a dverse poets prompt; image (c) Walter Smith (click to go to his website)

it’s like i’m stroking air

when the last muses sing faintly
a Christian hymn; their music sways
as waves swallow the trembling

it’s like i’m molding winds

when the whispering sprites (Ariel?)
concoct sorrowful weeping of magic
the ocean brings to mind reincarnation

it’s like i’m with you still

and even Caliban’s eyes have strained
his brick of a face to withhold the burning tear
as wise shamans look from beyond the bush

it’s never like your absence

like loss that pyre seemed eternally aflame,
but the only thing that lasts longer
than the heartbeat of attachment
is the ocean

and to it i won’t pray


Photograph (c) Reena Walking, available at http://www.missingthemomgene.com/ (click to go to website)

In response to dVerse Poeticsprompt.

I’d nurture those expanses why not?
far across where the horizon smiles, too long
for it to be coincidence. Its cowardly
cold distance, its barrier; laugh at me will you?
Come closer! let’s settle this, man to man,
Craven! I shout, outshout planes overhead
those that feel like pinpricks with their decibels,
like insatiable crows feasting on memories’, desires’ soft tissue.
To scare them away, I need wings. Stop boasting, share, you dumb bird!
Of course you won’t.
I’ll eat more fish, to garner strength.
If I pray to planes, one
will in its pity
enable my ascension. So I’m taught.
Then this meddling ocean
will be no more
than a sweet lake is
to a pelican’s flight on its strong fearless wings.

The sky has donned again its fateful dress,
Obligingly efficient wind has blown,
A droplet’s dance’s swift melodiousness
Dictates her magic to her children grown.
For why, says she, the floods will ever own
This long distrusted image of a god
Casting his tacky brightness at forlorn
Landscapes in darkness uniformly clad?

A human form into a gesture pressed
An Abrahamic dagger, or a Faun
In purging hail, for sins yet unconfessed,
Stands proud, unbent, unflinching – and alone.
Reminiscing on centuries that have gone,
His posture more in common with a rod,
Strong with the masons’ strength who carve in stone
Landscapes in darkness uniformly clad.

By his free will, he brought his own distress,
By his exertions, to be cursed upon,
And so expects the harsh divine redress,
Sharp fangs of rain, ravaging his front lawn.
A Job, whose supplicating abject tone
Perhaps ensures reprieve. And yet one that,
For all its rainbows will not light for long
Landscapes in darkness uniformly clad.

Unequal struggle-starter – now atone
For your sin of existing, oh you mad
Man desperate to fight, not to look on
Landscapes in darkness uniformly clad.

Lashes of weather on my cheek, unquestionably!
Ah, the frolicking landscape, indeterminate, unclear, all for me!
I applaud you, Velocity, you give me strength
To own the seconds, each sticking to a different petal,
A different raindrop on my brow, ah, the microcosm!
I shake the winds’ hand, my hand shakes. We form company
Or merely open up old relationships, I ask with every breath
After their long unseen cousins mingling with
The East Coast crowd, adventurous.
Wings aflutter, like sparrows they cut through the sky,
Thoughts unclouded and empty, is this the visceral attraction of freedom?
Is this the empathy of forests in my nostrils; pines, yews?
Will I share wordless stories, will I last so long to catch every murmur?
Oh, how it pulls me!

I close the window
And let the world re-enthrall me
through your smile, when you look up from the book you’re reading.

air torn in half by amber angels
no less real than
a burned finger.

pure as laughter, time’s debtor
the knot of flame
will pass with the very first caress of draft.

A solid tear formed from its exertions
comes to rest not very far from the ground.

The roar of griffins over translucent mountains

Shakes the air and quells the tearful contemplation

A study in parting, from a bird’s eye view

Is only a figurine and then another figurine

And the objectively measured space between them

The tears’ infinitesimal volume makes their burning

Unbearably on our skin, negligible as a contribution

To the air’s temperature.


Amidst the fanatical efficiency of leaving

The consecrating touch of the skin on your fingertips

On my fingertips, remains as unforgettable as a frame of reference

A reminder that they shall connect again, soon, again soon.

And the soul crunching agony of emptiness

As always best expressed in naïve lyrics of a pop song,

As always wrenching the mind, flogging tears.

But it will soon be over, won’t it? Won’t it?

A wintry day has sat upon the throne,

Its reign short and bloodless, and grey

Timed departure ensured by the old and bony guards of leafless trees

Ushered him away, another concretized tyrant welcomed

In their cemetery, a little drawer in the kitchen where we put the pages of the calendar

And bound them with a rubber band and then throw in the fire.

The incineration of forgettable past, of paper thin hours

To layers of ash, slipping through the fingers as you pick them

To show them to your parents and say: hey!, this is my life’s story

Take it and spread over the ocean and enjoy its scratching between your teeth

This is the taste of too much undeserved love

Of the snigger of timely demons, masquerading as the tick-tocking of your veins.

May not all our days be wintry days.