1. Copycat
4. Angel
8. Dawn
9. Aeolus
10. Space
11. Poeta Nascitur
12. Beads
13. Shoes
14. She Should Know
15. Chasing Pandora
16. Scenarios
18. Spring Harvest
19. Outcast
20. Success
21. Catastrophes
22. The Musician
I dabble with this latest of contraptions called
karaoke mixer, that falls long way beyond me
of epoch’s great inventions, complex, challenging
me to fiddle my way round its macho ear splitter
to curb its irritating larynx so beguiling to my sons,
graded decibels made to rise and fall with pulses
contrived by labelled buttons in rows of six and seven,
identical, infernal, state of the art gadget whose
chimera of swift functions are a babel of acoustics.
I writhe my difficult way around with failing
interventions, ripping open the mists of time
and judgement, re enacting mother’s same agenda
irking my hyperactive youth two good decades ago,
then depriving, now valid, imperative, incriminating,
adoptive, its same defying blubber desirous to curb.
Funny how history repeats itself with impromptu
similarity, and we same actors in a different role
now mellowed with time’s taming imperfections,
oblige to its request with hasty disenchantments.
Are we condemned to sample our own medicine,
regurgitating the censorship we swallowed out of duty?
Idiot!
Your sordid part in history savours of sour grapes,
of impetuosity, of blatant plagiarism, of mediocrity!
Beyond her faithful reach
where you sought to entertain
illicit dreams, torrid but brief,
on shallow territory
disorientation crept
upon you like a thief.
What brought you
back on track
may not help you restore
your needle from the haystack!
…Love is not love until love’s vulnerable…
(from The Dream by Theodore Roethke)
Giving without expecting back
your due returns, repaying in advance
what you might not obtain in the first place
is thought to be absurd, unthinkable, crazy,
bad management of assets
that only fools apply;
their increment glaucoma of the eye
yet known to be the catalyst,
the only sound investment,
the basis for survival, as lubricant
is to axis of the wheel
that in its copious turning
moves forward without hitch;
consequential, contradictory,
but in its trust lies promise
in its withholding, bust,
in its acceptance, comfort,
in its full cashing, flair,
in its return, a barter,
inimitable transaction
called love beyond repair.
Of gossamer textile, yet strong as sweet resolve
correcting human frailty with his zeal
essential as an axis is to wheel.
His amorphous presence lurks
as faint caress upon your furrowed brow
you almost didn’t detect, easing out creases,
welling hope, fortitude, ephemeral
but you can count on him somehow.
Once, you fell into step beside me along a
newfound path, eager to pursue, desirous
of reiterating vibes, of stars and butterflies,
sowing seed of promise, harvesting addiction,
no sultry déjà vu, someone who lights a virgin flame,
then keeps alive and sheltered its healthy amber hue.
And funnily enough I know that you still do!
No, you wouldn’t come across us travelling
on the same wavelength, our poles repel, our
antennas clash with wrath like scud and tomahawk
mine, mourning a loss-his newfound gain-
his, stealthily invading my privacy of domain.
The cash till’s clink clank ushers me to the door
dismissingly, cold, impersonal, conclusive like the
strike of an auctioneer’s hammer, sending me disconsolate
for that little part of me gone missing, out of reach.
Isolation strands me, echoes of security fade away
with my old parted companion, laden with meaning,
that someone chose to own, its links, lost fragments
of relationships forfeited like the carefree childhood days,
poignant like a truncated limb that pity can’t restore.
I build a new directory right from scratch,
but what of those sweet nothings bond could hatch,
impossible to match?
They now are chattel to a total wretch!
…and still white flags
are wasted on blind men
who do not seek to see
who seeing only black
think black is all and black is best
and any shades unknown
ill breeding nest
…and still warm blood is shed
for power’s dirty sake
and still the hearts with hatred
doth oft ignite and bake
for thinking tit for tat the logical quest
they thus oblige and put aside the rest.
Close to my heart it lies, proud of my acquisition
an incision into the futuristic mind of mechanical
genius, bringing forth distinction, excellence,
perfection to the full, an un-afore-dreamt-of
magnificence awaiting operation.
Elation. Inflation. Yawn.
Excellence pushed to avantgardistic
measures of realization, a quantum leap
from one quantum leap onto another.
My balloon bursts
the ego takes a nosedive
state of the art abdicates.
Welcome commonplace.
The dark horizon whitens
with light’s sharp blade is ripped
new dawn with needle’s labours
is neatening the strips
with diamond linear etching
going round material’s edge
with skill the stitches bind sky
with the horizon’s hedge
tonight undoes the trimming
eve’s shade will sulk you’ll see
‘t will be re-sewn tomorrow
but who knows where I’ll be?
If, like Aeolus I could rule the winds all geared and set
at heart, what wingless flights I’d credit to my art!
Whoever said it varies in the level, time frame, and
consistency must have been prophetic, fluctuating from mild
to acute, it bites into resolve with different size of molars.
We writhe with shame for bottled indecision knowing
full well there’s wisdom in our heads, frailty to expose us,
opportunity that lays the blame at our own feet,
obligations to consider, choices to ponder and to make.
It seems my world is stuck in no man’s land
deep rooted in the sand, left and right disrupting
tug of wars, the sun gazelles for miles around,
I blinded, rigid, while the sand dune, swells.
And I’m left stranded when I want to move, impatient
to maraud, newborn about to die, tied and loose, my own,
a partner, slave, offered and had, my psyche seeing red.
Hide me from the truth you jitter bugs for I can’t tell a lie.
O Athena, how wise can a man be and yet, trapped in the web
of his ideals, obtains no custody upon his viscera, that he,
confirmed dream catcher, may grab the reigns and fly.
Between the root and blossom
there is a virile stem
mating in parenthesis
of ardent give and take
with carbon, light and water
together reproducing
a child called photosynthesis.
…and someone whispered in my ear
one April end’s mid morning
when turtle doves were tasting
the sheaves’ resplendent corning,
Fat Lady’s child, impending
placental waters’ gushing,
go forth beyond the brain drain
till you chirp
Precious little do I glean tonight
from august ponderings intended to deliver
when pausing for reflection; I plead with twilight
shafts of tepid sunlight to mould fragmented thoughts
into constructive matter, as I strive on-writing is
second skin these days, few other joys surpass-
the diffused light falls on a string of rosary beads
arranged on light mint wall, cross centred,
brave talisman of the one faith I won’t allow
to dwindle despite the ups and downs, the various
alienations, stern reminder of fortitude’s source.
Habitual as it’s grown, pen grapples with sheet
in intermittent gestures of doubtful inspiration
ink, instantly replenished, ready for the impetus
my agile hand demands. Tired eyes linger over
old awards lined in a cheap bureau like players
at a line up, each telling its tale of stark achievement,
still gleaming despite my laissez faire of recent days
then move to one huge frame supporting my real treasure.
I probe the rags and riches of my children, each now
installed in status of their making, whose bulk, of old,
I initiated, reprimanded or upheld, now taken root and grown.
Soon it will be the time for leaving dreams behind,
for due reconciliation of expenses and accruals.
When waxen with death’s pallor, scant value will
they yield to tilt the balance in my favour; it is good
deeds I carry, to display, as trophies of my valour.
These shoes are not your type. The kind that give you
blisters from bad choice, no matter how you wax and tax
them for quick comfort. When you put them on you limp
and falter, strutting like the ugly duckling of fairy tale fame,
making them creak a vociferous protest like door hinges,
an all time declared misfit they shake off on the way.
The other kind are kind. Incumbent time moulds them for
the format of your toes, with stress pads to buffer against
potholes or sore spots. With perseverance they conform
resigning themselves to a life of slavery. When they settle
down they fit you like your skin. Laces tied in place show
total disposition, obedience to your feet portrays your
imposition. You walk them, they oblige, adapting.
Fully fledged, they ogle environs, testing, until it’s time to
soar, redeemed from the old confined spaces, growing well
versed projections towards newer heights, new embraces.
Only now, almost too late, do I realize the sky is their limit.
My disciplined shoes have grown fit for posh places.
Now the wine ferments steel in his eyes
when one time it induced him to eulogise
a chasm of silence makes a mock of their meal
and sharing their bed is a hideous ordeal.
She should know!
Now her eyes hard as stone at his coming
on her lips shrivel the notes of her humming
her illusions she buries in the grave of decay
her turmoil burns his steak to charcoal each day.
He should know
He should know that she knows!
I once knew a young shepherdess
in a gown white as newly washed fleece
beside her beloved she counted their sheep
committed to both of these loyalties.
In one hand she held dreams blowing fire
whose tongues flickered with ardour and fear
in the other she held risks bold, entire
that chasing Pandora demanded of her.
From that box she drew treats and surprises
little blotches of shadowy grey
mixed them up with the wand of hey pronto
drank with gusto their taste of the day
Her emotions bore rivers of ivory
magic stings that the blood would revive
his enticement mysterious, comforting,
his ram’s milk curding phlegm to life.
Seasons come, disappear like the sun does
Leave behind combined traces of age
the mist wrapping dreams in its folders
lifted up so they could ably assuage.
True loves they last longer than seasons,
than spring lambs cavorting with ease
despite the mistakes in the handling
the earthquakes, the hiccups, the wheeze.
I once knew a young shepherdess
who could milk a whole flock by the squeeze
I do not smell of her now any longer
but still build on her old expertise.
They told me not to worry
I was just growing up into a lady!
Like stepping on the threshold, your hand
fondling the handle that throws open the door…
there always is a snag for every conquest:
a prize that’s overrated, a hidden claim that
halves it, a complicated pathway, a person
bound to share it…
The moment of transition is a pass on plural
bearings, losing and attaining, a gift or curse
or somewhere in between.
Novelty’s bait is impressionist, captivating,
its traps enigmatic, enticing to a child. It almost
always nets. Teenagers wield its weapon,
ignoring its discomforts, repercussions.
Yesterday’s fresh bread today will become stale.
This woman’s unsought gift –hindrance to a male-,
imposes its conditions, plays its hormone tricks
its burdens a hangover, its lapses danger brinks.
But for all its aches and pains its treasure chest lies there
to probe at my discretion, with joy or mild despair.
Tomorrow, visualizing the scenarios life has dealt
I may toast my second freedom or wither in ill health
A child once more whose impasse they ignore
Different scenarios, time frames, play
the only similarity the actress in the fray.
They stick in my throat
awaiting slow digestion
their urgency dominant
their magnitude choking.
They rip my train of thought
oozing doubts and fears
enigmas seeking answers
who play at hide and seek
each one the feel evoking
of life’s mysterious joking
or I who must be daft.
Out in the fields the work is gathering momentum,
the April sun intensity, sifting blades of light translucent
through fields of corn and clover mourning winter’s going,
permeating the air with earth’s sweetest perfumes put together
as savage cutting gestures upset its quiet torpor.
I love to watch this film, recorded on spring air,
unfold year after year, spring harvesting travails
I’m not adept at bearing but at spying
when from the early hours the sickle’s thrust awakes me,
mothers, daughters, fathers, sons, all bent over themselves
to make the most of morning’s coolest hours
their garbs a patchwork quilt against the golden strands
heads touching, hands clasping chaff, raising the sickle in mid air
striking, flattening; and later the coffee break, the ground
they’d covered, recomposing scene, the see through open space.
Ye sheaves that feed mankind with carbohydrates
grain, flour, bread that feeds the mouths which fed you,
chaff to fodder winnowed,
should we not give you credit for versatility?
how lucky can you be?, shaping the Blessed Host
you give your life for Christ without restraint;
a privilege I envy, a surety I accost.
She hovers in the background of the circle
an outcast from the game;
cool youth is a much more competent player
she cannot beat or blame.
Her tactics feel the strain of new conjectures
this age counter produced;
the ace lies firmly in pretenders’ fancies
opponents have amused.
There’s ample play for them that please the ego
she’s forced to watch, forlorn,
to usher down the drain hard earned assertions,
to wallow in their scorn.
Fresh blood replaces old for new adventures,
Rubs salt into the wound of the backbenchers.
I fancy a notion
it fancies me back
we are inseparable.
I chew its emotion
then set it in motion
it trundles and dares
I follow its thread;
I guard it with dread
it renders my bread.
The whim
of nature’s bowels
tickled pink,
earth’s spit in fury wrought…
or trite reward
for faith’s
abounding battles
badly fought?...
Self taught, self proclaimed.
Flaunted on a stool
By the doorway of his dwelling
Succumbing to the whims
Of independence..
His face is pageantry.
Calligraphy alien hands
Cuddle his instrument
Of serendipity.
His music is a hotchpotch
Of rudimentary tunes
elevated to cacophonic heights
On his accordion.
His portfolio
Knows a thin repertoire
And a heart of gold.
When he plays,
Few coins jingle
On the floor before him.
He does not care.
What he wants, he has.
