At the top floor of the skyscraper that touches the sun
A man sits with his bourbon in hand, looking out over his creation:
The world in which people shine like glass
Something in that dark yellow of the bourbon reminds the man
Of that time he saw the world’s last tree
Twenty year before it fell.
It was when he was still young and naïve,
His visions of eternal life and glass people,
Still on the brink.
Some instinctual twitch in the back of his brain,
Passed down from the apes, guided him to climb it
But the first branches were too high
And so he cried,
Like a child who cries after stubbing his toe.
It’s while he’s still thinking
Of that first and only time
Seeing a tree beyond a screen
That the man takes his final sip of bourbon,
Though the glass is still half-full.
With the first gunshot in two thousand years,
The bourbon drops to the floor and
birthday poem for my beloved
Happy birthday doesn't seem to suffice
When the one you love is all so nice
So here's a poem from my heart
Hope it reaches yours though oceans apart
Bless the day when you were born
When angels sang and heaven was forlorn
Losing you was not their aim
But the time was ripe, all the same
Tears were shed in the heavenlies
Your mates up there threw you a gathering
I was there and feeling sad
You said don't worry, I'll find you, yet!
That was some decades ago
And here we are found and found
Elliot York was to be born
To create HP, so we no longer need to mourn
Almost a year, oh what a ride
is it amazing, that we're still out of sight
visions of future laughter furnishes my nights
my days are not so bad with you as my guide
wishing you well and wishing you gain
wisdom and wealth and hopes and dreams
Four plus nine is not so young
only a little while more and we'll both be done
K Balachandran Oct 24
yes, indeed in the long run we'll all have wings to fly..ha ha
makes me underline the fact that love, life angst and dance of happiness all are transient..so what?
Thank you Shaq
Silent crackle, tingle,
The smell of a sticky must. Floating dust in
An abandoned attic, where the rats roam and the dead skeleton of a fish
Still lies in an empty bowl of moldy rocks and plastic plants.
Yet, despite the emptiness, a girl curls up in the corner, black
Running down her face as she weeps for the things she longs for most.
She looks out the dirty, broken window at the cloudy sky and imagines it
Blue. The brightest of skies with only few hints of cirrus.
A blanket on the ground and the man she loves, nothing else in sight.
The expanse of green in her head is contrasted to the rotting floorboards she lays
On, dreaming. The steady beat of Boy in Static thrumming through her headset
As she struggles not to scream and jump, finishing the job on the window
From troubled teens years before. The sound reminds her of VHS tapes,
Press rewind, take a turn and start over. But she can't, when something has changed.
The boy she knew, looking down with his hood not up, but covering his face, shielding
Himself from her. She knew he had a screw in his head, but she just looked away. He never answered anything she asked. He was unable.
But her heart still dropped, she smiled her best. An amazing actress, fooling everyone, makeup allergy keeping her eyes dry. She just read Huck Finn as though nothing was wrong.
Now she sits in her room, writing and shaking her head. This line is not right.
Her walls were full of color and poetry, but her mind kept wandering to that attic.
She was there again. Blankly staring at her star charm anklet. A simple blue ribbon.
And the throbbing of her heartbeat through that one spot on her thumb,
That pressure point that hurts more than anything. But one thing could be worse.
Being left. Just like the broken rocking horse in the corner and the baby's cradle
Lined with blue silk that was shoved into a box. That baby is probably dead. Just like all
Of the others who lived there, burned by the fire. Goose flesh raises, prickly
Hairs on her legs from a week of no shaving. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. Bleed.
Change the song. Bleed Like Me. Perfect. She draws on the peeling walls, two hundred
Years of wallpaper and lead paint, chalk barely leaving a mark. She sketches a masterpiece.
A child that she wishes she could have. Impossibly too young, but still...
A daughter she could raise better than her mother raised her. A chance to do something right.
More than the mechanic life she has lead, empty and useless.
Confused and pathetic. Like the broken grandfather clock that ticks backwards.
Three, two, one.
Ding-dong, dong-ding. Grandfather never taught me anything. He was not a wise man.
He was a fool. Knew too much and too little, no room to know what was right.
She let another raindrop escape and suddenly it began to pour. Lightning crashes as a glass
Slipper collides with the picture drawn of her dream. Thunder as she releases a
Bloodcurdling scream. "Why!?"
Why her? The pain in her back is unbearable. She slouches too much, and her eyes burn.
She is not Cinderella; her ball gown does not glitter.
Piano is her least favorite instrument, but it somehow gets to her. Small hammers
Striking her heart strings, low notes reminding her of his voice and the soft, feminine
Voices radiating, remind her of when she was young... Immortal. She has aged since then.
Too quickly. Her entire life has been a masquerade ball. Unskilled idiots dancing
Around her and stepping on her toes. Shouldering her in the stomach,
Breaking her ribs. Beats of music guide her skilled toes, swerve around falling raindrops that
Her own eyes emit. And she crashes through the floor of that dismal attic. Broken free,
But she is still trapped. The walls are charred down here.
But the walls are not painted black. They were once a mint color, green and cheerful, healthy.
Until a psychopath lit a match.
"I didn't mean to do it." It was all in her head. The house.
She set it aflame.
She sits in her room, writing and shaking her head. This line is not right.
Her walls were full of color and poetry. It isn't worth it to stare. Nothing will change.
She is still just a girl in a glass box, being stared at and judged. Trapped and ridiculed because her eyes bleed and bless the onlookers with bad luck. It's amazing the things
That people don't know. Drifting deeper into a pit of endless darkness. A candle won't
Live down here. No oxygen to let it breathe. But one lit self portrait hangs in the air.
Years ago, drawn in pencil. Symbolic, it wants to be erased. To die.
And the girl on the page is wearing a mask. The girl in the parchment is me.
Medium length hair and a tear painted, permanent. A Parasite. Capitalized for its meaning.
A demon is running through me, singeing
My tissues, blisters on the insides of my bones. Swelled up, show through
My skin. Waves on a shore. But I am not a beach. A bitch maybe...
Still, I hate it. The hate killed whatever flowers I had left planted in my mind.
Tainted me with the horrible visions of a tear streaked face of paper mâché.
She was the one in the attic. Her whole persona
Wilted and ashen, grey. A silent movie might mask it; the hurt, I mean.
The grey lines on the screen hiding the bags under her eyes and the redness of her nose,
Get rid of the twinkling shards of glass frozen on her cheek from crying in the dead of winter.
Slip up once, and everything goes to hell. Well, I must have slipped years before I was born.
Few smiles are left on this dismal timeline. And I shall use them wisely. But, for now,
I think I will just weep, sleep forever and hope that you don't give up on me and pull the plug.
I am still here somewhere, just dormant. Please wake me up. Get me out of this charred cabin,
This glass box. Pull me out of my warped sense of everything, teach me again what
Love feels like. I have forgotten amidst everything that I have felt and remembered.
There is no more room for things to be learned. Only for things to be repaired.
I will give you a hammer. Come inside and fix me; that screw in your head couldn't have taken your knowledge away. You are the only one that knows.
Give a jolt of static and bring your bride to life.
it is said that
a prophet finds no honor
in his own country
are received as a
threatening to melt
the caked wax
blocking the closed
intolerant ears of
once found no
in his homeland
his people driven
from their land
gobbling the land
people from villages
they had occupied
since the dawn
spilling Zulu blood
into roiling rivers
petitions of the
the blood of
against the victims
by corralling them into
where rivers do not
flow, grass never grows,
game cannot graze;
only the dust doth blow
riddling the captives
with torments of
mocking the speakers
of mother tongues with
the fained eloquence
of bastardized Afrikaans
the dominion of the
and affirmed by exiling
a people from their land,
outlawing their language,
dividing the nations into
a fallacy of separate
destinies where a forgetful
history blessed with amnesia
will anoint the conquerors
with the spoils of abundance
stolen from the vanquished
Madiba spoke of these things
and was awarded a prison
cell for twenty seven years
but the hostages of
a conquerors justice
to be freed by the arrival
of an accepted truth
set free by the very words
prisons cannot contain truth
steel bars cannot imprison
the idea of divine justice
it slips through the smallest openings
like a wafting fragrance of the first day of spring
it saws away at the rust strewn steel bars
like the surest movement of a master carpenter’s arm
it melts the thickest links of iron chains
in the fiery forges that burn in the hearts
of all freedom loving people
the truth of justice
is born and takes flight
on the wings of history
covering the globes
nesting in the most
and mean estates
on God’s good earth
truth and reconciliation
can never be separated
planted together to grow
healthy nations and
trust and restoration
Madiba, you always
found honor with
the salt of the earth
the children of light
who seek to dispel
the darkness of
we continue to
walk your way
guided by your
we take the first steps
asking liberators to join
with oppressors, pairing
in a magnanimous walk
along wholesome pathways
perceiving the buena vistas
of reconciled communities
of peace, equality
and justice for all citizens
I caught a fleeting glimpse of Madiba
as he rolled by in the Canyon of Heros
showered under a June blizzard of confetti
and a resounding acclimation of love.
I was a plebe inhabiting a lower floor
Broadway office, yet my station blessedly
brought me closer to Madiba. As he passed
I was moved by his miraculous smile and felt
the colossal reverberations of his waving arm
triumphantly hailing the sweet freedom of
liberation all hostages of feigned justice
exude in the vindication of divine justice
enraptured in the joy of affirmed truth.
we are enriched
and blessed for
the time you walked
the good fight
for we shall resume
the climb to
the next mountaintop.
Well done Madiba
Rolihlahla “Nelson” Mandela
7/18/18 - 12/5/13
Ladysmith Black Mombazo
Twas the night before Christmas
And all through the house
People were drinking
And getting real soused,
The kids were snuggled
All warm in their beds,
While visions of iphones
Danced in their heads,
The stocking were hung
On the wall with a nail,
And boy oh boy how I
Love the Christmas tree smell,
With my Wife in her lingerie
And me with my sack,
We rolled a fat blunt
And it knocked us out flat,
When out on the lawn
There arose such a clatter
I sprang up and told my wife
Go see whats the matter
When what to my
Wondering eyes did appear,
It was Jenna Jamison
And the Three Musketeers,
I sat there and laughed in spite of myself,
As my wife drove off with a fat little elf,
Jenna came in and opened her bag,
Made two fat lines, it was all that she had,
Then laying a finger on the side of her nose,
She snorted a line and up the chimney she rose,
And I heard her exclaim as she rode out of site,
Next time I come have some cash
And now have a good night!!!
that runaway's life once again felt
cut short of finding new home
instead a odyssey
of heart and mind forged
inside this extended mull
knowing no end
..where the land petered out
narrowing to nothing
where cold tides
always running in and out
on top of each other
and are hard to tell apart
they don't matter here
unattended thin stretch
he stays brooded upon
allowing him to run no further
..his unfolding life
into the swift gulf stream
pulling him down into the rip
one day it is as dangerous as hell
the following day
becoming less treacherous
where all his visions can toss and roll
calmly out to sea
something either ended or began here long ago
but i don't remember which
but it is enough to just be
he says with half a care
his voice a swell of low tones
old as the atlantic now
looking back over his shoulder
he is reconciled to all the other places
that might have been
just as remote
of a possibility
as this one his life places in
but the runaway will always be here
as perpetual as the shift in the dunes
that purple silhouette again
up beach, following the sunset
as far as it can go
my shattered heart.
My ageing mistress, old prima donna,
Fusion of fortune teller and maternal,
Finger-pink lips and silverish lashes over
Lingering eyes once lascivious, young.
Rubber-red pupils chase, catch
Certain sanctified ears
(Nymphets or prostitutes)
To whisper phrases of baby Sinai;
Words wrench her jaw horselike -
She blurts out detestable visions.
Old prima donna, my ageing mistress,
Fusion of fortune teller and maternal,
Laughed through days on coral lips,
A summer insomniac she snatched at music.
Ivory-full palms sculpted cream,
Smooth as giraffe neck – milky, liquid,
She stroked air and danced to invisibles
- I had never seen her stiffen
Until the baby in her stomach stopped.
I am trapped in the shackle of your thoughts
I reign terror over your mind, saturate it with the sound of my whiney voice
On the faces of strangers in the streets you cast your glare
It is my face you see
Every breath you take triggers thoughts of me
Even the sight of shadows have me consuming your entire being
My laughter echoes ceaselessly in the halls of your tiny abode
Visions of me in a pale pink robe appear in your bedroom
Pulsating is your heart at the sight of the vibrant luminosity I exude
As we dance to the music in our hearts
With the moonlight cheering us on
We will reminiscence and ache and ache and ache
Nostalgia will overpower us as it always does
When the hour arrives
I will fade into the light of dawn
And you my darling will be left embracing nothingness.
A world of filtered communication
Silver screens and robotic dreams
Our heads filled with visions of false identities
Mounting themselves above our fireplaces
We live the way we are raised to live
We see what we are taught to see
A flushed salmon rushes upstream
Thrashing and bruised when Ha'nih catches him
We thank the Gahonga, we break, we eat
The tumultuous quiver of the earth
As a spritz around the fire ensues
Peace, essence, and comfort is the way of life
We live the way we are raised to live
We see what we are taught to see
Geography taught me about territory and tundra; ejecting into
Open ranges. I knew I needed defences, but I was blind to the
Taiga; coniferous in that warm summer evening, while
Oceans dominated and washed away my salty tears,
Overburdened. I stripped the bed while sheets left visions of
Xanthomelanous man who left me moist but
Fallow and unseeded.
Occidental or accidental? Or just a
Region without identity? My
Dome left without demography.