April 20, 2023
 |  28 Comments

Autumn reflections in rose apple red and 
gold frame the village, 
where a musician composes his thoughts  
and stirs a potpourri of words– 
a cluster of houses scattered here 
and there, with cascade of duskiness  
in shades of sapphire and gunmetal grey, 
I watch him run up a spiral staircase to  
the skies with mayhem on his lips.  

The songbirds are lonely;  
you will find them in coves perched upon  
green vines, in the innocence of morning 
and outside a bakehouse, 
their harmonies resonate tenderly, sing 
a lovelier song for they are not broken,  
nor have they sinned– 
I walk back with them to memories  
where I have drenched,  
some bonds aren’t meant to be explained. 

Today I need the lyrics; as clouds range 
from sea salt to abalone, 
the village, rhythmically engaged in its  
world, listens through  
the window pane, stare upon shadow  
of trees swaying in the wind, 
and ask me to tell them my favorite thing  
about the rain. 
I tell them, it’s just that the rain knows 
what to do, when it finds me  
hiding my heart away every now and then. 

The musician fills vacuum in the atmosphere 
with thulian pink and vulnerabilities, 
I listen and whisper quietly the words  
I need to breathe, 
as autumn kisses the blushing leaves  
and prepares us for a variety of experiences, 
the village sleeps and  
becomes the paperweight that holds  
my words to something; 
there is no telling what a pen stroke might 
or might not reveal. I write on. 

 

 

 

 

Photo credits: American Village by Edward Hopper, wikiart.org

Posted for Two Opportunities to join us LIVE @dVerse Poets Pub