The Birth Land.



I walk this heathen path,

With naught but wind by my side,

And perchance you find me going,

Keep aside, keep aside.

For I take no bard on this journey,

This road is not to be sung about,

But a trail to be failed and found,

By those with the heart to hold the stars.

And so you shall see at the level ground,

Where the heaven and hell are smote down,

With the arms as hard as anvils, 

Of souls sought out to save,

Know this free valley, O witness,

This is the kingdom of the brave.


Advertisements

Anamnesis


What would I give to be a stranger

To myself

And dip a finger in the gentle nectar

Of my whirlwind mind;

Smooth as a drunk pebble, 

Without edges, without angles,

Skipping across the fallen horizon, 

Like a star amidst cinder,

Soaking smoke and traces, of kingdoms and caverns, alike.


I wonder how my mind would taste,

With all those dreams, sweet as apricot,

With all those desires, burning, 

Bitter regrets lining the base of this vessel,

Sour memories rising as steam.


Mayhaps, It would feel like water,

Like a single sip of wine,

Or tears wrought as ice,

As ashes gone cold through the night.


What would I give to be a stranger?

Perhaps,

The way I see the world, 

And hear it’s autumn chattering,

And smell the skin of ages,

And feel the broken fabric,

Like black upon white pages.


What would I give to be a stranger?

I wonder. I so wonder.






The Pathkeeper.


O brother,

Feel free to stand, alone,

By the door,

Of the broken boulevard,

This day, slips neath fingers,

Sore with sunshine, 

And sleepless windows;

Velvet curtains, falling low.


O brother, 

Look around, the world is tending,

Stitching humor,

In all lives,

So take these children, peeking naked,

Out the courtyard,

Into open, like bluejays;

Harping heaven.


O brother,

Show them the halls, of our fathers,

Fading slowly, 

On the walls, threaded stories,

Like a fresco, freshly painted;

With old snow.


O brother, 

Let them wonder, and beware,

Of all the things that seems to be as the things they seem to be,

Treading softly, through the tar,

Shorter steps to travel far.


O brother,

Hold them dear,

Teach them dreaming, and to live,

Not as postcard, but a paper,

Forever speaking words that ought to be whispered out aloud,

In every ear, at all doors,

Beneath all streetlights,

Under all floors.


O brother,

When all is done,

And you waver, old and tired,

White eyed with rust,

Search your pocket, feel the key,

Take a step back,

Set yourself free.








It Happened Long Ago.


Once upon a time,

The jewelled sky was bare,

Like a blank canvas painted white,

And men felt hollow, 

Staring at it long.


The poets could neither mourn,

Nor compose a simple song,

For the lovers sat cold of desire,

With no moon to set afire,

Their paths through thorns of pain,

And their lives with loss and gain.


The philosophers slept through night,

With nothing out and in sight,

And scribbled dry till days,

Wordly chains of worldly ways.


The sea too was at loss,

Yearning to turn and toss,

And speak of deeper things,

With the sand which silence sings.


Then thus one day it began,

And the stars started to rain,

From a sky farther above,

Without a why and how.


Some fell like wisps of dream,

Some whistling and some with scream,

Others halted with a tiny wink,

And glared without a blink.


Lastly the moon arrived,

He misjudged the depth and dived,

To finish as first in race,

But falling flat on his face.


And that is why dear friends, 

The Moon hides to unearthly ends,

Lapsing shade by shade,

Nursing his cloud filled head.


For he forgets but remembers too,

That everyone gets their due,

That the dark is devoid of light,

That their is no scene without a sight.