❅⛈☼☄

One day or day one.
Move on to the next big thing,
before you're out of time.



Muhammed E. K.  ☾  🅴  ✩
© LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS POETRY

In these notes
Are countless tales
Of memories, tried & true

But not a word
From endless books
Compares to me & you.

The turn of phrase,
Or so it goes,
Says all begins anew

I’ll be right here
’Til your last page
And in the next one, too.

If there were a story asked,
and the asker were as weary as me,

I might ask the asker what good
could a half told story be.

The asker answers, well then,
begin at the end,
then we all rest easy, knowing
it all works out.

i think i am in love with your soft rain
the sound of the pitter patter against my window sill
your sweet sound putting me gently to sleep
caress the flesh and bone feeling so calm
calloused fingers through my hair
play me a song
something that reminds you of me
something gentle
the thought of you so riveting
messy
and clean
and full
love that cannot be tarnished
love so alive and dramatic
love that can only exist in the mind of a
hopeless romantic.

Should have gone to the library
It's shoulders dosen't judge
nor dose it bend for your heavy heart
For they know the feeling of being forgotten and newly discovered

How easy it is to just fade into the background
How each breath gets thinner and thinner,
until it completely fades away

A mere puff of air leaves my lips
and the dust falls dancingly of the books shoulder
like an invitation to open and turn the page
return to a world you left behind
and rejoice in finding the lost memories of happiness and bright as childlike laughter.

I remember dad sitting and reading
each evening after dinner
once he and me had washed up in the galley kitchen.

After, I remember him stripping down to the waist
and body washing at the sink, then completing
his evening shave.

I remember his big old badger shaving brush
and a shaving mug refilled with Old Spice.

I remember the odour, filling the kitchen
and sticking to him.

But mostly I remember him in his white vest
in the brown armchair under the warm standard lamp,
feet up by the fire, reading his books.

Wilbur Smith.
Alastair MacLean.
Jack Higgins.

The Sound of Thunder.
Ice Station Zebra.
Wrath Of The Lion.

Always a hardback. Always a loaner
from the regular family trips
to the woods and the library.

Always sitting in his heady mix
of Old Spice, Brylcreem and St Bruno,
reading and relishing the opportunity
to pass the book on to me
telling me of his envy of my first read
of the adventure he’d just finished.

Sadness is finishing a great novel
on the train to work
and carrying it home
empty of suspense,
with a faint hope
for the yet unpublished sequel.

I dream
as a flower,
opening
in waves
as I open
the pages
of a book,
I bloom
between
dreams
and reality
while in
sips of tea,
the people
I walk past,
they too,
are beings
of water
in the  
oceans of
the mind,
visitors of
the earth,
stars are
in the words
they speak
within the
the ease
of the
midnight
hour, the
propeller
seeds lift
for the
moon in
the eyes
they held
for one
another,
it is in
presence,
the depth
in the
quiet
longing
to only
read
of the
secrets
of love
I, the
writer,
wish to
sing to
them,
“all the
unsung
is, by
the sight
of the
heart,
sung
forever”,
so then,
all the things
they behold
become
as they are,
wondrous.

Monday mornings are always easy.

Monday mornings bring a breeze South
Of The East,
North
Of The West.

Its caressing the exposed skin
of my flaky neck
like the lead cannon from Atlantis,

Flying for the grasp
Of the cactus from San Pedro
That provides mescaline to the tribes
Nearby, that pray to its being as The Messenger
From

The West. Beyond the horizon,

Like the jack rabbit, eroding, with a tube
Sock in the vestibule over The Dungeon That Sings,

Sideway neighbors to the uvula. If seen that way.
                        
                  Beyond, the continual rings of                             Agorapho-

                                                      ­                                              bia,
Challenging anxious mind,
With ideas
Of how it be the, not the seal in yestereen's heels.

Monday mornings
Are always easy.