People go missing from our lives
Either leave or disappear
Or may appear unfamiliar
Hard to feel they were once
Intimate part of your life
Had a place in your heart.

Then they depart
Either you let them go
Or they leave you.

Maybe after years
You remember them with silent tears
Wished they had not gone
You shouldn't have let them go.

Guilt sits a weight in your heart
It's you made them depart
You and you and you
It's why relationships are few.

Hold those few strong,
Who knows
You may again go wrong.

one little thing at a time
                 ...and bring a pen.



I feared i might sober up
and there wouldn't be much to write,
but slowing down to take a look,
moving at the pace of life,

not rushing it,
but taking it as it is,
seems so much more now to jot down,
I can hardly keep up with pen.

This is where the real poetry is,
and where it's always been...

Those loooong Journeys
cross-countries by foot,
and deeper still,
on more spiritual quests within.

Strolling along without worry or care,
relying on faith without understanding of a godlike dose of "luck"
that seems ta always just,     be  here.

The poetry is in the moment
when it's written, where it's found,
life exciting, breathing, be still and
          witness it all around.

I hold breath before the expanse.

Past the ups and downs
and struggle for air,
the magic of the blue lake
the barren mountains rising around
root me to the ground.

Lovelier than all the dreams
I had of her
all the colours
I painted my imagination with
she arrests my heart
in the way
I found no word for.

I feel her once
and she remains fulfilling for ever.

The day thins out
my eyes blur
in the thought of her.

Time comes and goes with ease
Every living day is a renewed lease
There's no time to be sad and morose
Be happy as the hibiscus and rose.

In the glaring sun they beam
A day for them is a dream
What if it's their last sunray
Their life is fulfilled in a day.

Without complaint they think it a gift
The one chance to give you an uplift
Know well with the setting of sun
Their intended work will be done.

Why can't we be like a flower
To do only good within our power
Spreading happiness and joy all along
To be remembered as one sweet song.

Softly slips the moment
In the waning of the day,
When the tenderness reflected
Lets a sadness fade away.
As the setting sun throws highlights
To tall timbers on the ridge
And the burble of the brook
Running soft beneath the bridge.
Flocking starlings settle
To gently chortle in the eve,
Whilst the maiden herds the cattle
In for milking, I believe.
The countryside quiescent
A peacefulness descends,
With the falling shroud of darkness
My velvet daylight ends.

M@Foxglove.Taranaki.NZ
24 January 2025

“The Weight of the Untold” (Pradip)
<•>
6:55am:  Jan 2 nine twenty twenty five

(read the comments first)

enveloped by the early mix
of morning’s hangover of dark
blue gray, window glints of a
sun playing peekaboo over the
yet there (!) Manhattan skyline,
the utter  “ness” of the stilled,
unwritten, unstirred, uncolored
dim of medium shadowy light,
the quietude is an actual thing,
a warming coverlet of cozy peace

am I not forcibly compelled to
write of the weight of white spaces,
Pradip pokes my curious anxiety,
as I question my own words, that
he tosses back to me, so so oft
he ****** the cells of my fingertips
to peek, to bleed, then peck letters
from within, to comprehend my
museum artifacts of words,
the weight of their panoply
of mystery

How, how can the white weight of
our seemingly empty spaces tween
words, carry this burden on its,
bony shoulders, can’t we just let them
be, like the breaths exhaled, the
disappearing exhaust of being human,

is it necessary to carry knowing knowledge,
of what needs no body, isn’t the inexplicable
better left unimagined, there be so much tolling troubles, let them be left masked, they’ll appear as embodied black letters, of-when, their discord is accorded their moment of due…no  more need to succumb prematurely
to this onerous lighter than air pressurized crushing atmosphere of reused oxygen

did I awake just to prove my existence, to offer up this combination of vocabulary of wondering, one more explication of the unknowns that are visible to the naked eyes, big, hard, factuals better left alone…and suddenly the morning light has arrived,

dear god,it will be a sun-filled sky,
and that weight, is modestly eased,
never fully erased, but you know,
I know, most of its occupants
even those
who won’t show their faces

And perhaps they should remain
hidden in the white spaces
between the letters and the words,

u.  n.  t.  o.  l.  d.

~
the night starts here,
the night starts here
in the dunes,
fixed in time;
incipient waves falling into place,
their subtle purpose
to roll over and sing;
the fountainhead above us,
like it's above the shore,
attaching softness to a shell.

we blew on a dandelion
and the whole world disappeared;
love is a mysterious shape,
love is a remembered rhythm.

I have trembled
my way deep,
I'm a guest in here,
drinking at the stream,
seeking bliss in
the plural homemade kiss:
peppermints and orchid rain.

we please the night,
we please the night in interlude,
and it merrily leaves us that strand
of pearls called "good morning."
~