Thursday, July 13, 2017

The walk

Between broken cobblestones,
and shattered wedding china,
a discarded oak cane 
soaks in the mist.
I walk
for lichens,
ferns and bread crumbs.

An empty leash pendulates,
as clocks unwind
on clasped hands. 
Rust hollows
a proud bust.
I return-
famished,
having fed that thing,
called hope.

Monday, March 21, 2016

Strands of struggle

 As I stood up to leave
frayed threads of delicate weave,
caught in the hands of time
hurled me across decades
to places I had been before.
Only now, it seemed like a chore.
Only now, smeared in sepia,
like the coffee stained receipts
left behind in empty seats,
I drifted aimlessly in the draft.
If only, strands could be untangled,
clocks unwound and reset
I would! I would forget
what it is like to be forgotten.

Wednesday, May 13, 2015

Hiatus

She fills the void between I and You.
When I leave them unattended
for months and years and
then a few.
With words we had left unsaid.

Monday, September 1, 2014

Departure

She had just left.
The lock, still trembling
like the hand
of a clock, stuck in time.
Or was it mine? 

Wednesday, September 18, 2013

Executioner's Eulogy

"He was a heartless man,
they say, his life a lie
death is a messy business.
they don' realize. 
having lived his life 
making death readily accesible
his death was rather peaceful
He didn't 'pass way' so to say
There was no transition
He died with his boots on
His parting words:
'Peace is the last thing you would want'"

Tuesday, July 9, 2013

The Last Supper

Leaves fear falling,
on paths men tread.
They kill each other
for butter and bread.

They shed not one
of their own blood.
What seeps from swords
and soaks the mud,

Are tears of widows,
children orphaned,
of waning mothers,
a God who's shunned.

When the last of men,
will have thrust his steel,
I'll have my supper,
My very last meal. 




Friday, April 19, 2013

The Whitewashed Room

I wait patiently for what they call, a writer’s block.
Words escape like overcooked noodles through a fork.
And metaphors like the one above, slip past unnoticed,
like the hour hand's movements. For days, I find myself
in an empty room. This room with perfect whitewashed walls,
Not one blemish or cobweb to stare at; infinitely long.
Not even the smell of fresh paint or varnish or a damp stain.
An old woman’s face. Her wrinkles smudged by seeping saltiness.
And then, the crack beneath the door fills up with darkness. 

A scented envelope appears from under the door, unaddressed,
but by the time I open it, You would have been long gone
leaving behind words so exquisite, I could have never written them.
 










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