It’s a moment in time, light, airy, fleeting
A blip in the cosmos, the everyday, tiring, burdensome cosmos
Thought is suspended, nothing has the power to intrude
Into the perfect minute, clean, white, silent.
I need more such minutes.
I see the moment up close
And I am stricken with a disease
It immobilizes me, shuts me up
To newer worlds I crave to enter
The paralysis grounds me and I cannot soar
The moment is gone, frittered away
With mindless repetitive TV and
Endless clicks of the mouse taking me away
To other people’s lives
And mine is suddenly one moment less.
I see the future up close
Empty moments and hours and days awaiting
My decisions, stories, journeys
All that was promised to them
And I can do nothing.
And the moment passes through my life like sand
Emptying it, hollowing it, frittering it away.
It’s a meander, I said, a running off-course,
a glimpse caught at the corner of my eye
that drew me in, beguiled me
into a slightly wide-eyed exploration
like a horse without its blinkers.
It’s a drier landscape, a wider one.
The stones on the path are different,
smoother, yet as tricky to negotiate.
There is an implacability to the domain
that seems impervious, un-reactive to a stranger,
like nothing can affect, move, shake it.
Yet who knows, whispers the wind.
There might be accommodation in the scenery,
a possibility of green.
The meander might turn a journey
and the stranger could yet turn native.
Who knows, whispers the wind.
The year waits to begin
Sputters, starts, stops again
The whole wide world stands
With open arms, welcoming, beckoning
The water cool, blue, smiling an invite
The hills await first-timer legs, quietly in anticipation
Empty notebooks, blank pages look for
Letters and inspiration
Strangers await an introduction, an open mind
But the year says, not yet.
To figure heroes can have feet of clay
Soul mates can make a habit of crushing your soul
Friendship can mean nothing more
than a fear of loneliness
And all that is left deep within
is that kernel of shaming ordinary-ness.
You sit on the top of the mountain and cry
And hope the days will get better
The light will get stronger
The mind will empty out
And mellowness will spread through
That the tiger will turn benign
And it will be safe to let go of its tail.
Despair breeds words and deathless hope
Breeds dreams of contentment and quiet
Of stilling the restless clamour in the head
Of quieting the sharpness of ambition
Of seeking cleaner, bolder, fresher pastures
Of looking the insatiable tiger in the face
And saying decisively enough is enough.
Someone gets hurt. Better her than me, you think
Silly silly terrible things run across your mind
Betrayal anger hurt pride overall badness
And then serendipity and the moment of clarity strikes
In the midst of an alcoholic haze
The world is turning to shit and so are you
The paradise in your soul is lost forever
The tiger has won. And its tail is still in your hands.
The scrubbing never helped.
Nor did the milk, turmeric, honey
Or the countless smelly sticky things.
And so ran the quest for that elusive fair
Yellow was forbidden and so was pink
But red brought out a glow, otherwise so missing.
There were tears for the impossible
And consoling words that did not do their job.
Until there was adulthood and resignation
And even a kind of comforting realization.
Dark is the colour of the gods
Dark could have a power, it could be beautiful
If only it acted like it knew it.