Collab with JP

Unshadowed trees offer me no protection
from what I am,
From what I was.
I'm blinded but still trying to see
Meanings in what's painted by the breeze

Tired branches depicting  imperfection
Framing Life-drained mildew-stained leaves
Roots still bleeding way too far
Sketching something alive only in memories

In some way the shadows are returning,
I'm feeling the zephyr once again.
These leaves are almost green.
Once they were but now is what's been

I can only recreate by burning
Smelling like a soul that's spent
Only smoke and destruction seen
Gloomy canvas of a life at end

Let me close my eyes
Let me fall away, drifting.
Think all this is almost concluded.
Maybe I'm just deluded?

Let me scribble my last goodbye
And leave as part of this imaging
Where melancholy is favoured
And happiness secluded

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Relaxing in the front yard
Peering up at the sky
Mesmerized by the sound of the leaves dancing in the breeze
Watching the clouds sashay by
The shapes they made entertained my cerebellum.
The warm summer sun bakes the smell of lilac into the air
My best friend relaxes beside me, mimicking my every move.
living in our minds
Not a single care
This was ours
Our moment
Our time
The grass was frigid and plush beneath our backs
The sweet breeze kissed our faces
This was one of my favorite places.

We were June's children:
Lazing in our cottages
Of restful diversions,
Sleeping through sticky days.
We were the youth of July:
Strong-backed and surly,
Unafraid and eager.
We pined for a challenge.
Stiff-lipped and sunburnt,
Now we are August's boys:
Wet-mouthed and grass dewed,
We dance naked in the wheatfields.
We slide amongst the chaff.
Our strong backs brace
Against heavy furnace skies,
And we look to September
With summer in our eyes.

Gentle stream, caressing stone
Tree tops sway, as breeze pass throw
Delirious fragrances, fill my own
Kind moonlight dance, on face below
A crisp autumn night, on me bestow

In the forests around Klipkoppie dam near White River, Mpumalanga, on an autumn night.

Water like horses, rolls the sand
While gentle air, breeze the land
The bow, a *** of gold to show
Drops of rain, on face bestow
I need, nowhere else to go

Standing on the Umhlanga beach on a rainy day with the sun breaking through the clouds.

Red and orange, paint the sky
Shades draw long, until there’s nei
Dark silhouette, of desert land
Untouched, by human hand
This is where, I like to stand

Sun setting over Dune 7, Walvisbay, Namibia.

doves drowning
in the storms wicked air
watch with empathy as they struggle in the
thrashing tides of the rainswept sky
watch as the fall from grace
in the warm tears of rain

bernie was waiting on
doomsdays last train
he kept his lunch in a sack
along with the face he gonna wear
when he comes up fore the good lord
but what worried him was if the other fella
had his ticket
he would toss his coin on
the hand he was dealt
a good man misunderstood
a simple man living a complex life

contortionist of the fable
she wrote her own storied life
on the back of a matchbook cover
after all its the flame of her heart
that set ablaze many a mans inner pervert
she is waiting on that last train too
with a devilish certainty of her destination
but she aint too worried
she knows hell is just like miami in july

doves nestled in the hands of time
make a soft sound that stirs the heart
sounds like a love affair
sounds like free flight on a summer breeze
feels like home

Breeze, just ******* away
As I lay scattered along your pathway
As dry as the leaves, fallen from trees
Worthy no more, as I have lost my sheen
No more connected to the branches
Relegated to the heap of waste
Only I can burn, to give you some light and warmth

This looks like nature.
Standing on the edge on the edge of a bridge
above a man made pond
surrounded by asphalt trails
trees cracking under pressure.
I walk amongst the preplanned trails.
A pseudo-wilderness.
Parked my car in a designated spot.
The deep blue sly outlined
by artificial sounds and light.
Listening to the sounds of the Earth
thru headphones.

Runners cross by…
To my left is an old Hackberry
Celtis occidentalis.
I’ve learned about nature
in textbooks.
This particular Hackberry is covered in a vine.
It’s struggling to survive against an exotic species.
Further on down my path is humankind
“beautifying” nature
with preplanned gardens
gazebos
marble benches donated by nature loving proprietors
next to sawed off stumps
these benches give me a decent place to rest.

As I continue my walk I come across
an unsightly dead Black Cherry
Prunus serotina.
Soon it will be disposed of
by a chainsaw.
Nature’s blemishes.
Please help us keep the Gardens clean.
Trash around a metal can.
Why do human ***** monuments in monuments?
Dominance over nature.

The flowers will begin to bloom soon.
This family has come to soon to take pictures.
Spring has only begun to spring.

Please teach your children to appreciate nature.

I turn back towards my car.
Signs guide me on the path to return.
The road most taken.
Of to my right is an emergency station
push for help
nature is being taken.
I pass by a stream pristine
if you do not count the five plastic bottle, crumbles of paper and shoe.
The trees above me blow in a soft breeze
which reminds me of air conditioning.
There are areas marked off for protection.
Protection from whom?
We’ve already safeguarded it in gaudy surveying tape.

Resting upon a donated bench I watch a maintenance man
raking gumballs.
Continuing down my path I think
“How long have I walked?”
Suddenly,
A golf cart coming around the corner overtakes me.
Pushing me onto the grass.
My feet sink into the muddy ground.
I’ll have to wash my shoes tonight.

Coming across native grass still smoldering
a controlled burn.
I realize
humankind has learned to perform the duties of our mother
better than she can.

I pause

lose myself for a moment
before I remember
I have things to do
and
there’s a two-hour parking limit.
On my way out I discard my trash in a dumpster
rolling my window down
to feel the breeze once more.

I think I'm gonna leave your memory in paradise
No use trying to bring that hammock into this city life
There isn't a beach to wash our worries away
Even if I just want to see you again for one more day

Masochistic heart why won't you just relent
Quit putting yourself through all this torment
Remember the palm trees, the summer breeze,
The actions void of any regret, Be happy we even met

Along this road life seems to pass each of us by
But your memory will never be tarnished if kept in paradise

All I see is up
The pink flower stretches to forever at the sky
I stare wishing to be among the clouds
Its anterior filters the sun’s warmth upon my soft arms
I sit upon the dark, sodden, summer earth
I am all to myself. Alone.
At home under their stems
So benign am I encased by the pink flower

The pink flower trembles under slight hand of a summer breeze
Honeyed are its petals,
But dangerous is its center
Pricking my delicate fingers
If I am not careful
Yet I watch a dragonfly land on it with grace           
Fragile insect legs grip tightly at the miniature pointed peaks

Wind caresses wisps of hair around my petite face
I am like a fairy
Not knowing the wonders of the world
Only the kingdom of the pink flower
Moisture sweetens the air
Drenching it with the breath of nature
Almost as if a mother is breathing comfort into my small body

A song comes out of the speeding bhogis,
Seeta is the one rendering the song.
She chants that her husband has long been dead.

Seeta has two sons, just like her ballads.
One –
Gives rhythm to her song.
Other –
Rubs a gentleman out of his siesta
And asks for a little money.

The bhogis gain momentum (Ignores the station master who shows red to stop the pacing male phallus)

Long away –
A girl lies down, lower than the rails.
**** me, **** me, she bangs her head.
I will, I will, the rails swell the train song in her ears.

Though long away,
Though have not heard the girl,
As if she has heard something -
Seeta stops singing.
And her children dash out.

Two hobos enter in –
As if to sell sizzling peanuts.

Just as to give the body a bath –
Seemingly not pleased just with the rails –
The male train jumps off,
Into the wide sea.
(Whose ****** is the sea, the breeze hums a song)

A thousand crows flutters from –
One’s previous birth,
To –
Another’s next birth.

Seeta, having forgotten all her songs –
Looks out for her kids.

Will arrive shortly, will arrive shortly :
Weary, irked and bored -
Time waits at a station.

(I did remember Rupesh Paul, who drew a simile between the rails and the *** worker’s nights, Anitha Thampi, who wrote about female trains, Latheesh Mohan, who noted down how the train stretches its back, Vishnu Prasad and his poem on the phallus, Prasanna Aryans usage: ****, says the wheel and ****-**** , says the rail et al , while writing this poem)

(Translated by Sherin Catherine)

I crave a dance
Not a hug,
Not a kiss or a delicate touch
But a dance
A red dress and a gentleman to take my hand
On a shinning dancefloor
On a trip outside the dimensions of this world
Where flying needs no wings
Where music feels like the gentle wind
I'd swirl and swirl
With my red dress flowing like the petals of a rose
Carried by the swift breeze
Till it come back
To you

Tall, slender
Silhouetted against the sky
Rustled by a light breeze
Green fronds wave
At Mina birds swooping by.
Mina bird, Mina bird
What do you see,
Perched up on top of
That tall palm tree?

Slender, strong
Swaying in the breeze
Little songbirds find food
In the pock-marked, gray trunk
Of the tall palm trees.
Oh, what made those marks
So many, and deep
Into which tasty bugs
Like to creep?

Strong, flexible
With a heavy top
From which coconuts
With smiling faces
Like to drop.
Plop! Plop! Plop!
Watch your head!
Sir Isaac Newton
Would be dead.

Swirling morning mist, draws abstract patterns of love
moving sprightly,  between golden rays of sun,
prattling  breeze and other manifestations winter presents,
green grass on the meadow looks like a dew studded carpet
pussyfooting rabbits, lick dew drops in a hurry and run back
to the warmth of their burrows, to sleep for some more time.

Sun, the nourisher eternal of the world , don't hide anymore
come out, peep above the crowd of sleepy grey old clouds,
looking grumpy, ill mannered and winter arrogant to the core,
don't like their attitude a bit, come out blow your trumpet of warmth
make the drooping wet birds, dry, fly up to the sky with a happy cry
sing songs of joy, warm the hearts,drive the winter gloom out.

Underwater light faceted
in the enormous aquamarine
set in bronzed stones.
A pale green mist lifts from the pool
follows the lantern lit pathways
back to the dark and shady places
edging to the olive grove
and the blackness
of the wych elms
and the limes
enclosing the garden
like impenetrable walls.

Here, on a very warm night
with a honeysuckle, jasmine breeze
heady, rich and almost liquid
You can stand on the sun-filled stones
stretch and hold
the heart-breaking sweetness
of the night.

Feel the wind blow its breeze through my face
a wispy cloudy haze
a wispy cloudy haze
suns heat warmed my soul in
my soul my soul
the tinge is turning as this colour fades
from there to here and here to there
a wispy cloudy haze
on a wispy cloudy day

like the ocean on a bright sunny day,
like the winter sky devoid of the blockade of clouds.

it's the feeling of the cool breeze
and the rain,
falling to the earth
on a hot summer day
and the hot breath
that you exhale onto
the cool glass,
melting it into tiny water droplets.

and the sound of the deep bass
of the drums
in slow motion
as the sound waves reverberates
in the air and
travels to my eardrums.

it's the sensation of
the sharp-icy touch
of your skin on mine,
like icy sophistication that
later warms into me,
as i cool to your being.

Sitting alone under a darkened sky
Oft leads to meandering thoughts
Of things both blithely blissful
And bitterly biting.

Like the time we held hands
On a road trip across the country
That ended in sour silence
And restrained rhetorical retorts.

Like the time we warmly watched
The sun set over an orange ocean,
Only to go home feeling colder
Than the biting breeze that rose with dusk.

Like the time I said "I love you"
To your goofy grinning face
And in the same breath, "Goodbye"
To your vanishing visage.

Two sides of the same coin--
That's just life.
I guess this is why it's called
Bittersweet.

Summertime sands scorch in between our bare toes,
the waves soak them cold and moist like a dog nose.
Let's build a strange castle in the shape of a heart.
Adore it, attempt to perfect it, pose for pictures.
We like to dig our fingers deep into its center.
If we press too hard, it crumbles, and we have to fix it better.
But we like to dig our fingers deep into its center.
We press too hard, it crumbles, and we can't fix it better.
It's getting late, the sun is low, the breeze chills our bones.
Tide is climbing back to us, and we've got to go home.
We've left our sweaters with our mothers
who disappeared like our shoes.
Pygmalions sans Venus blessing,
making love building blues.

Oh, what it would be
To be by a redwood tree.
As far as the eye can see
Beams penetrating the canopy.

Oh what it would be to breathe
West coast sea in the breeze
Dancing through all the leaves
Whilst fairies are singing...

Oh what it would be to read
Ancient history within rings
Written never to be seen
Yet recorded by seasons rains.

Oh what it would be to be
With you smiling back at me
Right now, tis but a dream.
With hope, but a fantasy.

A midnight poet,
she calls herself.
Because the cascading words,
come to her
wrapped up in shiny moonlight,
served on blankets of darkness,
stars dusted lightly on top.
Her inspiration
rides the midnight breeze
swiftly and gently
to her window,
waiting patiently for her
to lift the glass up
and greet them warmly.
So there she sits,
next to the open window
waiting for the perfect moment
to say hello.
To invite her loyal inspiration in
for some midnight tea,
and although she says
she’s not fond of midnight snacks
She pours herself
a steaming mug of metaphors
and serves couplets
with the drink.
After a comfortable chat,
Inspiration takes its leave
out the window
on the breeze in which it came.
And so the girl
is left lonely once more,
but not truly alone.
She has her words,
her rhymes,
her metaphors,
and her couplets
to keep her company
as she forms it all
into beautiful verses
that capture the heart.
As she sits by her window,
the midnight poet
notices how soft the sky looks,
dark and freckled with stars.
The sweet sky comforts her
as she mourns her bitter loneliness into verses,
or envelops her in maddening, exciting emptiness
as she writes
or simply sleeps
by her window.
The midnight poet
sighs gently
catching the wily night’s attention
And draws poetry from its
calming,
yet sly,
grin.
The girl catches falling stars
made of verses
from her pretty window seat.
She finds lines tucked behind faraway planets,
makes metaphors from the moonlight,
comfortable in the darkness’s embrace.
The midnight poet
coaxes poetry from the freckled night sky
And tucks it into her pocket
For safekeeping.
To keep
as an ever loyal
companion.
A reminder
of her home.
A poem of the night.

"Our cattle graze, the wind breathes." -Garcilaso *

It was my ancient voice
ignorant of thick bitter juices.
I sense it lapping my feet
beneath the fragile wet ferns.

Ay, ancient voice of my love,
ay, voice of my truth,
ay, voice of my open flank,
when all the roses flowed from my tongue
and grass knew nothing of horses' impassive teeth!

Here are you drinking my blood,
drinking my tedious childhood mood,
while in the wind my eyes are bludgeoned
by aluminum and drunken voices.

Let me pass the gates
where Eve eats ants
and Adam seeds dazzled fish.
Let me return, manikins with horns,
to the grove where I stretch
and leap with joy.

I know a rite so secret
it requires an old rusty pin
and I know the horror of open eyes
on a plate's concrete surface.

But I want neither world nor dream, nor divine voice,
I want my freedom, my human love
in the darkest corner of breeze that no oen wants.
My human love!

Those hounds of the sea chase each other
and the wind spies on careless tree trunks.
Oh ancient voice, burn with your tongue
this voice of tin and talc!

I long to weep because I want to,
as the children cry in the last row,
because I'm not man, nor poet, nor leaf,
but only a wounded pulse circling the things of the other side

I want to cry out speaking my name,
rose, child and fir-tree beside this lake,
to speak my truth as a man of blood
slay in myself teh tricks and turns of the word.

No, no. I'm not asking, I, desire,
voice, my freedom that laps my hands.
In the labyrinth of screens it's my nakedness receives
the moon of punishment and the ash-drowned clock.

Thus I was speaking.
Thus I was speaking with Saturn stopped the trains,
when the fod and Dream and Death were seeking me.
Seeking me
where the cows, with tiny pages' feet, bellow
and where my body floats between opposing fulcrums.

How she could
always
glance onto
the beach
for hours and hours
at a time;
her thoughts
lost beautifully
deeply at sea.
Escaping her reality.
The clashing sound
of the waves
soothed her
to the very core
of her
existence
while the breeze
of the ocean
played
innocently with her hair
as if they were
two small children
running together
happily
whilst holding hands
with no worries
whatsoever.
How her face
was
translucent
enough
that you could tell
when she missed
the ocean
and its mysteries.

My hooded head casts a shadow
across the overflowing ashtray.
My exhaled smoke is silhouetted on the
handcrafted clay.
In the shape of an oyster,
painted with the colors of
rebellious 21st century youth:
Red. Gold. Green.
With a flare of "originality."
Breeze, light, cold
escorts winter across my
aged face and I see all that my life is:
Tar. Work. Tar. Tar. Sleep.
Work. Tar. Eat. Work. Tar.
Tar. Work. Eat. Work.
Drink coffee.
Tar.
Sleep.
Die.
Is this equation what I am
reduced to?
Simple formula, obsessive compulsive
DREAM.
The exponents of my life,
variables and names:
Tar. to the power of X.
Tar. to the power of M.
But exponents and powers
mean little to drowning men.
Can a man suffocate on
his own routine?
Can a man fashion a noose
from the fibers of his
"adult life?"
Look, Ma!
I'm all growed-up.
I have murdered adventure
and the youth that lives
inside it.
I snapped one too many thin branches,
fell through the thin ice,
and now I am addicted to solid ground.
I will stand on the banks,
watching the children
ice-skate around my ashtray
that overflows with
every "yesterday" and
half-smoked "this one time"
that comprise my
former life.
I am a grown-up now.