Follow by Email

Friday, 29 July 2011

Driftwood fire

Driftwood Fire

Its tender, warm opaline glow---
Rises up as an iridescent helix
Combing the darkness gently.


When I first met him
He was pulling an arrow
Out of the snakes mouth.

And tonight we are standing waist deep
In the shallow rivulet, embracing each other
And I press my cheek on his chest and ask
Where are we going, dear, where are we going
I dont know, he whispers, but my darling
We are two pieces of driftwood,
Seldom destined to meet,
Let me treasure this moment forever
Because such moments never repeat.

I saw Roses leaping over the fences
When in grey waters, we lit our fire
And I heard moths beating their wings
I felt the old snow hills perspire.....

Tuesday, 26 July 2011

In the Land of Dry Waterfalls

In the Land of Dry Waterfalls

In the land of dry waterfalls
Turquoise cliffs cast violet shadows
On amber rocks.

For thousands of years
These valleys had been
In clutched possession of silence
All these years nothing had stirred
Only calm dissipated in eerie quietness.

But at last a wren had to sing
Making thousands of swallows follow her lead
An indigo rivulet snaked and devilled 
Through veins of cascading sands.

Nobody knows from where this all appeared
But some children tell they had seen a shaman
With beautiful dark emotionless eyes
Pulling out needles from a doll’s body
And the spell broke as the baby cried.

Thursday, 21 July 2011

I Am The One

I Am the One

I am the landscape, I am the panorama
From me into me, the snakes are slithering
On my stony outspread palm, olive colored toads leap
I am a piece of paradise, inviting you to stray into me.

I am a bright expanse, burning luminosity
I am the dry bushes, brambles and tree stumps
I am the creaking sound of aflame branches
And I am the approaching breeze, still wet with dew.

I am the shudder running through the tender blades of grass
I am a little nest of moths on underside of a nameless leaf
I am the rotten bread crumb, lovingly shared by a tribe of ants
And I am the blue-green sky sliding across the groves and thickets.

I am the sonorous moan of the oars dipping into silence
I am the murmurous ripple disturbing the waves
And in turn obscured by their upturned glitter
Now I am the golden bird that just alighted on your boats prow.

I am the bared sword of an alive sun gleam
I am the hard stubble that ceased to be a cornfield
I am the oozing drop of honey, I am the glinting trail of resin
And I am the tangled spiders web trying to thicken the undergrowth.

I am the white-haired serenity and I am the suckling baby
I am the One you can understand but cannot explain
I am the motionlessness of a long awakened rock
And yet I am no more than a loose end of the Knot.

Tuesday, 19 July 2011

The Carpet Weaver's Fingers

The Carpet Weaver’s Fingers

Cracked, calloused, perfectly tanned russet
And yet taut, groaning in protest
Coarsened by soft, wispy threads
Stunted and creased like loosening seams.

Weathered almost dead as skin shed by a snake
They twist and drift in a rhythmic magic
While moonlight splutters like dying flame
In the caressing breath of a spectral wind.   

The shrill chirps of cicadas echo off
The thick and heavily plastered walls
As he spins the wild, unfettered yarn
In unfolding length of haunting ache.
Only in the end his unblinking eyes
Show signs of life and squint a little
As he surveys the smouldering holiness
Now instilled in a piece of fabric.  

Finally, he dares to raise his gaze
Iridescent with a neon glow
A damp earthy scent clings
To muted sobs and howls of wind
Perhaps emanating from muffled whispers
Of hyenas prowling in those grassy waves
That slender fingers of the old weaver
Embedded forever in carpet braids.