as if to say
you were here,
and you think of me.

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