In this haunting city where the summer is humid and also sticky,
the sun blisters the naked skin
As silver Beads of sweat trickle
Like sweet gelato drizzling in the blazing heat.
There is poetry in the streets
Of graffiti, mellow lights and yellowed walls.
Of cobblestones and of riches
Dazzling every inch of this old city.
The air is laden with soulful music
Of long, lost love
Of passion
And of words rolling melodically and melancholically in modern Latin.
The souls gone by
Of artists, slaves and martyrs
Wander eternally in this ancient city.
They whisper softly in the evening wind
Knowing every tourist and every Roman,
Enchanting gently to their soulful being.
So with longing I think of Rome
As i feel the whispers in the evening wind.
Hypnotised, spellbound; knowing that somehow -
i am rome.
Jul 29, 2022
Jul 29, 2022 at 9:17 AM UTC
Amid the cloudless blue sky
And the last of the green grass
A wrinkled tree trunk lies lone and bold.
It lived through a many a
Sunrise and a sunset.
Grew green leaves and dropped its yellowed leaves
Bloomed flowers, bore fruit
Witnessed births, witnessed deaths
Was a shelter, Was a home.
This wrinkled tree trunk lies no more
For the men axed it rot
Pulled it from the root.
There will be no more trees in this land of mine
But a concrete landscape; an eyesore to all.
Jan 9, 2022
Jan 9, 2022 at 7:00 PM UTC
Some thoughts flow melodically
like one eloquently orchestrated masterpiece
Or a well-woven tapestry.
Other thoughts erratic and staccato.
Pauses.
Discordant.
Confusing.
A cacaphony of noises.
Some thoughts are soft and comforting
Like floating clouds of pink, golden sunsets
Over calm, and glistening waters.
Other thoughts are as sharp as pointed ice.
Cutting.
Jarring.
Deceptive.
Malice spoken from evil tongues.
Streams of thoughts can be elusive.
They run
They jump
They swirl in a whirlpool
Unable to steady.
They branch
From one thought to another
Shifting like quicksand
Melting into nothing
Forgotten.
Other thoughts can seem iridescent
Changing hue by the light's movement.
Some sparkle, some are bright,
others a dull, faded colour
Turning blank as the light morphs into darkness.
A train of thought now stopped to a halt.
With its own mind
With its own heartbeat.
Jan 5, 2022
Jan 5, 2022 at 2:04 PM UTC
Words - they flow and they ebb,
they reverberate eternally in this brain chamber of mine.
They echo, they roll, they slide, they rhyme and most of the time they're nonsensical like these lines.
They're twisted and convoluted,
Ominous and auspicious.
Silly and simple.
Rhythmic and staccato.
They certainly have a life of their own.
One moment they're infused with scents of vanilla ,
The next moment it's dettol mixed with ***** of a gorilla.
Sometimes they'll roll sweetly like cinnamon and baked apple pies.
Other times they'll dangle daintly like merrigolds and ponsiettas.
Then there are moments when they will leave me awake with the ultimate conundrum like am I charmed or beguiled?
What can I say?
A hodgepodge of words praying to be thought of; unforgot.
They sing me to sleep like a sweetly sung lullaby .
Jan 2, 2022
Jan 2, 2022 at 3:11 AM UTC
Dare I pine, for a time gone by
Of ferns, trees and bees?
Of poems and songs my homeland boasts
I've only really read and heard.
Dare I wonder, the young and old
Burnt out and deep in debt.
Busy, lone and disgruntled
What future can one hold?
Dare I live, an Orwellian dream
the powerful blind and deaf.
Famished for votes and riches
Callous of others' pain.
Dare I remember an island,
Once proud of its own sweet name.
Unafraid, undivided, unyielding
Dying for its beloved land.
Dare I dream for a country whole
Of people told their truth.
Of people freed from self-made cages
Of people healthy and content.
Dare I dream or be pinched awoke
before it is too late?
To sing for this sinking land,
To rediscover its singing soul.
Dec 29, 2021
Dec 29, 2021 at 6:21 AM UTC
I dream of Paris
Drunk in colours of Pink,
And warm, soft hues
Of gold and blue.
The leaves, they fall.
They waltz and dance
among feathers white,
In a wind, their guide.
Then a pitter, then a patter
Then a lightning trembling Paris' every café.
The leaves, the feathers -
They dance no more
But float in waters that they have always known.
Morning comes as night is forgot -
And crooners croon
And painters paint.
And the glamour of the Tour Eiffel is captured through.
As cafés brew
And Tourists walk
Over stories told,
Over stories untold
And the struggles of the night before
makes todays skies so clear and oh so blue.
Dec 11, 2021
Dec 11, 2021 at 5:33 AM UTC
We boast we love our land
our people, our economy.
And, without any remorse
We ****** the living
and say atrocious words
like they should have stayed in their homeland
and they deserved to drown.
No apology, no fallen tear.
We boast we love our freedom
we long to go out
some do go out
even though they should not go out.
And then, we let the hunters hunt
To shoot the fragile, winged creatures
To crush their wingless dreams
To sing no more
For the game of a moment
For the pride of a moment.
No apology, no fallen tear.
We say we love our nature
Yet we **** the land that we have
To fields of concrete
And greed leads to death
As our lives become void
As long as money makers get richer.
And then we forget.
No apology, no fallen tear.
Yet,
Somewhere deep inside,
a soul resides.
A heart which dreams and feels
which is compassionate and empathic.
And if we stop for a moment
To let all sink in,
and we realise that
our hurts and pains are making us all blind -
We want to apologise, to cry and to forgive.
Apr 16, 2020
Apr 16, 2020 at 6:51 AM UTC
What has the power to destabilise the economy;
shut down schools;
put millions of people under lockdown; inspire people to buy inordinate amounts of toilet paper;
wish they had never gone on that cruise and cause global uncertainty, fear and mayhem.
Yet is invisible to the naked eye, inaudible, cannot be per se physically touched and is borderline between living and non living?
Mar 11, 2020
Mar 11, 2020 at 10:07 AM UTC
Oh how glorious life would be
To have no life or song within!
A need for no bones, no cells
No vessels or no muscles
Pumping nothing; needing nothing.
Oh how glorious life would be
To feel no pain
And see no stain.
Nothing gory; nothing sorry
Only a body in its glory.
How victorious it should be
To feel the wind; to be the wind.
Floating and flying,
Needing no sense of time;
Needing no sense of rhyme.
Letting Earth's beauty astound,
Its colours delight
and its melody transcend to hope, light and might.
Aug 30, 2018
Aug 30, 2018 at 5:47 PM UTC
In the stillness of the night
Across the river, under the stars
A Silhouette of a dancer
Hunched,
Forsaken,
Alone.
Sits lone dancer
Dreaming of a holding hand.
Whispering in the silence
For no ears to hear.
Once the crowd cheered
Now the light has ebbed
The glory is over
The name long forgot.
The dancer looks up
To the moonlit sky
Counting the stars
To a million and one.
A shadow appears
Embracing dancer warm.
A lover long dead
A lover and friend.
Now A pair of wings each
both dancing in the skies.
Dancer no more lonely
Dancer no more alive.
Jun 21, 2018
Jun 21, 2018 at 1:47 PM UTC