Fascinating,
adapting to survive in nutrient-poor soil,
By any means necessary,
even if the method seems harsh—
it's natural, it's inevitable.

Consuming over-populated insects,
masquerading as "butterflies," unapologetic—
careless minds, thoughtless words,
misusing your name,
feeling foolish, wilting,
self-dissolving.

It wasn’t your fault.
Some plants need different pots to grow—
deeper roots, stronger hands.
Do you see it now?
It was only survival.
I’ve got you now.

A marvel of evolution,
you grew in unique and creative ways.
Many won’t appreciate you,
but I do.
I’ve got you now.

They were never butterflies—
only illusionists,
fooling you, using you.

Venus – goddess,
Fly – rise high, embrace your
Trap – not you, never you,
not by their hands.

I’ve got you.
I've got you now.
Venus, Fly, Trap.

I got you

Venus Flytrap

Most fears are echoes
of a fractured past
Duty-bound to prepare us
for apocalyptic fiction

THE LANGUAGE OF WATER

You wait by the lake
alone

except for your self
&
your reflected self

as if the landscape
dreamt you up.

Your thoughts a flock of birds
scattered across the failing light.

Clouds laugh
run along the ground
on tiny unseen feet.

Trees stand on their heads
wriggling their toes in the air

& you
become as two

both real & unreal

as if a living
dream.

You hum
Pachabel's Canon

as sun & horizon
listen.

Not bad for a human
they both agree.

It's as if
I need a key

to enter this magical
dimension

as if I have to
invent one

...a magical one.
I take a little stone

whisper to it the secrets
of flight

and teach it how to say: "Splash! "
in the language of water.

The little stone
transformed  with its new knowledge

does as it is told

shatters
this mirror world

opens
the dream

and I enter
bewitched

as any fairytale
Prince

my voice
calling your sweet name

with longing

you turn
& we embrace

kiss
& look upon ourselves

as the dream
remakes itself

stitching itself
together with silence.

An old artist
(unknown to us then)  

places us
the lovers

at the center
of his composition

adds this
final brushstroke

and pleased
with his efforts

folds up
his chair

packs up
his paints & easel

smiles at our
kisses

wishes
us a goodnight

and is gone
eaten by the twilight.

Our laughter
frail & fragile

lingering on the night air

playing peek-a-boo
with the moonlight.

*

I was ill and in chronic pain and had just got off a late shift...I was sick and tired of being sick and tired'...long sleepless night...dead on my feet and this Serbian gentle man asking for directions made me raise my eyes to the sky and being given the gift to see and let the world shine through me. Human contact and a heavenly body reminding me that just being alive in this moment...despite all the pain and my life unravelling...was what counted.

He was delighted to know that I knew my Popa(and that he was one of my favourite poets)and of The Battle of Kosovo. As we walked he reeled off verse after epic verse and I had the immense pleasure of hearing it in Serbian. I couldn't understand it but the music was in the sound. in  He was a lovely man and so giving...and the final gift of the moon was sublime. His love for his wife and child glowed within him like a spiritual fire. I  had lost my wife due to my paralysis( "I don't want to be with no paralyzed guy!") and this saddened him greatly.

I felt like the Ancient Mariner inadvertently blessing the sea snakes and being blessed in turn.

"Their beauty and their happiness.
He blesseth them in his heart."

O happy living things! no tongue
Their beauty might declare:
A spring of love gushed from my heart,
And I blessed them unaware:

Sure my kind saint took pity on me,
And I blessed them unaware.

"The spell begins to break."

The self-same moment I could pray;
And from my neck so free
The Albatross fell off, and sank
Like lead into the sea.

I love the way hand made garments
are perfect and wonderful and you can tell they are loved
by the way the buttons are little misplaced
but you wear it and smile and are warm

Or the way on a home made card
you can see the messy finger prints of a hand ungloved
as the paint and markers were still wet
and the glue didn't want to conform

Maybe it is within each perfect little mistake
that life and love is seen
different from the one before like a winters flake
in the smooth spaces and each in-between

i'm innocent!
no virtue spent
on fake affection from a gent

and i won't laugh
at stupid jokes
for vain attention from a bloke

you couldn't pay
for me to lie
for cheap comfort from a guy

but every now
and then, again
my path is crossed by finer men

and if i find
for me to mind
a soul to which my soul can bind

then bound to him
my heart will be,
with my virtue, for him for free

i'll love him so
but here's the thing
it will still cost a wedding ring!