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Time, like dry sand,
Trickles between the fingers.
Substance-less it flows
As if the yesterdays
Had no more importance
Than the tomorrows?
As if the complexity
Of just, being,
Quantified the
Resultant meaningfulness,
Of the ebb and the flow?

For twixt the expanse
Of birth and death
Lies the pulsing vacuum
Of time, of being.

Indulgently,
It is ladled, consumed
With the importance
Of self.
In actuality
It emulates a flatulence,
A triviality,
A nothingness
Of ego,
A vanity!

For where
In these four-score,
Years of Life,
Or so,
Lies substance?
An actual achievement
Beyond that
Of self-indulgence?

Search the avenue
Of your
Halls of Conscience.....
Candidly,
With certitude
And with deep,
UTTER TRUTH!

And in all
Honesty,
Can you deny
This Great Void
As being, actually
Comprised,
Otherwise?

M@Foxglove.Taranaki.NZ
27 July 2025
Tic-toc sings the clock
Where's the meaning,
Does it stop?
Is it black or is it white
Filled with promise or of fright?
Why this quest of four score years
As indulgence perseveres?
Why compulsions grasp for more
Reveals why we slam the door?
Tic-toc sings the clock
Laughing now, to sadly mock!

Uncomfortable about this?
I'm not asking you to reveal anything but I am demanding that you search your soul with integrity.
This write is not about sunsets and daffodils, this is about your grit and the fire poetry instills in your heart!
M.
 3d
badwords
Does veiled cosmos swathed in cosmic foam dream,
Do galaxies in murmur birth their light,
Do stars in quasar flares and dreams then seem
To long for worlds that thirst for infant light.
In voids hum seeds of Chronos’ woven scheme,
Do clusters spin like gyres to seek a role,
Does spacetime’s fabric fold to weave a theme,
A fractal tapestry devours the whole.

Do barren worlds dream brines where life might grow,
Does life envision choices not yet made,
Does life in dreams contemplate joy and woe,
Does life foresee all paths that fade to shade.
Does life remember flames from which we came,
Does life imagine actions left undone,
Does life feel past and future burn the same,
Does life count stars while choosing only one.

Do all these dreams compress to one small sprawl,
What do they say of him who dreamed us here,
Is there a line between the dream and all,
Or does it vanish when we look more near.
Is all of time a Möbius we trace,
Do endless fractals break before they join,
Does ever rhythm fold back into space,
Do strings of fate converge to point and coin.

Do cells in night consult their core machine,
Do mitochondrial fires desire more sight,
Do atoms dream of wonders yet unseen,
Is this entangled dance our secret rite.
Do quarks in shadows whisper things below,
Do neutrinos in silence come and flee,
Do bosons dance to songs we do not know,
Do wave and particle just try to be.

And still we kneel before new gleaming screens,
Replace the cross with profits’ shameless flow,
We swipe and pray for signal’s blessed beams,
Our offerings to brands we barely know.
We scroll for salvation in our feed,
Our selfie liturgy hides voids below,
We worship updates, join the market’s speed,
Yet still we lack the gifts that faith bestow.

Our science masks its sorcery from sight,
Faith taught us morals, wisdom, guided ways,
Secular sirens coax the self to bite,
To feed consuming hunger night and day,
Belief in profit robs the people’s light,
And makes the marketplace our church of praise.
We sanctify the accident as right,
Though interest and peril write the plays,
We hail it progress, heedless of its price,
Our blindness feeds the system as it stays,
We trade our souls for gilded vice’s hot spice,
And lose the harvest in controlling rays.

After these dreams and altars, what’s remain,
Do we still seek some meaning true and pure,
Or do we circle back to dream again,
A spark endures in slumber ever pure.
Can hope sustain the circle’s endless chain,
Or will it settle in forgotten mist,
May love and wisdom yet again remain,
And may the cosmos whisper we are kissed.
Her hair at noon
Tied in a messy bun
She rides her scooter
with the speedometer
between 35-45kph
She has to pick up her children from school

She rides pillion
Her hair flipping wildly in the wind
As she speaks with her rider
A smile spread across her face
Phone in her right hand
Carefreeness of youth

Draped in a silk saree
Colour scheme, white and gold
She wears a red dot between her brows
Hair worn loose, adorned with a string of jasmine
Riding slow, skilfully skipping potholes
A festival to celebrate back home
Written 13th July
I was  inspired by a young girl riding pillion with her friend on a bike
Another gray trip to a small town.
At the bus stop:
an abandoned bicycle,
trembling in the rain,
waiting for someone,
who never came.

The coughing crowd,
getting on and off,
headed for the unknown.
Actors carrying
heavy bags of ugly food.

Out of the corner
of an invisible eye
snatches of words
drifting into a wrinkled world—
not the first, vivid green,
but the tired lettuce,
expired bananas—
a symbol of unreachable luxury.

Casual dialogues about angels and demons,
atheists and spiritual needs.
Random people battered by reality
rolling out a red carpet for their thoughts,
spoken aloud in the indifferent air,
small talk about kicking life—
an existential fight to survive.

The game downloaded
by an unfair fate.
Something put him, her, them
on this wrong level,
an extreme mode
the deepest discomfort.

Unfair purpose of pain.
For many,
not being loved is an aching way,
for others,
the lack of bread.

The multiple truths
closed in one small drop
of a rainy day without a name.
the new dark age
heart goes out
world goes up
all due to a love of concrete
and iron indignities

buildings grown in the heartland
steel your future
wrap your face in a foreign flag
make it medieval
so fear and superstition
can live on each floor

from above the cityscape
blueprints of a pinball machine
a train to nowhere
like candles on a cake
that will burn someday
when least expected

ladies against the glass
of morning commutes
show too much cleavage
to people on Sunday
gentlemen with their death sticks
conjure the factory smoke
poisoning a life of leisure
these infinite vistas
continue to rise
elevation well in hand
stitched together
but growing apart

the biomechanical soul
a species out of control
mother solitude and her
modern failures
take the stairs to the roof of her mouth
progress leaves an echo
her final words are
empty, foreboding
and full of lead
I will follow the followed

Those cuspacated fingers cringe of dried blood

The cracking lips
belching
the word "fursat"
from a dying Noah
after years of desiccating floods

I stare for hours
at the keyboard

It's staring back at me

So I change my profile picture
But I'm feeling the same

So comes the light

The night ?

That will soon disappear

There I stand lashed to the key
But the tsunami never comes

Just reality sweeping over me
Fursat - (Urdu and Hindi) - leisure , freedom , spare time to do something .
a little humor to make you smile !

A real cup of coffee feels nice on the tongue
it has a pleasant mouthfeel and it is warm
Some think dung coffee lists high on the rung
while others believe it contains fungi-form

A teenage diary with a fountain pen nib  
quiet often it holds emotions real true
Melodramatic entries sometimes its a fib  
oh it comes easy when your feeling blue !

A serious person has two brows knitted
thinking about things between the ears
A stand up comedian often quick witted
peak-brows it as he jokes & draws near.
We are not the most intelligent
Species on Earth
But brilliance is found
In all things
Everywhere

Whether we refuse
to use  
Our brains
The heart knows

it was designed
that way
by the divine
cloak of darkness
In the shadows
Where possibility grows
Down in the fertile valley
of quiet

Trees saving trees thru
Root of the root
Or bees doing
Their diligence as
Written within their
Tiny bodies

As caretakers of Earth
We cannot escape
natural law

Nature is delicate
She must be revered

The next level is not optional
Sentience has spoken
The new age is subtle and
Silently here
to stay
Shhhhhh…
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