backwards and forwards in time
Let’s be nostalgic
for things that were and were not
Let’s long for things that will be and not
Lest we aren’t here tomorrow
Let’s get consumed with all that there isn’t right now
Let’s waste time for the time bygone
mist of thoughts
fog of dreams
relics of aspirations
buried in the lands of fantasy
and slippery mind
scattered like colors
on silky wings of a butterfly
and i run and i run
for a hint of your color
O’ butterfly, o’ butterfly
why don’t you settle down
just for a little while
rest your wings
color some hopes from beginning to end
How much hatred does it take
to shoot through callow eyes?
How numbed do you have to be
to scheme a massacre of infants?
How deaf must you be
to smother crying sounds?
Do genes not stir up empathy
when a child cries?
After all we were designed for self preservation
but who knew the contours of self would shrink
to a point in vortex of hate and depravity.
And the hate outgrows that what it embodies
as children cease to outgrow their clothes
The boxes of moist hands pilfered from life
will go down in the lands you so desire.
How much hate??
I can only wonder…
Does that heart not bleed
to unbroken voices off the walls?
Or do the guns drown out the ‘background noise’?
For whomever you died young men
you killed and you died
And we remain to plough through
arid fields of humanity.
Kill us all, why just the children
for the graveyards feel more livable now.
Build your kingdom and eulogize your gods
in blighted homes built on bodies
that know little of gods and far less of humans.
But then again
at least they went happy
in classrooms of love
and wonders of science
at least they won’t grow up
to find bullets between their children’s eyes.
To the valleys I can’t return to,
To the trees I can no more climb,
To the flowers I will never smell,
To the smells I can only remember,
To the home that will never be.
To the eyes I can’t look into,
To the looks that will never be cast upon me,
To the hands I will never again lock mine into,
To the heartbeats that will never pound in my ears,
To the nights that were once not as dark,
or solemn like the heavy air harbingering
a silent resilient storm.
To the tears that will never wet my blouse,
To the voices that will only slither in my head,
To the names I will never be called again.
To the sun, the heat, the dust and smoke,
of the evening rides through the bustling streets,
And the youth that inhaled it all.
You will always choke a breath,
wither my strength,
may be even lovingly caress me sometimes.
That you were there once,
And that, I once lived in you,
As you now live in me.
O’ Park Bench
I kissed so many, cajoled few egos
Whispered white lies to some,
O’ park bench,
On warm sunny days, slowly cooling down to a new touch,
Some snowy evenings, smoldering in the heat of passion,
It is in your arms I walked in with the hope of love,
and then watched it melt into despair.
Yet here we are again,
Just you and me,
On this soaked night,
Watching autumn leaves slide over our arms so gently,
The yellow street light scatters in the soft drizzle,
Just the way I diffuse in your arms night after night,
Sometimes of love, sometimes of sorrow
You accept my deep dolors, fears, love, and happiness all the same.
O’ park bench, are you what love really is,
Open arms in this tight fisted world?
The day of decision is here,
The precipitous downfall commemorates a climb,
Or maybe not!
Is it just a fall from another hill into another abyss?
Ensnared in dogma and poverty or blinded by privilege,
We all wait for a fate sealed for us,
Some under the daunting sun and leaky roofs, by televisions the size of their forearm,
Some on leather recliners, dousing their anxiety in chilled beverages,
And some others just stare into the oblivion of hunger, violence and hatred,
For voting is the least of rights taken away from them.
With muddy, sweaty foreheads or touched-up cheeks,
As we anticipate our starkly different futures,
The desperation that engulfs us all, is the same.
This is the way, yes it is,
These dark winter afternoons,
Sometimes white and blank like my thoughts,
Sometime grey, brown and drenched like my heart,
These snowflakes that disappear on the grass blades,
Hide the winter underneath.
And I will be here, just like this grass blade outside my window,
Waiting to be covered in snow and then be discovered in sunshine,
Wet till my roots, I will soon lose colour,
Maybe to never get it back,
But this is the way it is and will always be,
A winter afternoon, or sunny twilight,
I will always be waiting by the window,
Saving colour for twigs and flowers to fill my arms,
And they will say look out for the silver lining,
They will say this will also end,
But so will I with every winter,
One day to never turn green again.