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Sweet and Sour

I pluck a shiny leaf or two beneath a shady tree

I cross over to the next flower

Human bee-ing; pollinating breed

These are tiny, red and fickle-stemmed

But that nectar, sweet and sour

And by the time plucked-stem-hits-tongue,

I’ve moved on to another bower

This one curls in a tight corner before

shooting towards the sky

And the hedges that surround it

Make good shelter by and by

Here, the sun can wane in full

Leaving Breeze to tempt night fires

And soon the moon is high above

The crickets chirp, ladybirds retire

And just when I rise, sated by these hours

Here comes the Queen of the Night, a scent that overpowers 

Inspiration Prose et Poesie
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Building’s Edge

I have jumped off the building to fly

Yet I am falling

Wrench me free as I drown

Pummeled beneath the waves of these downdrafts

Stalling

The inevitability of a paved grave;

Dawning

Who is out here in this busy expanse of nothing

to save the unintentional dive-drown victim?

It is only once we no longer have the net beneath that we recognize

the weight, our manacled feet; the poison festering in our minds.

When you jumped did you consider the downside?

Surely if you did not sail you could not survive

And what if I released this weight — mislabeled pragmatism,

brittle expectations of achievement — freed myself from comparison?

Would the vessel remain, substantiated enough to float?

Or would the remains be paper thin, spiraling in a whirlpool towards an underground moat.

Fairer waves to the same grave

Fear waxing in its dark cave. Stuffed full with dreams saved — paused

Avoiding oblivion

How do we make it back on to the ledge?

Is that to be a boundary or the world’s end?

There should be life beyond the dead

Drop

Perhaps we find it once the weight is no longer fed.

“How is one saved?” This chorus pounding in my head.

A chant taken up by the brave –

Who can ever be saved

from one’s self?

“Save me” (x3)

Fetch yourself from the well.

“Save me” (x2)

— Self to Self.

Inspiration Prose et Poesie
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The But

Quel est le point?

Censée devenir… quoi?

On est sur la route, le but duquel est

d’Être

sans doute, plus humain.

Mais on

Est

déjà ce qu’on essaie d’atteindre. 

Circle, moot. We’ve been set on a path

to discover what was core to the plant, the root.

But you are the tree and the fruit.

Quel est le but, alors?

Already both winner and warrior.

Inspiration Prose et Poesie
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Comprehension

Walking the world with me while I walked it alone

In stride

Staying in the periphery when my tunnel vision kept me blind

Respecting all the boundaries but toeing, still,

The line 

Keeping silent in the vacuum, acts-in-service – practiced mime 

Stars are stars

always

steady,

twinkling, in the sky 

Sweet serendipity, sweet universe, allowing ours

collide.

Prose et Poesie
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Society in Motion

Forgive them

Forgive us

Forgive the deep parts within you cannot trust

 

Time spent but never earned because this is a bus with no stops 

The fog in the rear is not slipping into the exhaust

It is purged

We are running, leaving it behind.

We cannot earn because we cannot bind

We are dust waiting to return 

We are rust waiting for the sun

To burnish us, turn us to bronze that flickers and wreathes like gold

The gold is nowhere but in our souls

The bronze is all that shows

 

And for what? For us to lose the precious little, trailing away like black smoke that unfolds,

pouring out the maw of a backside, not worth a gather

Not worth the sole you exhaust

Not worth the bronze you won’t buff

The rust that needs to wait for the sunrise to feel lust

Of self

 

None other than heavy mist beyond the veil

The dust and the fog and the time-shares of clutter

How you can breathe through the same pipes where all that sputter and gunk choke the inhale.

Choked

Unprovoked

Choke and roll over and sink down like the sun 

Unable to purge through the rays the bronze run.

Unable to shine and burnish itself to a gold spun by society; to relive that choked one

You know the one

Life. 

Let’s pick up the run.

Journaling Prose et Poesie
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The Win

My hope for you today is that you recognise the win.

That when your continuous labour of love finally folds amidst your constant push – removes the occasional stumbling block and lets you stand a little straighter, you feel that relief;

My hope for you is that you breathe that moment, that the reprieve seeps in and reignites the hope within.

That the fear that barks around your ankles – urging you to venerate the strain we call the hustle, rolls over and plays dead to your victory lay.

That you take your moment when you have won;

do not bury the song.

Inspiration Prose et Poesie