The Fire of Brown

A whiplash of a scarlet sparkle ran pouring to the ground,

Her head a-spun with rapid anger, her bare feet in mud.

Ambers of brown foretelling treason beheld her weary head,

She swayed aside, and then – again;  – he caught her fall instead.

Her mind as that of the possessed spun down a rapid hole,

Escape she did not seek for fires in brown had told her all.

And yet, that scarlet sparkle she gave him with both hands,

He knew – it spoke of treason – and yet he loved again.

The fire of the brown and thunder he knew and loved so well –

Thoughts of escape and treason foretold, beheld, but never stayed.

“Lean on my shoulder,” – he said – “and rest your weary head:

The scarlet sparkle speaks of dawns and not of fires instead.”

Of words so simple, words so kind, the fires of amber shied away; -

The whiplash of a scarlet sparkle blushed shyly, like a maiden’s gaze.

She felt the sky, her feet in mud, she felt the soothing rain –

She let her weary hair down, she gave him all her pain.

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Father

As clouds descend a leaden sky, and seagulls hide between their wings,

He walks the sands with bare feet, in solitude and darkness.

The gloomy mornings of his dreams are but a haze in laughter.

He dips a hand into the pastel water, and presses sea-shells to his ear –

The sounds of seas far gone and, after, forever lost and – oh, so near.

He walks the sands with bare feet, and I, with screams: “Don’t cry, don’t cry,”

Follow his steps in blue and yellow, in hopes of purple dawns and sun.

If only I could be a-one, with his lone grey and purple after.

I dip a hand into the pastel water, and press a sea-shell to my ear –

All I can hear are the sounds of laughter, forever gone and – oh, so near.

Beware, they say, of love too strong – it hurts and often goes unjust –

But walks with him along the pastel, in steps of silvery and grey,

In filial love that I so trust, in bondage that withstands the past,

It seems that fish in leaden seas, that live forever in the cold of water,

Will live unlike the silly gulls, that hide from moons and always totter.

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A Photo Come Alive

So slight, her breathing like the light patter of a fairies' feet,

Her silver sparkles swimming in little ponds of black.

After a moment's curiosity her shy smile disappeared

Into the shadow of her mother's black sweater.

It was like she hid in her favorite nest.

How odd it was to hear the beats of her small heart, to feel her human warmth and see her small feet and hands. She looked so breakable.

The thought of touching her was a scary thought -- It was just that I had only touched her in photographs before. And, suddenly, she was transformed into a little creature I could now hold if found the courage to.

What a happy thought.

But it might take a while, I added to that.

She saw me stroking, kissing her mother -- maybe she thought I was more than a stranger? She has never known me before, and how was she to know that I even existed?  It is not a surprise that she had not given me a single thought...

I wish she’d stay a little longer, so that I knew she was a niece to me. So that at times she thought of me.

I still cannot transform those photos, into a tiny creature of emotions,

But I'm on my way -- and that's another happy thought.

It’s just so difficult to touch, someone who's always been a perfect little photo. A child I love so much, and yet, a child I that’s always been as far away as I could reach.

***

I almost wish I'd never seen a photo, of her before we even ever met.

But then again, of course I do not wish that.

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My Little Moments of the Blissful

The little moments of my bliss, these slight and eerie timeless fractions,
Come at unexpected turns and twists, of my moods' tiniest distractions.

I catch them -- like a butterfly they land, into my open, eager hands.
Poised on my finger's tip so lightly, the butterfly is perfect, lovely.
It's just that bliss is thin, what with the butterfly's whimsical whim.

A trifle of a second later, another butterfly lands into my hair.
What is this with these butterflies today, I shake my head in brief dismay?
But I do not dwell on that one thought, for fear I might shake her off.

So stand I there, in the midst of sun, two butterflies at random mine.
I sigh in pleasure with the marvel of their colours,
But worry how destructible they're in their prowess.
And how they brave the tides of winds, on their spotted sonorous wings.

The butterfly poised on my finger, did not for longer moments linger:
Although I'd wished she'd stay for longer, her little flutters made a melody of wonder.
The butterfly entangled in my hair, took in my scent, and left me for a flower.
But that did not cause me the sadness,
One would expect from farewells to gladness.

My little moments of the blissful would come my way again in whispers,
They'd land on top my hair, around my fingers they would flare.
It's funny that these thoughts of bliss, at times are so easy to miss.



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A Rider Needs to Listen to her Horse

This poem is a poem of Love, a love whose love is not enough.

A love that always to all happens, a sheer, useless, subtle madness.

It seems so trite, so old and torn, to write of something that’s so worn.

What but for me it’s just a first, that streaming numbness of no words.

That feel of someone who’s forbidden, to keep away and always hidden—

A horse that sees a gate ahead, and knows the gate was never meant.

A horse that keeps on riding forward, towards that gate that’ll never open.

A horse that sometimes comes to stops and halts, almost about to give up hope.

And then, almost as surely, just to continue cruelly.

Sometimes it stops, sometimes it trots, in hopes the gate is far ahead,

For when it’s at the gate, it’ll know that all the hope’s already gone:

Its hopes will be forever gone, although it never held the one.

Sometimes the horse just wishes, the gate never existed.

To see the fields wide open, the pastures wild and green,

To graze on grass and run the wind.

Isn’t it what all horses do, what they are made for, when they’re true?

Perhaps chasing a gate up a deserted alley, was just being nature’s cruel folly?

Perhaps it’s best that there’s no rider, atop the horse to give him orders?

Orders to find what’s been there, given, to run after a senseless, empty riddle?

Perhaps the rider is, by nature, sadistic, obstinate, and reckless?

Perhaps she doesn’t even know, her poor horse can trip and fall?

And isn’t it so idiotic, that she might die for something useless though hypnotic?

Let us just hope, that she looks for an instant at her horse,

And that that one brief little instance, will make her understand,

That it’s so good for woman, to gently stroke her horse,

Not having her reigns pulling at his nose,

And let him lead the way, to grass and waterfalls.

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The Smell of the Lily

The stream flew gently over, a deep-blue rock where chorals live,

The sun above glowed from a tower, the chorals, they were suns beneath.

The orange and the red of starfish, covered the grains of yellow sand,

A lone fish hid within a crevice, that steamed with algae’s salty scent.

A baby whale lay on the shore, washed by the tides onto the land,

I wondered how it lost its mother, whose hand of murder left him dead.

A lonely seagull caught a fish, the fish so silvery in skies of blue,

So strong and full of life it was,

It was a pleasure looking at its spurts.

So healthy, full, so muscular and true,

The fish was like a vision in the blue.

The white skies shone above its head,

The seagull knew it would be dead.

But did the fish?

You know it’s true, that she had not the faintest clue.

For why else would the fish be writhing,

Fighting for life, secure of winning?

We leave the scene, we leave the actors,

We turn onto the baby-seal,

And our heart clenches with pity,

For this wild beauty, for this kill.

He doesn’t have the hope to live.

And then – we stepped into the shallow water,

We looked down at the deep-blue rock,

Imagined all the life around it,

And smiled with happiness and thought.

And our thought was one:

Life’s beauty was so sweet,

So poignant with the smell,

That lilies caught when left to rot.

                                     

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