shadows gather to celebrate jazz hour
smokes rise to celebrate jazz hour
sparks jump off cigarette ends
bubbles flock to the surface
despite the tension, climb up
fogs begin to dance

cats give out advice on how to get the best seats
some, of course, lie, the trick
is to know which
you can tell novice liars by whiskers
whiskers say, ‘I lie,” presto the paradox.

wise dogs sleep already; the magic steps over them
in the form of the rustle in the oak trees,
you know what I’m talking about, the sound-movement
the chiasm

like the very first keystrokes and the inevitable rain
as if this were some newyorker establishment only
it’s feb and it’s 65 degrees
at night.

yes, have a cigar
they’re cheap here,
have these notes too
there is nothing better life can offer
between 2 and 3 in the morning

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See how we stand together, calmness rising,

lanterns carrying it to trees and eyes

grass breathing, stormclouds fading, and inaction

sweetens mood of the moment.

 

Cool music of the evening rings ascetic,

a skulking cat’s soft step, and flimsy prose

leaving our mouths sometimes, sparing and floating

smoothly endangers nought.

 

Brisk flow of understatements, thoughts unwhispered

emergent and insistent, peach and straw

of sun and sunrays, swimming past the vision

that colours us a smile.

By Gatis Pāvils

Most of all, new morning

smell of a thousand blades

of grass, perfumed with water

arising from the river

the mist. The catalyst

of dreams of heat, strength, paddles

awkward familial camaraderie

and scrambled eggs prepared

over bonfire. (though some said tea

tasted as adventurous,

we never tried it that way, for lack of pan

or heed).

Post-enslaved colony blessed

with white nights

light swallowed by itself

procures no novel meaning

bungles old.

Yet, the morning is as discrete a ritual

as any.

Especially in front of a tent.

Hurray, over 1,000 views!!! Thanks for reading, everyone 🙂

I see you still, dripping cold rainwater,

As you walk in weary, thin with shivers

Trailing  trumpets of  laughters

Rebukes and miseries,

Enthralled to summer

A rod and a bucket, a scrawny memory

Of a fish you felt was meagre

Enough to warrant a pardon

From consumptive sniggers as

Its bones cut our fingers.

Your little, immature souls were great,

You later learned the word magnanimous’

Bewildering Latinate simplicity

As was your pity

Self-pity

So intertwined because you were world.

And then we all grew up.

Had there been thunderstorms?

.

No, but there had been dreams

.

April rolls its laughter of light, enabling

The world to announce itself, bursting

Cocoons of consciousness woven by a practiced blacksmith

Who then decides to let

Coldly sweet thighs of women

Turn black streets of England into a pinacotheca

.

And there was a flowered procession

(June set the imperial scene, as if the day were Corpus Christi)

To a perspicuous fountain

Our coalescing presences withstood

Lingering dogs, heel-minted petals,

Our breaths (which were the beating of our wings)

Purified of the sacred distance

Foretold

Melancholy torpedoes of this rain

.

Our bodies held to account

A dazed forgetfulness of grass

After that our entwinement was easy

Our ecstasies sung by beautiful prescient poets

And in my hand I then felt

A soft shape of attentive Summer

.

There had been thunderstorms, I know

But there must have been dreams