Prejudice, Lost

Lost prejudice, like a misshapen jigsaw puzzle piece that snaps in and imbues you with that wafting-petal sensation of sad, silent beauty.

Missed Chances

A fistful of joy I didn’t get a hold of it I could have and now that’s A thing to miss It may seem superficial But the real reason why This feeling makes me cry Goes like this I once knew a face The closest thing to grace And I had a chance to give it One more kiss But the kisses came too late For the faithful dance of fate Washed the room in perfect crystals Made of ice You may think the story’s done Should’ve done it on the run But that’s not the way you read The fallen dice Every chance you missed is not Everything you lost is got All just waiting where the wait’s Eternal bliss

Be the wind

Be the wind that shakes off leaf Or be the leaf and fall Or be the stalwart steady tree That stands to see it all.

Into it

Reason keeps you out To follow your heart you must Just go intuit

Searching

You’ve got your way of doing things The more you rest, the more it stings You’ve seen it all before a hundred times You’ve loved all sorts of folk there are You’ve written songs and traveled far You’ve forced the meter into empty rhymes It’s lost down in the darkness there Where frosty shoulders chill the air It’s warmer to look for it in the sun They’ve looked before you too, my friend There’s nothing out there in the end This quest is nowhere near being done The seeker and the found must become one

Rohingya
Image courtesy BBC: http://www.bbc.com/news/world-asia-41585864

I know, little one, your fear is real You’ve heard the screams and you’ve seen the pain The cuts are deep, no time to heal For the wolves are hot on your scent again.   Lady with child, babe to your breast You’ve lost your love and you’ve missed the train You find the shade but no time to rest For the wolves are hot on your scent again.   Your tears have dried on the face of your bride In her shallow grave on a grassy plain Have to save that kiss for the other side For the wolves are hot on your scent again.   Too old to run, too weak to walk Everything they burned lives on in your brain You can tell your tales, but you’ll break the clock For the wolves are hot on your scent again.   Get drunk, my dear, on this patience sweet Time is dead; it’s time for the truth  to play Let the dew on the meadow wash your feet As the angels hunt and the wolves are prey.   Featured image courtesy BBC >> http://www.bbc.com/news/world-asia-41585864

Hearts

Everything Set against the flow of all we bring But there is no stopping what may spring From hearts that beat together.

Marinara, Expired

With permission from the talented Ibn Turab. Here’s one of his very many ramblings. A long, long time ago, I realized That for most of my life I had just been an idiot Traveling through life Incognito. When I made the discovery, I decided To stop and just be what I am. That has not gone down well with anyone And now I am up the creek without a paddle. So be warned: I am about to explode Once again On the floor of your life Like a clumsily dropped and wildly shattering bottle – A big, big, BIG bottle – Of smelly marinara sauce Way, waaaaay past its sell-by date.

The Faker

Stroke your chin, touch your nose Rub your forehead in repose Doesn’t matter that there’s nothing on your mind Let them see how you “think” Even sighing as you blink You may also shake your head from time to time If it needs more gravitas Stand the hell up, show some class Clasp your hands behind your back and pace about Say it helps you ruminate Then adopt a painful gait (Nothing like the need to pace despite the gout) Fake it dead or alive All the way from nine to five Let your guard down for a second and you die You’re the actor no one knows Oscar-worthy for the shows That you put up as you live the greatest lie

It’s Like That

Like waves that break before they meet the shore, And fruit that’s plucked before the ripening; Like sonnet on iambic feet before It finds a body clear thought may bring; Like baking what’s inadequately kneaded, And tea that’s poured before the brewing’s done; Like junk a certain president has tweeted, And clothes pulled off the line still needing sun; Like words divorced of all humility Adorning an apologetic breath, And souls that think they know infinity Before they even cross the bridge of death. I think it is a bit like all of that: Insipid, dried up, bodiless and flat.