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
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.
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’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
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!
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?
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
Did you see too much –
get woken up again
far into the night?
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
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?
‘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.