I have seen white blossoms fall into the lake regardless of political storm that surrounds it, witnessed men build dreams conscious of suspicion that destroys it. This is not anywhere else but here in our heart that we find conviction, I won’t tell you because you already know how to do it.
And when the night darkens, both moon and lovers go silent knowing that art of pleasing won’t always solve everything,
I won’t disclose sheets soiled with regret a water jug,
and roses stripped of colour in a hotel room where opinions are muffled under covers.
This, I am writing to a friend who on several occasions is caught by surprise, we can not go back and start
from the beginning, nor can we hope to undo grief and change the person we were yesterday, I won’t tell you how to feel
offer age old cures that only half believe
I won’t tell you
how to let go of buried thoughts
even the wind echoes what foolish sing
I won’t tell you how to go on because
you are already doing a beautiful job of it.
Winter, the red fading slowly from petals each day and though foliage sleeps a smile forms upon despairing lips. I used to believe one could never be cheerful while dealing with an uncertain future, believed before you stepped into my world and instilled hope.
A smile, a dialogue and gentle tap on the shoulder is all we need to unravel the pain swirling in a smoke behind silent eyes. I can feel words watching, wanting and just waiting to spill out, I can feel moments which lie between the sun and cloud, calling for me to save a life.
This morning wasn’t grey rather it was dipped into soothing lavender as silence is replaced by sounds of early traffic. Carefully, the white-heaven bound birds glide down bringing with them freshly baked hope, as I manage to pull myself out of bed.
Feeling then calls me to the things of this world to madness to chaos and to the dark intentions of disquiet, my mind ponders over political salad dressing where vegetable bits turn one against something as relevant as kosher salt; is verity merely a word lost in translation?
I greet the day with fire in my soul and determination raging in my breast, let there be a breeze of change let tranquility ripen slowly, in the midst of life we encounter death come let there be development of tenderness, let us stare into the eyes of time, the unthinkable let the young, old and restless step into the field, come let us plough peace as our new principle.
If ever the sky above is grey, and memory along with wisteria compels our understanding, then it must be December.
Hardly do I await the rising sun hardly do I remember
the last time my heart had sung when daily chores finish
and a welcoming fire begins to burn, what good is time that trembles at mere arrival of dusk?
At first you coalesce with guile plunging my soul with yours deep into the abyss of lawlessness and lust if only I could persuade you
to catch hold of inner light, of each moment
as it tiptoes around us and flies– You with your bowl of perjury and world of lies, what good is time when lips are sautéed with long despair?
And the days are not full enough
nor nights sufficient, beloved mine yet I sought to hear the voice of conscience knowing
outside it’s dark and the snow is falling.