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The girl is a girl
Only like the moon to earth
The oasis to dunes
Breeze to the tropics
Love to the desolate
Warmth to the shadows
music to the lost
path to the journeyman
Fingers to the hair
Lips to the want
All of this and some more
The girl is my girl...
‪That warmth in the lights, ‬
‪up in a distant home, ‬
‪far from icy winds‬
‪slaking a winter howl...‬

‪ feels just like her‬
‪walking into a heart,‬
‪which knew only cold, ‬
and making it a home.‬
‪They play. ‬
The fingers when they slip into your hands, snuggling gently into their warmth reminding why touch isn’t always a screen that turns bright with fever, yet never turns on.

They feel.
The fingers when they slide into the countless caresses rippling down your pretty head, only parting so gently to reveal the forehead glistening with sweat and love.

They tease
The fingers when they ski over your ***** skin revealing the tender pores in the slow shiverings and infinitesimal bumps that raise their Lilliputian heads and come alive.

They sing
The fingers when they feel your flirty lips and the tongue looking to mate darts out, to speak of stories that lie hidden behind the brightest shades stroked to life with perfumed wax.

They mate
The fingers when they feel your shivering thighs and explore the depth of your love making you moan in disbelief, figuring out what makes you love who you love and spill it all over.
Left behind
After a devastating ruin
I was the last of poets,
Left alone, to ponder
in a barren world.
They wanted me to write,
To tell our story
But how could I,
With you not around?

You weren’t among those
to submit to longing
And fairly warned
that burning desire
could etch history, or
We could bring us down.

Togetherness had a cost,
It pulled us low
from the high pedestals,
Of palaces we built
to justify our pretences
In the functional world.  

But how could I
Tell them of all the tales
You wove for me,
each word dotting
the timeline of my life,
And of the parallel universe
the one we created,
Like children knitting
magical tales
Oblivious to the adult sphere.  

The way we receded
into nothingness
and quiet evenings,
beside each other.
The night, a fellow traveller  
and the wind whispering
songs of our past,
That then faded
into a sea of companionship. 

The horizon of togetherness,
lost souls finding each other
its silver lining, working
Like the sunset taking away
trials of the day,
A blanket of the dark
soothing the aches,
The scent of our love
covering all wounds
like healing gauze.

What could I tell
of the unspoken words
that spread out each day
like fairy dust,
Sprinkled over
a mundane existence
Lending a special,
O special meaning
to our dreary lives
Complicated, yet so simple
in its wants,
that heard only
language of the heart.

Could I even begin
to talk of the rhythm,
The pulsating earth
beneath our feet,
When we danced
to those songs,
the numerous serenades
That held our minds
like morse code
messages from another
parallel universe,
Feet on feet
rocking together,
Swaying like madmen
to the tunes of our
silent disco.  

If only I could narrate    
alongside you, this tale
would bring alive
Saplings in a barren land,
Brought about
by that devastating ruin
called the real world —
the marriage of pain
with daylight drudgery —
fresh flowers would emerge,
Jasmines of love,
not those plucked buds
saved in a book of poems
that neither you, nor I wrote,

If only I were not
The last of the poets
Left alone
In a barren world.
What am I if not the last of poets in a barren world, without another to complete my story?
A woman with a past, she’s forever making peace with it
Its pages written when the years were raging and wild
mellowed by time, they nurse pain in brittle folds
when I try to turn them, she breaks into tales untold.

Her heart is stone cold and yet she knows of love
How? she doesn’t know. How? I can’t begin to tell
She gives her all to me and retreats behind the stage,
when I press rewind, she slips into the act to cover-up her ache.

She tells me she wasn’t looking, and in her made-up now
she built a life whole and knit a yarn of awesomeness
I broke the many mirrors that mirrored her insta smile
She cowered and hugged me to escape her own guile

You don’t know my past, she tells with mock belief
I remind her we are both travellers having come this far
Our journeys writ on milestones dotting many a stay
We’re interesting stories we picked and lived on the way

She doubts the past won’t measure up to my idea of love
The night, I tell her, doesn’t care what you did with mornings
It just wants you to lose yourself, moor you to its dock
make it whole again, and stop looking at the clock.
Is past a curse or a collection of experiences? It’s like a chasm full of pebbles, each pebble a story, telling of a journey unique and interesting.
(one of my favorites oldie one)


My love ripened too late in season to harvest

pendent on the bared branches,

easy picking but forgotten ‘til winter.

Alone it stays in the orchard farthest

waiting for the frozen splinter

to **** it’s heart and bleed desires

into the coldness of the ground.

And cold will fade into dreams

of lips tasting it’s sweetness now bound

to rot alone too late for harvest.

December 2016
“While there may be many things in life you wish to harvest not every seed you plant will grow.”
― Rasheed Ogunlaru
What can I hold of you?

Of a fleeing cloud ‬
making good its escape ‬
‪from its wanton lodgings ‬
‪in the sea looking to empty itself  ‬
‪and in the sky seeking closure ‬

‪Of a lightning cowering‬
‪in its fleeting existence‬
‪waiting to be consoled and told, ‬
‪it’s magically alive‬
‪as a sliver of hope in the dark ‬

‪Of the bountiful waves ‬
‪retreating every time ‬
‪with a handful of sand,‬
‪clutching on to the earth ‬
‪it has made a promise of return‬

‪Of the godly Sun ‬
‪drowning in the horizon ‬
‪every day in a Spartan death‬
‪to see the moon rise ‬
‪and bask in its borrowed love‬

‪Of a cursed fate ‬
‪mooring me to the abyss‬
‪refusing to unchain me, ‬
‪to feel what it is to sail in waters ‬
‪which treasure the idea of you‬

‪What do I hold of you?
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