When all else fails

There are days when daylight proceeds as if not prepared to come,
and I wonder
why the world’s not yet been upgraded to a higher definition;
a penny for your thoughts,
we are fragile beings in an unbreakable sort of way.
I look to the sky,
seek the companionship of your words when all else fails–
your perspective helps gain new insight,
urging me
rise above the clamour of the world.

It’s delicate, delightful and deep,
the way the sun blooms on the horizon, unbiased–
is it incumbent for us to act accordingly?
Isn’t it enough that the universe is woven into the fabric of soul?
We write of longing in shades darker than usual,
knowing
only a few will understand; if one has no right to exist
then
neither does the other– I cannot help looking;
I cannot help looking
when all else fails.

 

 

Photo credits: Pinterest

This week, Magaly would like us to write poetry or prose
where we are
to fill in the blanks in the phrase, “When all
else fails, I.” Come join us! đź“ť

Anmol invites us to write along the lines of pride, protest,
gender fluidity et al. I chose to write a tribute poem in his
honor! đź’ť

Posted for “Anmol’s last prompt,” Poetics @ Dverse Poets Pub

Posted for Weekly Scribblings @ Poets and Storytellers United

His Scent

Now that I have breathed in you,
my senses
no longer respond to any other sound or scent;
blatant berries complain,
blushing furiously outside—I am not sure
what it is about you that beguiles

only that
there is distinct drumming inside my temples.

 

 

Photo credits: Pinterest

Posted for Quadrille Night #106 @ dVerse Poets Pub

and on Writers’ Pantry @ Poets and Storytellers United

Strawberry Moon ~ Part Two: Heart of a Songbird

Shattered in ecstasy,
the moon bends down to whisper into my ear,
perhaps it has sensed a sliver of soreness behind–
a decade has passed,
were we if only songbirds perched upon a tree with just seasons
to guide us correctly;
I’d never have to worry about a thing.
The birds possess perfect faith, with a song that reverberates deep
inside their bodies; and I wonder,
how is it that we as a species are more than different?
I am uncaged, slowly becoming part of the silence required
to observe their ways—
my lips defying darkness that threatens to engulf unremittingly.
Is it considered a drought if I am gasping for you?
There is no telling the distance, how high these clouds climb–
listen,
in the end, it’s pain that saves us when the world fails to give us
what we have earned; the exposition of truth,
I can hear the birds this morning– their chirping is a sign,
it’s conveying a message.
Love wounds but deprives not of emotion.

 

 

Photo credits: Artwork by Ransom and Mitchell, Pinterest

Posted for Writers’ Pantry @ Poets and Storytellers United

From Dusk Till Dawn

Dandelion seeds whisper your name towards the end of the day,
can you feel the mantling of the sky?
Among roots and blades of grass lies self-restraint,
why is it that the sun refuses to sleep?
My breast filled with the humid emotions of June;
what is this alchemy?
I fell in love with the way your eyelids closed.

Speak, the heart’s descending to darker depths
of meaning,
golden in its knowledge of the realm’s return to dust;
do you see the delicate way in which assassins touch machinery?
As though aware of the weight of conscience;
my apologies,
that was a dreadful misinterpretation of monstrosity;
they possess none whatsoever,
keep walking— repugnance will dry anybody’s lips,
what does increase in fahrenheit have anything to do with it?
I fire up the clouds from dusk till dawn,
my tongue abrogating sweet milk that it has tasted over the years;
it’s no longer acceptable to be immune.

 

 

Photo credits: Pinterest

Song Choice: ZAYN – Dusk Till Dawn ft. Sia

Skylover Wordlist: Machinery, fahrenheit, speak, golden,
dust, assassin, return, medicine đź’ť

Posted for Weekly Scribblings @ Poets and Storytellers United

Since Flower, Nor Stone, Nor Depths of the Raging Sea

I have died and come to life a thousand times,
the unprecedented sighs of June stand as witness—
why was the world made this way?
Do colors have no choice but to fade at the end of the year?
You blow soft, the words that stir me from oblivion,
I knew not I was at war with myself;
dawn is beautiful,
eroding
uninvited thoughts in return that haunt me
at the end of day.
Let the rain fall,
let the rain fall down and wash away doubt;

sometimes it takes a stranger to reintroduce you to yourself—
I don’t possess the poetry to describe you perfectly on the page.

 

 

Photo credits: John William Waterhouse Painting, Pinterest

Posted for Writers’ Pantry @ Poets and Storytellers United