Life In Ripples

You poise by the preface,
Starlike; extravagant,
Tilting waist,
Measuring love of men,
Who dipped in your fragrance,
Sway like honey heavy flowers,
Drunk against sunlight,
Leaping emerald across boroughs,
Spilled with spring.

Lilac dreams, enchanting,
You wave away tapered, transient,
All lifelike features, that taste of earthly leisure,
For you dream of Angels,
Angular symposium of embroidered life,
And divine imitation,
Though you know it not.
For far too pleasure shatter beneath your feet,
And the sound, what feels like cloudburst to us,
To you is but a gust of wind that lifts,
The violet hem of your dress.

Yet one day,
Your face shall melt,
Into a weed filled pool,
With a weeping fountain in the middle,
For all too pass by and forget,
Even when the blue rain, would clasp,
And hold you, immortal,
No nymph nor Naiad,
Or man, mermaid,
Shall know your depths, ever.

But every other night,
When solace would have left you speechless,
And the silence; a silver mirror,
A shadow shall shape in your womb,
Desirous, delicate,
Cascading down, sweet and sour,
Like a citrus kiss of longing,
And you will be alone, no longer,
But one with the moon,
Dancing on his tunes,
In trance like ripples.


Deep into this journey,
Long after the deep susurration of life,
And the sense of longing,
Of natal desire,
Is dried and shorn as bark and wool,
And bright as the nectar corals,
Burnt with tired timber,
Does the dull truth of things,
Worm in.

Baleful eyes, kissed with Kohl yet
Empty inside,
Burrowed by the undoing of this ethereal Magnum,
This caustic world,
With it’s walls of freedom, aching,
Breaking against blindness,
And speak, no more than what the silence taught them in form of tears.

A panacea,
To all immutable happenstance. Measured, immeasurable,
Paraded or parodied,
Through one life iterated, in many lives over,
Rags and rags, covering a bareness,
That reflects in no light,
But unfurls in each darkness,
Like moon upon lotus lips,
Of philosophers and Pharaohs,
Of travellers and treasurers,
Of hunters and hoarders.

Unceasingly mitigated,
Yet never really moving,
Until stillness itself stills,
And all forms, wither into one,
And all one’s merge into none.

The answer to no question.


I know I have come far away,
Here the sea wrestles each day,
Against the pulp of morn,
And I with it,
Toss and turn,
Upon the garish foams,

Your memory; akin to the skin of the sand I shape
Each night within me,
Lies awake,
Staring at the stars,
At the infinite expanse of the void,
Proverbially silent.

You shipwrecked beauty!
The oasis of my existence
Halts no more upon your oceans,
Chained to tempests,
No longer I stand a witness,
To your countless odysseys,
And weep moonlight,
Under crystal skies.

I stay here, nestled upon the edge
Of an arrival,
Torn between love and reason,
Life and loss,
Fingers entwined,
Heart uncrossed.

These Random Days

These random days;
Unending ivy hours,
Reminds me of you,
Eclipsed under a full moon,
Swimming under transparent blankets,
Like shadow underwater,
Leaning away into depths,
Far deeper than any sun could fathom.

These random days,
The blank restlessness, of the far wall,
Staring away into Oblivion,
Reminds me of you,
And your feathers, strewn across floor,
Like borrowed rainbow,
Tinged with stardust, raindrops, and raven rust of stark twilight.

These random days,
The gathering thunderstorm, dry leaves sailing lovelorn,
Against the grey crests of light,
Reminds me of you,
Hiding behind my back, with secrets upon those lips,
And my heart a shard of glass,
Under your diamond fingertips.

That Woman Remembered

In this wafer thin world,
My mirror holds together,
Your palpable smile.

I live there somewhere,
Buried; under warm hollow bricks,
Dreaming and dreaming,
Ringlets of flowers, raindrops of gold,
And of you reading a blank page,
Written one hundred ways.

Your name is a shape,
Or a flower or a bird,
Dahlia, Paloma or some rounded word,
You are the poem, I the paper,
You are as ivory and I a leper;
Waiting to talk yet walking away quiet,
Dismal of dark but afraid of light.

You smell of shade,
Along a long lost road,
Dressed like a farm, a sea of azure night,
Auburn hair, and grey eyes bright,
When did we grow, into this hour
Of longing madness,
Coiling itself through our hearts,
Like creepers circling the dead elms?

It’s past midnight, here,
And the waves are turning back,
Humming an echoing ebb, of times
Wept into single drop of chorused sunshine.
Your bare back,
Arched like waterfall,
Rests upon my eyes; eyes
Still yearning, along the crowded shore,
One amongst many like many amidst more.
All strangers to me as I am to you,
In this tangible tremor of life.

Random musings; this pillow feels soft,
Feathers abound, thoughts aloft.

There was an abandoned bench,
In a corner of December,
Where every story started,
Afore her departure,
Now nothing remains, there, here and everywhere,
Nothing but holes,
Inch deep, muddy and wriggling with worms.



I was born on a faultless plain,
Nestled in meadows of eternal spring,
They said my roots were to know this land,
And to rise were my breathless wings.

So I dove in the black, moist palms,
To wet my yearning feet,
Years aging unto eons,
Never to ever meet.

I lost my one limb there,
In the mud of deep old lore,
Where myths came hourly alive,
But the men exist no more.

Bruised I was and battered,
In thirst my blossom fell,
Yet for seasons I said nothing,
Only waved as all was well.

Until one brutal summer day,
When that long end felt near,
A bird perched upon my person,
And drank deep from my tears.

It whispered in my hands,
“Why you weep like a broken tree,
When with wings such as yours
One will cross a mighty sea?” Hearing her I cried, And buried my oaken heart,
Shred myself to pieces,
Broke my roots apart.

My new soul; it was flesh,
My new flesh; it was pink,
My muddied wings spelled ivory,
Against that sea, seething with ink.

There were stories in the tide,
I remember what they said,
” You fly over the faces,
Of dreams cast away to dead.”

But I felt no love for my shadow,
Left behind to be lied,
My eyes were upon that sun,
Which shone on the other side.

The sea runs unending still,
Calling me to turn,
But I had tasted new sunlight,thus
I burn, I burn, I burn.

Though I was born on a faultless plain,
Nestled in meadows of eternal spring,
My roots weren’t to know my land, And I am yet to bet my wings.