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to those who wept
while Jesus slept,

and families desperately trying
to steal whole Sundays

from those who wake gripped inside the jaws
of a Black Dog’s fun days,

and to blurry shadows always jazzed up on life
while keeping sanity to themselves,

and those who sleep half jacked up on lies
to avoid their own full on shit Mondays –

and to those still hot on the tail
of a trail blazing Mars

creeping behind Uranus,
who still haphazardly choose Sunday

as the crucial day to bleed;
to pray for those who never cried when Jesus left

and for those of us who drown in deep dark pools,
timidly sinking while

our silent, but bold words dissipate

taking with them
our last.

And for those who never wept before we had
anything really to cry about –

I raise my glass.

Spirited Away

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Picture: One of my arts/crafts pieces that I make and sell for my charity CRUK.   Ghost peacock painted on heavy slate.

Azure lawns cry,
stuck in the past
like dew tears
on dampened stones.
Sometimes
the darkness can be still be seen,
held tightly
between each
raw nerve,
each blade
of black grass
on which
dancers mop up tears,
waltzing the air
with ghost like peacock
fans over their broken faces;
pallid feathers
hover like wisps
of winter taking
one, last, look back.
Its memories
spill over
where those peacocks
once ran wild,
their rainbow fans
since crumbled to dust
to cover all that must
stay hidden while
Azure lawns cry.

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Scraps on Paper

inaschoenrock_447388
When sincerity of love is all we hope,
it pours like the sun that
lets you wander, to ask questions such
that leave no room for idle moments
inside rain hushed, soaked pages lying bare;
they flit and wrestle
until someone cares, and before her words
drain away
he might find answers.

He picks up the book and takes a walk in his pain
looking for her inside and rubs away rain
as the raindrops become
a bookmark,
perhaps one to remember as he turns
limp pages
from a time before now, sometime
once in November’s November.

Droplets form before soaked up
by pages now laden –
heavy with his heartache –
he is able to walk, all the while blaming
the rains for the tears
he wipes away with the mist
so he can see her – he reads on,
never wanting to finish the book
long ago opened and abandoned in the rain,
its damp pages struggling
till the sun comes again
sometime in someone’s summer.

Her voice lies inside each unturned
layer, he hears
her words…

Thumb each page
Feel just feel
Try then try
From
Life to life,
Seek come seek
Real to real
Words, my words
My life
You are me
Just read, me

Consume with passion
Day to day
Page to page
From
Age to age
Turn then turn
Dare then dare
Share to share
An end to end
A climax
Just spare, me

With these chapters
Write them write
Make to make
Each
Flight to flight
Fight to fighting
Eye to eye
Heed then heed
Our words
You and I
Just write

Read them to me
Way to way
Open to open
Each
Verse to verse
Good to good
Worse to worse
Cover to cover
Truth be bound
And worn
Just Bind, with me.

Drops (Cinquain)

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Rain’s cool,
clear consciousness
evaporates with dawn;
teardrops tasting of fresh mourning
explode.

 

Weeping

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Picture: Thank you, Paul Militaru.

Oh, my weeping willow
don’t spread your tears apart,
keep count of all the strings
to your heart.

So precious – your long and tender
reaches as curiosity flourishes closer
to the impressionist vacuum, which flaunts
your ersatz beauty above its murky depths
to make you sorrowful and ponder
its reasoning while your replication
is contemplative trail.

Sleep, my weeping willow,
sobbing south to face the marsh skies;
be weary now – you’ve earned it,
when you cry.

 

 

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.  I was not allowed to continue due to the risks – enabled by the shoe protectors that tourists have to wear. So I mooched outside taking photographs…these are not those, however.

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 dark dreams, grief struck aching bones
and tortured sinews,
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.’

 

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