Strange

Strange how the choices we make do not seem to be choices at all. There is a craft in our sense of development, where leaving things alone will transform a situation, and acting on an impulse will stagnate our hopes. There does not seem to be a balance, only a cosmic humour, toying with our will.

Frenzied fighting freshens
Fear and freedom recoil,
Stirring dreams unrealized into
Pandering.

Crazed remembering
Where no thoughts dwell
Only the feel of a
Forgotten fish
Or stink of recalcitrance
Slither into our possessive
Deliverance.

Breath, lightly, breathe well
Breadth and depth of
Singularity –
There is not a chance
There is change
There is. There is not.
Where is the duck pond?

Can it really exist, or is it just a place
Where I will never go?

Feeding wild ducks seems
Beyond my comprehension.
Weeping willows
Drip
Endless tendrils
Creeping onto my
Memories of mother.

She adored that idea
Left me , wondering why.

And there he stays
Leaping, flapping near that pond
Into a world of
Family and brave assertion.

A broken name
A bereaved heart
But still he chooses that
Betrayal
Needs the comfort of
Regeneration, of a child’s world
To nurture them
To rear himself.

I am only a mirror of his
Luxurious mind.
So he can see himself
So he can be.

He can share nothing
That we are not creating
And there is the flailing truth.
One day
The globe will spin, and I will
Fly away.

That ugly duckling without
A pithy pond.

There will be no musing,
Lose
Elude, escape
and soar.
Instead of feathery caresses
And flight, sight into new dimensions
He will only have the drooping
Strands, stranding
Only hair
Red drippings
To wrap up his thoughts
To tie them up
To keep them in his secret world
Where they will remain
Curled into a reflection
That he can look into
At that stagnant pond.

And mother will say,
To him from some hymn
He will hear
‘Give me some seed
To feed
The ducks.’
And there will be none.

Just the sound of quackery.

Unforgiven

Blank
Pages of unwritten sadness...
Words have no meaning
Because everything you said
Are lies.
Lie in your beach
Bungalow wallowing
In the slink of Chanel and Ferrari
United with the allure
From those Louis Vuitton and other
Assorted chattels
A jewelled chimera
Sliding over your prevarication
Snug as the sand cuddling waves
Of salted truths
Whisking the winded chimes
Into dulcet paltering
Your tides of emotion wax and wane
Through the pulverized sincerity,
Tergiversate.
What you have
Is not a foundation
Only the fantasy
Of felicity
Pounding and powdered
Are your claims of love
Your devotion
To expend a presence
A charisma built on
Shadow and promise
Let the fog dwell
In the house of your golden ring
As there you will find a love that can be bought
And it is not mine.

Simplicity

Creamy gray skies infuse the temperate understanding. While wishing for wind, a gust tosses the cedar boughs like a slap. Cars drone but no sirens just now; wailing is presently a memory.

Washing dishes has to be done in stages. Every few minutes, as the Dawn gets squeezed, what might be thoughts become an emotional swell as water spills over the plates and splashes the dish rack. Scrubbing initializes the sadness and fear that seemed to be stuck, as stubborn as dried soup around the pot rims.

Leave it till Monday

Nearness
and dearness
is a dive
into the brink
change.

Wandering
the minstrel
sings low
traffic drowning
sorrows.

Echos
enchanted foraging
rescues the craft.
Oblivion.

Not until
sunrise
will a new day
deliver.
Restitution.