#transience
1. TRANSIENCE
I,
sentinelled
In the drizzle
Of a time
Wet----------
Like a drake
Without a nest
Trembling ----------------
Like a lily
At streamside you beckoned
And gave me shelter
In your dome
But
When a deluge
Chased the drizzle
And the sky hounds
Sanctioned the chase
You chased me out
Into the cold.
2. DWELLING
I, too,
have known
the rustle of cold on skin
and the silence
that drips
from doors unopened.
But once,
a roof leaned low
not to send me off—
but to listen.
It did not promise
forever,
only the now:
a mat,
a bowl of warmth,
a gaze that did not flinch.
And so I stayed.
Storms grumbled.
Tiles cracked.
The walls sometimes wept.
Still—
I swept the hearth.
I planted figs.
I became
dweller,
not guest.
3. THRESHOLD
I stand
between door and dusk,
with a heart still dripping
from old rains.
Your mat is clean.
Your fire glows.
But I smell
the memory of smoke
from houses I once called home.
I do not ask
to be a god
or guest—
only to bring
my whole weight in,
shadow and all.
If I step in,
will you flinch
when thunder speaks my name?
If you step back,
know this:
I have learned
to build fire
from splinters.
And I will not
knock twice.
© Lanre Adebayo
May 24
May 24, 2026 at 3:52 PM UTC
a soft hum,
in transition.
if everything fades on,
will you wait an eon -
for me.
or leave like
everyone else - be
— something of a stranger.
passing people,
wander through.
the early morning air,
wishing for the care -
of another.
so destined
maybe further
and it could be fated.
May 22
May 22, 2026 at 2:05 AM UTC
Moments of sorrow, moments in vain
And today is tomorrow’s yesterday’s pain –
Time slowly washing the memories away
As moments keep falling like soft falling rain.
Where is the bright sky? Where is the light?
Where are the high clouds so lovely and white?
A past in the future, a future now past –
Nothing is solid. Nothing may last.
And shadows are lost as darkness surrounds
But for flashes before more confusion resounds.
And where is the bright sky? Where is the light?
Where are the high clouds so lovely and white?
All so wet and dreary and cold –
Where is the warm hand to touch and to hold?
Why all the fret? Why weary so long?
Where is the comfort in singing this song?
And where is the bright sky? Where is the light?
Where are the high clouds so lovely and white?
Moments of sorrow, moments in vain
And today is tomorrow’s yesterday’s pain –
Time slowly washing the memories away
As moments keep falling like soft falling rain.
And moments keep falling like soft falling rain.
clj – 3-2-88 – 4:12am
Nov 20, 2021
Nov 20, 2021 at 3:47 AM UTC
By the edge of the Tagus,
the river passes unhurried,
as if it knew
its end.
I sit by the window.
The waters meet
and carry me away.
Time is not chased.
It flows.
Days, minutes
on an unbroken thread.
Each thing
at its own rhythm.
The world continues.
I learn not to interrupt.
Without urgency.
Without fear.
I observe
what yields,
what remains.
And then,
almost without sound,
we change.
I light a cigarette.
The flame hesitates.
So do I.
Apr 11
Apr 11, 2026 at 9:33 AM UTC
There might be more, but that’s the beauty of it.
It may get lost; everything is ephemeral,
but in that temporariness, you find beauty.
I wrote, read, shown, then forgotten —
not truly lost, but scattered across memory.
I once discarded poems so I wouldn't grow too attached.
And if I have lost those little poems,
It would not matter in terms of technicality,
Because when I breathed them into existence
Their purpose was to exclaim,
Then disappear.
If the paper that was written on had souls,
Mine would not haunt me,
But sing melodies of a former serenity
That I knew and loved,
And of the muse that I have lost.
Now I just look up at the dark sky
And pretend it is a book of never-ending dreams,
Each star a note, each crack a page,
Each vanished word a spark
That once breathed, lived, and left its mark.
Jan 21
Jan 21, 2026 at 5:02 AM UTC
The flowers in the glass vase
Pretty and fragrant.
Oh, the pretty flowers.
In a little glass vase
Alive for so long,
Eventually, the water runs out,
And the pretty fades.
Oh, they have wilted,
They were always gonna
From the start.
Oh, the flowers on the vase
Will wilt eventually.
All the pretty flowers’ destiny,
To be shown,
To be unknown,
To fade away,
Oh, the flowers in the glass vase.
They don't last forever,
Just like the water they breathe
Jan 16
Jan 16, 2026 at 12:37 PM UTC
At Twilights Edge I think her kiss that arrives like a summer storm,
not imitating bloom or ritual,
but breaking open as storms do,
without asking the field for permission.
There is a mercy in such brevity
to burn and not apologize,
to offer the whole body this sweetness
and never look back.
The world keeps small altars for gentle things and It forgives what vanishes quickly.
Petals, sighs, the hush after touch
all are spared judgment because they do not last, they gentle kiss the air.
Ah, but how the air learns longing
from being kissed by what cannot remain.
How the sky keeps the memory
of what brushed it and fled.
We stand elsewhere.
We are given weight, warmth, reply.
Our mouths do not open into absence
but into another breath that answers.
Even loss comes held in hands.
Even departure leaves an echo in the blood.
Yes, there is sorrow everywhere,
but not ours alone.
We are permitted to touch what touches back,
to spend our fire inside a living horizon.
The wind knows this and passes on.
Jan 12
Jan 12, 2026 at 3:37 AM UTC
Every moment age is creeping up stealthily
but life, life is melting down
like a candle that is flickering around.
It incinerates, yet tries to smile
and keeps broiling, pretending to be alive
it flickers around restlessly
like a blaze of lightning flame
life is withering away, like a candle
that is melting down.
Life freezes and stiffens, if abandoned
it melts and spills, if kept burning
instead, every moment
death is shaping up slowly and quietly.
but life, life is melting down
like a candle flickering against the night.
---------------
© Suman Pokhrel
Nov 2, 2025
Nov 2, 2025 at 9:31 AM UTC
by Shikiyu
Raindrops fall through the trees,
with a soft whisper—saa, like silk.
Upon the leaf I watch,
a single drop slides down.
As if longing for the Earth,
it falls,
and meets a stone below.
Pichan—
with that small sound, it bursts,
leaving only the trace
of what once was rain.
Again and again,
it falls,
is carried away,
is washed clean—
until sunlight returns.
Through breaks in the clouds,
the light scatters,
and the remains of the rain
sparkle,
then quietly disappear.
In that single drop,
I saw a life.
Born of overflowing energy,
falling through changing scenes—
each downward view
a fleeting way of living.
And at last,
I burst.
Strongly—
each fragment of me
filled with what I felt.
And I will fade, someday.
The light that follows
will shine upon me.
And I wish—
to end that way,
beautifully.
There’s something about the sound of rain that quiets the soul.
Nov 2, 2025
Nov 2, 2025 at 2:08 AM UTC
A flame that burns
An ache that churns
The candle flickers on
With tears of wax
It stirs, it cracks
Until the break of dawn
When love's last lick
Runs out of wick
And all its light is gone.
Oct 11, 2025
Oct 11, 2025 at 11:09 AM UTC
No one will wait anymore—
Here, this silence hums its lonely hymn.
If anyone on this earth remembers the path you once took,
If anyone still hears the echo of the door you closed,
If anyone had stood beside you in that relentless rain—
That rain from a season long forgotten—
Will they return to find you here once more?
On the verandah, where evening moths swarm the fading light,
Or inside, as they reach for a half-forgotten tune—
When the fragile thread of melody suddenly snaps—
A withered petal will tremble, then fall,
Unraveling from their grasp like memory itself.
Oct 1, 2025
Oct 1, 2025 at 10:29 PM UTC
Oh west wind, wrongfully called wild, Oh dear and tender Zephyrus, How could your name ever be befiled, if they knew your gentle caress?
A face so soft and rounded strong, warm hands that comb through locks of hair. Yet I despair when I see the throng, your dying visage, my love, so fair.
Zephyrus, why do you fade away? Tell me, let me share your fate. Why, my love, do you look so sore? Is it us? Did we rob you of your state?
Exhausts exhaust, did we take your breath? Did we cost you your very life? Your quivering lips, pale as death, Zephyrus, are you consumed by strife?
My love, stay with me, I beg and plead, Don't perish, Zephyrus, don't be gone. Together, we'll change this vile deed, I'll keep you uplifted, love withdrawn.
Zephyrus, please, where have you gone? Zephyrus mine, don't be deceased. Know that I love you, even though it's wrong, this's my demise. Your song has ceased
Jun 14, 2025
Jun 14, 2025 at 7:41 AM UTC
Oh west wind, wrongfully called wild,
Oh dear and tender Zephyrus,
How could ever be your name befiled,
If they knew your soft caress?
A face so soft and rounded strong,
And warm hands that softly comb through hairs.
Yet do I despair now when I see
The face that I adore.
I see it dying, Zephyrus, why?
Tell me, let me be part of your
Sorrow and I will take your fate.
Why, my love, do you look so sore?
Is it us? Exhausts exhaust,
Did we **** you in cold blood?
Were you the one our lives have cost?
Your lips they shiver white,
Are you cold, Zephyrus, are you
Still alright? It’s a fever! Am I right?
My love, stay, I beg and plead,
Don’t die there, Zephyrus,
We'll get through this, I'll keep you upheaved.
Zephyrus, please, where are you, are you gone?
Zephyrus mine, don’t be dead.
I want you to know that, I love you, Zephyrus, even if it’s wrong.
I too have died, Zephyrus, knowing that I stopped your song.
Jun 14, 2025
Jun 14, 2025 at 7:43 AM UTC
Standing on top of each morning briefly
stopping by each evening shortly
unmindful, my eyes are chasing,
my eyelids are sweeping with light the sky
splattered with colours pilled out
after hitting horizon's last shore.
I am thinking
what is this crimson,
colour of lovers' hearts
torn from each other and
taking on to opposite paths,
or the reddish glow of minds
come together after
dark moments of separation?
Half of my life is soaked in colour
watching these red glows
spilled over the side-door that admits the day
and the bamboo portals
that shut out the day,
but could not understand
whether this earth and sky
part in the evening
and meet in the morning
or part in the morning
and meet in the evening!
-०-
Jun 9, 2025
Jun 9, 2025 at 1:06 AM UTC
The cold end of a knife
is a hail storm—
a biting reminder
of why one cut
runs deeper than disaster.
How loud,
each thundering heartbeat!
How silent,
the fall of a thousand fears.
When your body
is inside the eye of a storm
long enough
for each howl to cut through
everything, then
you’ll know how to breathe
out without bleeding.
When you’re free
of all the things you have seen,
come outside—
the wind
is a dance of good things.
Soft, unsharpened things.
Things that do not ask
to be survived.
May 18, 2025
May 18, 2025 at 12:09 AM UTC
Somewhere tucked on a bookshelf is a book.
Dogeared, yellow pages with a hand written note.
In a box, lie trinkets — gifts, a pendant of Annie, a book mark.
Hand made cards, smudged with time.
An old doll almost intact,
Broken spectacles, pictures, a watch and postcards.
Some may call it clutter, junk —
And it’ll all go when I go.
But to me, they are the reason behind my smile, an odd tear.
More precious than collectibles or art —
They are pieces of my life,
My world and heart.
Mar 15, 2025
Mar 15, 2025 at 11:26 AM UTC
A tinpot tyrant built a tower tall,
clad in gold and granite and all.
This motte and bailey mocked the skies,
mocked the peasants who’d helped him rise.
Reflected in wide moat’s black waters
he saw a king or khan — not the paupers —
and ruled his lands to rack and ruin
until he faced his own perdition.
The tyrant’s chiseled name fades away
dissolving with each rainy day.
All that’s left of this despot’s schemes:
the wreck of his peeling gold leaf dreams,
this tower the barest token of his trying will
upon that lonely bald abandoned hill.
Now none remember the tyrant‘s name
whose broken tower was built for fame.
Feb 5, 2025
Feb 5, 2025 at 7:08 PM UTC
In the bleak winter
under hurrying clouds,
the wind blowing, bitter
gusts through trees’ barren boughs.
A small house: Its nooks
in new Gothic style
once housed the old books
of a forgotten king for a while.
It had been a library,
a place filled with words;
now all that here tarries
are the winds and the terns.
Its glassless peaked window
looks out on the sky
to waters that flow
by the small palace hard by.
The window is incised
in stone shaded gold —
a warm tone that belies
its touch that is cold.
The red palace is crowned
in gold and white marble.
They shine out, gowned
in hues that spite winter’s pallor.
Now blue waters and birds
add color to the scene
that fills this blank window
with nature’s stained glass serene.
This house has stood waiting,
empty in wintriest times —
now it’s filled by nature’s painting
brushed in hushed hues divine.
Jan 14, 2025
Jan 14, 2025 at 2:28 PM UTC
Human life moves fast
shows things, words, convinces
It shows things that are not created,
but about what is created in the heart
No healthy person will say
And even when life is sad
Don't lose hope, because it's very tedious anyway
Everything is falling apart
You're lying on the ground, you're in despair
Suddenly a ray of sunshine appears,
Drivetrain like in a sports car
Engine straight from the sky
It's coming back, and you want to change it, present it like a bestseller,
Put it on a distant shelf, away from light, eyes of the gaze
for old memories
And when you see yourself in the mirror after grayness and indifference... You bet something...
It's love, faith, hope
-Happiness at last, faith at last,
As if my punishment had passed, you thought
not seeing your reflection that you have already seen,
reflections from the mirror of childhood. It's faith
Not only old memories will remain
Jan 14, 2025
Jan 14, 2025 at 7:43 AM UTC
I drag this weight,
each step a crime against the ground.
Am I a ghost,
too solid to slip away,
or an animal,
broken, bent,
flesh tight with the burden of living?
I cannot call myself human—
humans ache with love,
but I am jagged,
a wound that won't heal.
Too wild to tame,
too hollow to be held.
Time to vanish—
to dissolve into night,
my absence felt by none.
Jan 13, 2025
Jan 13, 2025 at 1:06 PM UTC
I’m walking by the dimming remains
of a building of future past:
its once stylish streetlight, now decayed,
points at the Moon that’s rising fast.
The old streetlight was made of globes of glass
that circle its core of steel bars.
It looks like a starship, sleek and fast,
but now its globes are dusty and scarred.
The globes, a circle of eight bright moons,
orbit the streetlight’s tall spire
that points up to the glowing sky jewel,
to the place to which it aspires.
Up there, on brightly lit lunar plains,
our spacefarers once walked in awe
and dreamt of Zarathustra’s booming strains
in two thousand and one proud hurrahs.
And so this spacecraft of glass globes
was made to look up to the stars,
to urge us on to launch further probes
and take wing from this blue globe of ours.
Years later, this dream has faded
to fleeting stars of reality shows,
who leave the people fixated —
not by the Moon’s, but by screens’ dim glow.
The streetlight was fixed firmly to earth,
iron bolted to grey crumbling concrete.
But it still points up to the heavenly berth:
Moon rises, a dream left on repeat.
Jan 11, 2025
Jan 11, 2025 at 10:55 AM UTC