A Vision

And there in the streets of an unborn heaven, a trepid lover reaches out to delicate fingers, clasping them with bated breath; laying his words softly out on the wings of the cold zephyr. Tidings of red love, on pale blue wings.. "Will she smile?", he wonders

She

Clotheslines stretching to the setting sun,
Dark birds, skywards, solemnly strung.
Lost eyes, jasmine skin and a dreamy sigh,
Pain and pleasure, fluttering feathers, fill the sky.

Streams

There are streams beneath this forest.
Silent and deep, they run like snakes in sand.
Unseen but for the life they nurture,
Trees, flowers, fruit and grass.

There is a wondrously nimble magic in them
A delicate balance of reason and spirit
Bend these boughs no more than they were meant to be
And stomp no charm that you cannot rebuild.

Stir not with vigour, these serene waters
Lest they turn murky and sour
Delve not so deep oh curious wanderer
Where even the stars will fail to please your restless heart.

Bunch o' my Brain - Instant Gratification, Expectation Induced Frustration

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A castle built in haste,
Not strong, but to good taste.
Never meant to last.
Just a snack to kill the fast.
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Factions of yourself
Warring in your head
No warmth by the hearth
And no sleep when in bed
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Jealousy

The fire burns green tonight,
Flames dancing and licking the roof.
A malignant, scathing inferno this,
Which kindles a cursed fever within.

Though love be thy tinder
Set ablaze with a lovers spirit,
Its not the holy fire so free,
But a demon that stands before thee.

Quell and quash, sweep it awash
With the weight of this blessed truth -
"It be but what it is, nothing more
A tear or two and a heart that's sore"

Purge the misery out with knowledge
That you may not bend this steel,
You may not steer another's ship
You only have your wheel.

If you feel the warmth of gentle care.
At the whisper of her name,
Clad your heart in silk and have her know
She may take it if she will.

Dont tread the path of expectation,
Where there was none to even begin.
For tis' a treasure that was never granted
That will leave you cold and wantin'.

Thinking on the move - Artsy

Art is that which connects the dots, that which fills the gap between two defined, presently intelligible points of communication, as well as emphasizing and even revising these very points at times. If not for it, we'd be traversing a highway, registering each milestone, but nothing in between. What of those quaint little villages and towns, how about those fragrant, wild pines alongside the meandering black-top, and the matrices of coconut trees standing solemn in the afternoon sun? They have a story to tell, a moment to contribute. But for art, we would lose them all in our haste, all the while only seeing the mundane and getting nowhere. And before we get too optimistic about the significance of our being, let me assert that nowhere is where we will get with or without art, but there is just so much more to see and experience when we can acknowledge and appreciate these fluid intermediates. Given that regressive reality has stamped "NO PURPOSE" in big bold letters on our foreheads, what then is there to do but wander, observe and learn. And if that is the order of the day for us all, are we all not much better off with more to feel, learn and give? I cant help but think that life and all its excuses would most certainly lose their charm if we were to create an Orwellian anti-utopia bereft of the liberty or the need to express. Just thinking of it makes me claustrophobic, depressed and listless.

Shelves full of books, a wall made meaningful with photographs, buzzed laughter at a comic's joke in a dingy bar that smells like sugar, the tinkles, thuds, booms, twangs and myriad voices blending into music in a dark room, the glitches and crackles of an old record on the turn table - the pleasure, the gratitude I feel for being able to afford and appreciate such moments is overwhelming.  

Thinking on the move - Feel

Attachment till when its allowed, detachment thenceforth. You'd do well to be happy for what you had, but the memories will always project into your days, what could have been. Its a wise man that can let go, but wisdom entails a certain coldness of spirit, a rigidity of boundaries, that cannot co-exist with a mind in flight with disdainful wings outstretched.

When the void is bigger than the life you've lived, what then will you fill it with?
The spirit within the bottle or the smoke from inside the green shisha? A haze, A mirage to drape that gaping hole. A silver fabric to make the loneliness a little bearable, even beautiful, at times. A shudder, the dam breaks and then the deluge.

Much later, you stumble awkwardly into sleep, a slumber much safer than the waking life that awaits behind the horizon of the night sky. You know there will be water under that bridge again, the same one on which you stand day after day and watch yourself living, loving, hurting and healing.

But knowing is never enough, never has been. So we will go through this yet again, always learning something about ourselves, as long as we don't descend into a stupor of foolishness, dictated by the hubris of man. A self assumed weight, known to have thumbed the strongest of men and women, into the clay beneath our feet.

It never felt so good to cry

And never felt this right.

Pain did never flow out so,

Like it does tonight.

In the face of this squall

Do not build a wall.

Dive in and feel it swell.

Feel it all and feel it well.