and I listen about the Loch Ness Monster,
like a child lost back in Inverness.
The sun wakes by five: it doesn’t seem like dawn!
I see the vivid difference outside the window,
~ the desert to the freshness of the highlands,
drawing me to take a walk on the trodden grass,
Quiet and serene with only the sound of birds.
But the sting of the nettle ruins all tranquility.
I take the Bluebird to Elgin,
The bricks on the High Street pavement,
seem fixed with chewing gum,
harder than cement,
The 18th century wonders,
Adorn this former royal burgh.
Next day, my friend and I
take a walk down Fochabers
and he opens the endless chapters,
as old as this ancient county…
Tonight I Set Out at Sea
I’m a flame on a plate with flowers: her fragrance,
floating into the vast sea of memories.
Tonight I set out at sea, drifting in the darkness
as I speak of her, think of her in the most enchanting way.
In the middle of this sea, her thought and only hers
capture me like the fear of sailors in a storm,
Her thoughts, like a hurricane, yet I refuse to be doused,
even though I want to, want to forget her.
Tonight I set out at sea to drown myself
while the band plays “the whiskey lullaby”
and I speak of her in the most enchanting way,
a sad way, that I have lost her forever…
Lost
With nothing on my mind and hands,
I subconsciously take the pavement
walking into an open mouth
that seems like a smoker’s breath.
The cigarette butts
seem so clear
and too many today,
littering the subway,
pressed beneath the feet
of those lost in thought like me,
I am thinking about
all those who lost civic sense
to use the bin.
But then again
I feel how lost they must be,
smoking the way they do,
to drown their loss.
Appreciation
Mary,
always arranges my office,
Flowers, curios, magazines,
Changed the carpet that covered
the corporate crimes of those before me.
(was quite old, but no one bothered
before her)
She is the new housekeeper
uniquely creative even in her late forties
like a little girl in art and craft school,
always doing things, always imagining things.
Today, she rearranged some withering flowers,
trimming petals of roses,
and floating them in a brandy balloon
with chilled water,
placing it on my side runner
where it adorns my office…
Half a Sonnet for Lucifer
From a mighty place of elite eminence,
You were consigned and floated into disgrace,
For bloating man with your intelligence.
Lustful deceit, with acts portentously vicious,
You celebrate over sadistic pleasures,
Of cruel intentions of defeating the virtuous.
Therefore God rewarded you a place we hate.
My Fantasy
If love was just a fantasy, I would love to be “love”
I could then be judgmental of our universe’s fate,
dwelling in every heart, intrude, overstay or shove
love in those splitting the world with jealousy and hate.
If laughter was a fantasy, I would love to be “laughter”
playing on the hearts of old and lonely
sliding on cheeks of children, crying for food and water
if only, laughter was a fantasy!
If life was but a fantasy, I would love to be “life”
Living in the face of death and those dwelling in pain
Curing the terminally ill, their tribulation and strife
breathing into every cell and cleaning each viral vein.
If time was a fantasy, I would love to be “time”
I’d control ages of those who’d like to remain young
with vigour, vitality and be in their prime
there would be no heroes left unsung.
If our world was a fantasy, I’d love to be “the world”
expanding, for all to live forever, together
I’d bring no famines or have bones crippled and curled
from my breath would blow, the most perfect weather.
If God was a fantasy, I would love to be “God”
for being in His place would just be meaningless
like most of our fantasies leaving us awed
like worshipping earthly “gods”, Oh how senseless!
Barbara
She lives by the old giant maple tree,
perhaps older than her,
October burdened with volatile weather,
heavy rains and high winds,
yet her soul shines and blushes
through red and gold autumn leaves.
She lives through 9/11
to welcome the autumn breeze,
denying doctors’ declaration
that she wouldn’t last a day,
and yet, no one knows why
over 3000 people died and she lived…
Oh Barbara!
You live inside the hearts that love you still
by that old giant maple tree,
no one knows why you died and it lives, still.
~*~
pale skeletal trees
still stand nakedly undead
when winter beckons.
~*~
Wine Fest!
There was once this wine tasting fest
and each sip tasted better than their best
Vintners boasting of shade, swirl and savor
The history of it and how they get their flavor!
From the Italian Marzemino to Australian Shiraz
I could barely differentiate with all that buzz!
French wines from unfamiliar towns and Champagne
that I kept on “tasting” without refrain!
Dazed, we still swayed from stall to stall
until the very end, tasting it all
scores of sips got me completely sloshed,
just as all the terminology had me brainwashed!
Goa: The Silent Noise
Fun for the lowly and life for the rich
your markets flooded with dazzlement
and strangers, shuttling in peace
dance to “ban on noise” with wireless headsets.
Taxis of motorbikes, riders called pilots,
at least you don’t adopt the inhumane way
~ lashing animals or paddling the load,
but give a choice to be a sardine in a bus.
Land of the free you are, once under slavery,
land to be free and marvel the breeze,
gamblers throwing dice in the middle of the sea
and if I like, I can drink freely!
Ten-tabled shacks on the belly of your beaches,
coloured with umbrellas an
d loungers
painting a desired tan as pallor basks in the sun,
sipping coconut water sold by wandering vendors.
Spiced pork chouricos strung like rosary beads,
pray, careful must I be, if stopped by the roadside to eat.
All around is a tint, a hint of Portuguese
the remnants of good, bad and ugly.
No need for clock settings, the baker on bicycle
honks me awake, selling from the hugest basket,
fisherwomen making their way through the village
selling to those who can’t make it to the market.
In a casket of chaste silver, Bom Jesus Basilica’s
saint lies vigilant, protecting your people,
mystical you are, where one must feel you within,
Goa… you’re not just about sea songs, food, fenny or fun.
The Overhead Bridge
The once busy bridge
overlooks the massacred park
where people jostled
to catch a bus to work and home,
coins jingling in their pockets,
Some eating sandwiches
from the stalls at the foot.
Many wheels
of baby prams have rolled,
and lovers stopped for a while to
watch the sunset,
before they went down to the park.
Those who have the time,
now stand on the bridge
and watch the metro rail work,
as iron bars are stacked in place of hedgerows.
The park, no more, filled with workers
in helmets and orange colored overalls,
look like petals strewn from gulmohar trees,
which once festooned the park.
The integral bridge, indifferent and intact,
keeps up with the times,
Soon to be scattered with
train tickets in addition to bus bills.
People will once again jostle
to catch the trains and the buses,
Lovers and children too will go over the bridge,
But where?
The Invisible Overhead Bridge
Passing under a “what once was” bridge,
I consider how the engineers
left it to watch all the torture they
imposed on the park,
Like frantic soldiers raping
flourishing virgins at war.
First they severed its limbs,
Forbidding footage and feet forever,
Keeping her torso intact.
Many a weary evening,
I stood over the bridge and watched,
Keeping a track of the rail work.
The high cordons appear like prison walls,
and I wonder of the doings within.
There must be something wrong,
Underpaid, overworking labourers
sweating their hard gained energy
in temperatures soaring above 45°C,
Hustling with deadlines and death before their eyes.
Perhaps the corporation knew
the bridge had eyes to watch all this?
Wedding Visuals ~
Alliterisen
Tailored tails and trails and ivory white veils,
Merry maids wearing titanic tiaras on their heads,
Buoyant best-man kisses bride beforehand,
Estimated invitees dreadfully doubled,
Grouchy groom watches wistfully, doomed,
Delightful dazing drinks shadow shortages,
Caterers confused over quantities used.
Champagne cork pops and crashes chandelier,
As the cakes crumble and glistening glasses tumble,
Muffled MC nervously toppling things,
Drunken DJ dwindles volume very weirdly,
Guests gambol and dance in stunning styles,
The composed couple meets and greets glitzy guests,
As all go home commenting on day’s events.
That One Moment ~
For The Youth
In all the idiosyncrasy of today’s world
We cannot capture your minds,
Believing the burden of the world
is still far from your shoulder
We ignore,
Leaving you unattended,
As trouble within your troubled minds amplify.
No, no one can stop you,
or run with the speed you’re running with.
The world of today is such…
Young minds
big dreams,
big heartaches
big failures…
How many spirits have flown into the skies
‘cos of that one moment of intolerance?
Endure young ones,
This world is yours
Who else will take care of it,
if
one by one, you all jump over the edge of life’s cliff?
Lebanese Restaurant
We spoke of eating like humans, not birds
and life over chicken shawarma.
I only had appetite for salad
where the bar looked like a rainbow,
with diced/chopped vegetables and vinaigrette.
The beetroot, too sweet,
and strangely, you ate them all,
Probably because you were the one
to fill the plate with them.
The Lebanese waiters,
they always smile with their angelic beauty,
and fool with each other at the counter -
That’s their way.
You deluged me with your opinions
how my life should be,
and I didn’t understand a word you said,
but I understand you did your part,
like the waiters keeping the place
lively
with a couple of tables occupied
in this quiet, massive restaurant.
Spiraling Smoke ~ Alliterisen
Modish models provoke this awful obsession
Pretty persuasive packs fitting pockets precisely
Twenty tobacco rolls do same horrid harm
Maybe milder ones are masked as “classic cigarettes”
Same as “Slims” are meant to cut calories
College kids targeted as the major market
Perfect publicity tempts them to give a try.
Trendy trademarks speaking of high-minded hoaxes
Cancer caution stated along with nicotine content
Yet serious signs ignored by stubborn smokers.
Many metropolises and numerous nations
bravely banned smoking in public places,
Where infants inhale along with passive people
This spiraling smoke that’s injurious to our health.
Monday Lemonade
Playing online scrabble
with a mixed-up brain,
with those complimenting
your profile pictures
that still linger on your page,
posted…
when you were pretty indeed.
Do they see the lines
on your face
hidden by strokes of your makeup brush?
and groggy eyes recovered by contacts,
as you contemplate
on how to burn the acidity
from the weekend’s junk food?
In the string of routine questions
do you te
ll them
you’ve lost your love
and your job?
your weight?
your beauty?
your friends?
or you just twist the story
as you drink your lemonade
mixed with unmeasured Vodka
to start your day?
The Opposite Window
Windows deprived the watermelon curtains from flying, closed,
shadowing scenes behind them,
Occasionally getting a glimpse
of the orange dress girl riding a dragon painting.
Who goes away leaving clothes to sing a requiem
and gather dust like grass on a grave?
Why would you be angered on delicate begonias
withering in your crowded balcony?
I found, perhaps newspapers, or not,
the concrete outside your front door, piled,
but I don’t live opposite you.
Four days and five hours, they break in,
men, with great strength wearing latex
over their hands this time, to claim your body
and put it on record.
Pearl’s Dance ~ An Inverted Sonnet
You place your tiny feet on my heart and we dance
Music are the words you speak by chance.
If you’re in my arms I give up everything
time passes too quickly without doing anything,
we share and make more sense than adults do,
I like your cries, your smiles, your impatience too.
It’s a lot from someone as little as you
and I’ve seen how even angels feel blue
feel missed, feel excitement, feel happiness
feel sadness, feel grief and someone else’s loneliness.
If you’re there, the face of this world is different for me
(sigh) and I believe God heals me as I can see
for as you touch my soul with your tiny little hand
my heart begins to dance though you won’t understand.
Horn of Africa
They washed the vast greens,
and tall rocky browns,
with buckets of cold acid,
crumbling them to frail solid ground.
The earth’s flakes said goodbye
to the last rain,
the roots of the loam
will turn to fossil in a thousand years,
Four Decades And A Poem Page 8