Moral pulls herself up
by her own bootstraps
on her high horse boots
with stir ups when I visit
and the rocking chairs
throw down newspapers
and stand to attention
in the name of Moral support
looking like we might be game
who holds the whip hand in this sport?

I straddle the fence
with her strict father
Duty
Duty gives the orders here
we try to carry them out
they're no heavy burden
not keeping mum Mercy
from being close
to daughter Moral
Duty is of higher rank
and gives Moral
direction
Duty sets the boundary
Mercy's bound to
follow
while Moral
carries the compass
and the compassion
of a conscience

Me?
I'm loyal
love enough
and
light enough
to jump the fences
with my own defence
Moral permits

This defence is
good for morale
but Duty is always on guard
for Moral
a perfect match
that can have
a deadly when ignited
bite to catch
those who are free spirited

When Duty's asleep
alone
he leaves a stern
guardian
off the safety catch
in Duty of care
for Moral
- Discipline

I must steal
this care
away
from the arms of Discipline
when Moral's involved
because Discipline
in the hands of Duty
would explode in the face
of neighbourly straying
should Duty do what he sees
fit
without Mercy at his side

But should Duty awaken
alone
to his Moral's
dilemma
I fear
his Moral Discipline
can be Merciless

Did we burn our breeches?
almost
we rode a city of them
chaste
off racecourse
to show
Moral Italy

THERE where the course is,
Delight makes all of the one mind,
The riders upon the galloping horses,
The crowd that closes in behind:
We, too, had good attendance once,
Hearers and hearteners of the work;
Aye, horsemen for companions,
Before the merchant and the clerk
Breathed on the world with timid breath.
Sing on:  somewhere at some new moon,
We'll learn that sleeping is not death,
Hearing the whole earth change its tune,
Its flesh being wild, and it again
Crying aloud as the racecourse is,
And we find hearteners among men
That ride upon horses.

There's some pain in this. There's some growing up and moving on.
There's letting life go. There's endless cyclical comparison, I want to be like you, I don't want to be like you.
Here at the edge of the future there's fear so thick you can touch it.
There's a life borrowed. A bed borrowed. Friends. A bathroom, a towel, toothpaste.
There's a river and a racecourse and rowers and jealousy biting at the bone. Luck in sprinkles and saturation.
There's meeting the boyfriend, the housemates, the puzzle pieces of the past and the potential.
Somewhere there's regret. Of not being good enough, smart enough, rich enough, pretty enough, skinny enough.
There's some missing home and some glad to get away.
A deep breath and a scuba dive into a life that was only an expanse of water in the distance.
There's some letting me in, some sharing of stories, some secrets kept.
There's recollection, backward pedaling, basking in past experience in the invisible, unbearable weight of the years that brought us here.
Names remembered. Nights we'd rather forget. There's a newness brewing, promises of something else beyond this, just around the weeks that hold us back.
This year, plus this year plus these hours equals a key, opening doors, company cars and apartments.
There's a sinking. Right back to sixteen, to sleepovers and sleeplessness.
Look at us. We've wound our way here. There's pride. We made it from there to here, from somewhere to somewhere else.

Arrogance of autumn winds,
mighty trees shake in fear,
on the hillside, wind's playground,
dead leaves are given
a new lease of life,
like a flock of tired birds,
they fly in a pathetic mirth induced,
downwards to the valley,
to their final, certain, death and decay.

The old horse, abandoned
looks on, with faint glow of hope,
lighting its eyes.The evening light,
fades slowly on its face,
Darkness reigns.

This hill station, alive only in summer,
looks desolate.Totally abandoned
tragic in its isolation after palmy days.
The visitors have gone down.
past all 33 hairpin bends,
to the plains, anticipating
a long  bitter winter.

The old race horse,
looks like the quintessence  of the gloom,
for a week stands there unmoving.
The valley slopes
in to a ground, near the market.
Cricket matches that electrified crowds,
stopped long before.
The racecourse is so still
like a house, death has taken over.
The crowd dissipated hurriedly
like tired migratory birds.

Once a cynosure, the race horse,
old, weak and abandoned
feels the onset of the worst winter
in his old, tired bones.
The chill spreads
from the hoofs upwards,

Buzzing of bees,
nowhere to be seen,
is incessant in its ears.
Its eyes don't see light anymore,
A winter with a dark message,
soon would arrive,
he waits, shivering, mute.

Just one dance, that's all it took, to change my thoughts of you,
Wondering if there could ever be an 'us', as I clung to you like glue.
Staring into those perfect eyes of yours, I found your soul and heart,
It beat steadily as we danced, perhaps it was love from the start,

And suddenly something clicked, like a light had just turned on,
My heart began to love again, a love I thought had gone.
Perhaps that love never left, perhaps it was always there,
Just lying in wait in the shadows, for when I had a moment to spare.

Now I have many moments to spare, and those are spent thinking of what could be,
Is it really possible, or am I just dreaming, to think of and you and me?
What if I'm not? What if it happens? What would I do then?
Kiss you and tell you “I love you”, over and over again.

But that's all a dream right now, what's real is those few minutes, when we danced the night away.
Maybe you will see this poem, months from now and ask me “Why didn't you say?”
I'll answer that now and save you the trouble, “Babe, I didn't know how...”
“I wanted to know before!” You'd say, tears streaming down your face. “I'm telling you here and now.”

Perhaps then you'd wrap your arms around me, pull me close and share a kiss,
Then our feelings sealed, we'd stay there and stare at each other, lost in heavenly bliss.
Walking through the corridors, our hands are interlocked, and you're not leaving my side,
Kiss me on the lips, your tongue running a racecourse, in a passion which only you can provide.

And in this perfect Utopia, I'd spend each second of each day with you,
Never leaving you, not for a moment, experiencing this feeling that's new.
I could sit there for hours and listen to your voice, like songbirds all in a throng,
You'd reach for your guitar, sit on my lap and I'd ask you: “Sing me song.”

And so you'd belt out one of my favourites and I'd smile as you sang,
You'd smile back and keep on singin', off your every word, I'd hang.
And then when you were finished you'd kiss me, warming my heart right through,
Laying beside me in the sand, you look into my eyes and say: “I love you.”

And with that you'd close your eyes and fall asleep, and I'd whisper: “I love you too.”

Each passing day is spent
With an early awakening
Followed by another morning realizing nothing fits right
And straight off towards the long right hallways
Clogged with moving obsticles on the racecourse for rushing from class to class
Blocks of time set aside to try to stay awake
A short break is offered at lunch where there is a quick relief
Then it's off to the mad races again

Shipped home I'm left grabbing quick food
and spending the hours that stretch into the night in solitude

Despite it all life seems great.
Friends accompany in the mad dashes, and offer much-needed laughs

But it's just a matter of time until something cracks
I can already feel the fissure forming on the fragile stone walls
The clock is slowly counting down to self distruct

there was a little mouse he just long to be
a motorcycle rider in the isle of man tt
he bought himself a bike of the very best
took it to the racecourse to put it to the test.

now the mouse ready for his favourite race
all lined up to go mouse he took his place
then they all set off fifty maybe more
through the roads and bends they began to soar.

mouse he took it steady holding back his pace
till it was near the finish then open up and race
just a mile to go mouse he took the lead
opened up his throttle going very fast indeed.

passing all the others  with his faster pace
mouse he crossed the finish line he had won the race
now he was a rider in isle of man tt
his name his on his trophy for all the world to see

Here love blossoms
Here people come running frankly
Here the head bows in reverence
Here Bengali is the book of poetry.
Here is a fistful of hands in vows to remember the martyrs
Here the Bengali's roared
Such as Ekushey of Bahanna one day
Woke up.
The world has seen a lot of shots
Didn't see the language soaked in blood February!
Hyena's team is so brazen and so barbaric
Kari wants to take her mother's language
Salam-Barkat Rafiq-Shafiq Jabbar
The vigilant guard of the mother tongue poured out the ****** of the chest.
Then a Mujib at the front of the procession
Sheikh Mujib is at the forefront of history
Bengal and Bengali took the lead
Fifty-two sixty-two - we got the demand to survive
The days of seventy-nine fires have come
Bangabandhu got Bengali
Day of release ahead.
In nineteen years, Bengalis took the form of the liberation army
Twenty-one to seventy-one
Mujib gave the call - at the March racecourse
When he heard the shackle-breaking poem
"This time the struggle is for freedom" ...
The fort was built from house to house
The defeated Pak army looked at him with a smirk
The red-green flag flew over the open land of Bengal
The people of Bangladesh chanted the slogan in unison - Joybangla!
The world has never seen such a February, such a March, such a December of victory
Proud Shaheed Minar with red-green flag!

Doubt is the darkness devoid of light
Doubt is a racecourse with no end in sight
Doubt is an insidious disease with no cure
Doubt is constantly feeling unsure
Doubt is a vacuum without a breeze
Doubt is everything that can never be
Doubt is all of my overwhelming insecurities
Doubt is everything I've ever come to know
But hopeful is what I want to be