I Love You's

So I'm told my I love you's are put on display
Sometimes they are paraded, all basking emblazed
Healing hearts, charming beauties, lighting cities 
Enrapturing, capturing magic in dazed possibilities


But why do I hear mine clatter 
Shiver, shard, splinter and splatter
Chips flying, falling, my saboteur
Choked, suffocated, gasping for air


Glass like, mottled, numb, heart-broken
Mute, I declare, with a death stare, frozen 
Speechless monks parading in the wilderness
Mannequins in drag, puppets of providence

Seasons within, Seasons without‏

Blue skies above, swirling leaves beneath

Fiery, lambent sun-lit valley

Waterfalls from hooded lids, frigid breeze

Straw houses on tornado alley 

Seasons within, seasons without

Quiet versus turbulent, straight or oblique

The dark side of the moon, the mirror's face

One extraneous, the other intrinsic so to speak

Rub the sides of the coin; flip, precipitate
My sortition, my drawn lot; equal, dispassionate

Mortuary and Metamorphosis‏

Easing out, the casing falls with a clatter.

I step away, I will greet you
Beyond me the mortuary holds me.
I sit with one, my summer death
White top complimenting the black skirt.
A spring one too, paler still against the blue. 
The autumn enigmatic yet, tired. And winter,
burnt out from a wait too long.
Adieu; adieu, I bring the new.
The old out with the old you.

You hold me thus so‏

Dark days, dull moments, my dazed life
And cups of amber, boxed lanterns,
my stopgaps of light

The eyelashes, a caress on my heart.
Smile a gentle hug. And inflections
of voice a tender symphony

A chink in the armour. Pierced,
And I am held. Whirling up, spiralling
Down. Captive in an unbound light

Wajd

Wajd ki baat karte ho
Wajd ki baat hoti hai
Barzakh ka aalam hota hai
Jab mere paas hote ho

Sufi ne kaha dil kho do
Zaat mita do, hasti bemol kar do
Haq keliye wijdan dhoondo. Wijdan
Hai, hota hai. Jab mere paas hote ho



inspired by

To love someone else enough to forget about yourself even for one moment is to be free. The mystics and the churchmen talk about throwing off the body and its desires, being no longer a slave to the flesh. They don’t say that through the flesh we are set free. That our desire for another will lift us out of ourselves more cleanly than anything divine.

— Jeanette Winterson

The Prodigal Return

The prodigal return out of time, out of turn
Non-sequential, irrelevant.
The discordant note in the orchestra
A chisel accidentally slipping on a face

The clock has turned as have the seasons.
The cobwebs have died of old age.

The rust falls off gratefully in my palm.
 Of the door left ajar far too long.

The gratefulness had not come.
Prayers were not said
The wait was not over.
It had never been a deliberation.

Remnants

Like the residuum of a lingering illness
A cough here, a spasm there, an ache

So do you nest in, fragment like, a shiver
Chafed, remnants of a love gone, frayed ends

Remnants of a story unsaid, fading sunset
All remnants,  remains of the day, extant