Free

Tess looked up, away from being,
Saw the sun as she used to do,
She knew she’d to touch it today,
Make from her old life something new.

The magic of the sun in sparks,
That dissolves the purple to blue,
And transforms weeping red golden,
Made her tears disappear, too.

Her eyes were wide; her tears were still,
For she knew she would soon be free:
Touch the warmth of the rising sun,
Be fused within the cool, blue sea.

She stepped into the liquid sky,
Her feet carrying her through the air;
She tried to reach out to the sun,
In trying, reached into his lair.

Her fingers moved close to his heat,
But she knew she’d to cross the sea,
So her feet now touched the water,
So now how far could the sun be?

The sea felt cool upon her feet,
She could feel its lapping form,
Higher, higher, deeper, deeper,
And she moved on and on and on.

Fingers reaching out to her sun,
The sea now carried her above,
The waves caressed her and, rushing
Into her mouth made quiet love.

For moments, there was darkness,
For moments, she lost her sun,
And, then, she saw it once again,
For now, the sea, the sun were one.

That was Love! In wonder, Tess thought.
And she smiled and she touched the sea,
And dissolved when she touched the sun,
And was essentially free.

The Fall

He embraced the heart. He kissed it.
He lifted it high and said he loved it.
So it blossomed. It shined sublime.
It learnt (unwisely) to disregard Time.

He caressed it with his love-song.
It vainly chose not to judge Right from Wrong.
It throbbed wildly on hearing just his name.
So, then, it had none but itself to blame.

When he hurled it up in the air,
It preened under Love’s uncorrupted stare.
But relevant needs consume Love –
A fact it forgot in the glare above.

His hand beneath left to hold Life,
And the heart made its descent into strife.
Like a damned soul condemned to Hell,
Seeing no Saviour, sobbed, as it fell.

But Hell has fire to break a fall;
The place where it fell had nothing at all:
Just a chaotic world of Art,
Which now has pieces of a broken heart.

Sonnet

The sky has so many stars that its face
E’en in the dark of night appears bright!
Each ribbony ray seems inclined to race
Toward earth, as though it requires the light.

It does not.

Man as aged long, to the time
He can’t see himself as part of the sky,
Of the dust, or anything sublime,
He has answered the “how?” (But failed the “why?”).

If he could, for a while, shun the glory,
The power, the wealth, the pride, the fame,
And but hear the stars’ lighted, bright story,
He shall be of Nature and need no name.

But the mind of man has evolved to think,
While his idle heart to nothingness does sink.

15th March.

You Are

You are the drop of rain
Upon my heart’s parched dry ground;
You are the one who took
My still heart and spun it
Around and round and round.

You are the sweet sunshine
When things look too, too grey;
You are the arrowed sign
That points out, when I’m lost,
The right turn on the way.

You are the smile I smile,
You are the tear I cry,
You were my hope in the past,
You will be the last breath
I inhale ‘fore I die.

You are the love I give,
You are part of my name,
You are to me my Pride,
My eyed Beauty, my Lust
And all I want of Fame.

You are now far, farther
Than any star ‘twould seem;
Yet you possess my thoughts
Awake I dream of you,
Asleep you are my dream.

4th July.

The Fool’s Song

“Love me, love me, love me, love me,”
I sang along my way –
A flower filled way, ‘pon a green lea –
One gold summer’s golden day.

I stooped to pick a red, red rose,
Then asked its petals bright:
“Dost thou love me, o red, red rose?”
But it closed in darkness tight.

“I love thee,” said a prickly thorn,
“My love for thee ne’er died.”
But my rose dead, I was forlorn,
And cast rose and thorn aside.

“Love me, love me, love me, love me,”
I sing along the way,
Still filled with flowers, ‘pon the green lea,
Where I once threw true love away.

7th August.

Morning

The crows chant their morning song.
It’s the heralding of a new day.
The darkness seems to wander away
As the black birds spread their wings
And open their black beaks
To welcome the first ray of Dawn.
Hear their cacophony!
The sound of a saw
Working,
Then cut off, after a syllable,
Uttered and broken,
But completing its duty.
Being its nature.
Oh! A sparrow chirped!
A bright chirp! A little chirp!
Chirp, chirp, chirp, chirp.

But the Dawn
Belongs to the crows.

Darkness has found a way to live on.

7th August.

Waiting

There’s a girl, who lives near the sea,
She wanders there each day,
And her eyes, cast far ahead, speak
Much, much more than she’ll ever say.

The wind lifts her skirt, and riots
With her dark mane of hair;
While the glowering sun, covering her
In blinding gold, can’t cower her stare.

At times, I spy her work-torn hand
Lifting to catch a beam,
And pity the tears in her hope
As she likens it to her dream.

I watch, unobserved. And, I know,
She waits – and she waits in pain,
And, oft, I find myself praying
That her wait never ends in vain.

Each day of each changing season,
I am told, she stands there:
At the edge of the rolling sea,
Ensnared between hope and despair.

The waves tip high and break, break, break,
Near her unadorned feet,
While the sand surges from under
And with the sea hastens to meet,

Her eyes ne’ever waver in their stare,
And her back never bends,
She stands there, each day, from the time
It begins, to the time it ends.

I know not just whom she waits for,
Though this I know as true:
If that stare of hers breaks, in vain,
That spirited heart shall break, too.

And whom she waited for, in pain,
Shall know pain like never before!
And the heart that showed her disdain,
Shall suffer, suffer fore’ermore!

28th May.