aristocrat

already a piece
of forgotten memory,
can it disappear
any quicker?
its going, going.......gone
you can still feel the breeze
without it being visible to you,
and yet the wind through
your hair is unnoticed.

superficial questions,
is there any reason to know more?
apparently not,
interest is all about narcissism.

black is the absence of colour,
white is the presence of all colours,
its sad we can't
fit in either category.

second grade necessity,
convenience or priority?
hanging helper,
just waiting for the green light.

take a listen through the window,
it is such a simple act,
sun pushed aside,
the wait carries on.
in the absence of colour, words does its purpose, absorbing thoughts long embedded.

dispersed reconciliation

morning is like a summer's bird,
a pigeon on the fryer.

railway tracks and tunnel bats,
on a dreaded backdrop,
only from a cat's eye view,
but who bothers for such things?

imperfections differentiates,
differences are personal,
personalizing shows effort,
effort is time,
time heals,
healing needs love,
love is a blessing,
blessings show detail,
detail is beauty.

so why the constant struggle
for perfection?
when perfection fractures?
perfection is 'beauty'
because not everyone has it.
imperfections exist all over,
but that is our separation,
besides,
real perfection does not exist,
a red herring from true beauty.

from a distance you can see,
the worries that yesterday brought,
yet to solve all of yesterday's tomorrow's worries,
is like saying you will know tomorrow's troubles.

detailed cursory

sway as the master,
halting the alleviator.

an original piece,
and its many forged copies,
a copy of a copy,
how can it not be mistaken?
isn't it better to buy
a photostated version?
why risk reading something
you may not enjoy,
and pay an over the top
price for it?
Another may state that
its a joy to possess an original,
insisting that just the knowledge itself
that it is authentic can bring
unexplainable satisfaction.
But you just can't afford to purchase
more than one original piece.
You want to spend wisely,
cent to cent worth.

Scarlet skin,
golden print.
A cover not everyone can love,
its content interpreted differently,
every page scrutinized,
every page hated, loved
or uncared for.
written by an author
recognized on a global scale.
A must have by some,
a reject by others.
Uncertainty clouds,
so you buy a photostated version,
and read it through.

Captivated by each word,
how can you not be?
such flow, such expression,
the clarity of a diamond,
beginning to end.
'Definitely a must have,
why was there doubt?'
In that store you made your purchase,
Its title shone gold as its new owner
held it in front of him.
Reading the prologue
and only halfway through,
you shut your eyes,
mouth open wide,
and yawned.
With tear filled eyes,
you place the book aside,
'i'll read it another day,
i know the story anyway.'

dust covered and in a box,
pages past the prologue untouched,
not taken with him six feet under.
to be passed on to charity,
yellowing and fragile,
who else can appreciate its beauty,
inner text closed off from the light.

now just waiting for its turn
into the furnace it will burn.

pepper and sage

the pull of distance,
attractive as a monarch
breaking free,
emerges as a wanderer.

fences start up at 12 feet high,
extended lengthwise with
each high end development,
taken down when completed,
to allow for easier access,
as compared to climbing over.

like a vagrant who has
found refuge and safety,
to have found comfort
and a sense of belonging,
and to let it all go,
because everything is transient.
disallowed to possess,
a vagabond,
no more,
no less.

summer maintains,
fall clears,
winter heals and rests,
spring brings anew.
some lingering,
but slowly overshadowed.

over crescent

like men to money

its expected

held steadfast through
the night,
however contemplated
in every season and
bright weather.

ignorance and egoism,
the reluctant change,
for change looks so weak,
unlike steadfast decisions.

Nothing is permanent,
not even our 'right' answers,
why then do we make flawed laws?
trusting corruption and culture,
influenced by mere men who
do not understand any more?

word manipulation,
from an 'intellectual' point of view,
for a 'greater' good,
which changes to suit the time frame.
reliance on the superficial presentation
to control and take over,
fake belief because of fear of venturing,
or is it real because you don't possess your own view,
to cross a one way street and
get knocked down from the other side.

a simple repetition
does not define humanity,
does not define us
just because we are habitual beings.
a numbness we feel that is all so frequent,
yet, should we harden our hearts
over a common hurt?
but we are just human,
an excuse given so often
without actually thinking any further.
so why do we go back to those
who hurt us when its going to be
undoubtfully repeated?
who else can understand, take in,
accept, forgive, heal and soften the hardened
but our Father.
that was not a question,
it was a statement.

'destiny does not exist,
only choices.'

fruits in a basket

metal shavings on your omelet,
just 'cause the pepper shaker is empty.

light streams of rocky water
flows through paddy fields,
the hardy stalk glimmers gold,
and by hand it is bartered,
worth incomparable to wealth,
just to satisfy the simple desires
by sight, by smell.

when science and nature collides,
they create a spectacle that of
an oversized deadly mushroom.
and we just help ourselves to a bench
that has been well paid for,
goggles included, of course.

'its always sunny above the rain clouds,
you just better hope the moon isn't up then'

Nineteen

when is a fault not a fault?
when is the blame for a crack forgivable?
its seen as nothing wrong
when its lights are flashing right into your eyes.
so obvious,
why can't you see?
silence for the growth,
for the learning experience that
from the looks of it isn't coming.
it will hurt to know,
that the reason it drys up and gets
picked up by the wind,
is because of the line you chose,
of the immensely large circle.
yes, fault is not there
it seems that each step is a right one,
but to not bother about what each step looks like,
it kills the spirit,
weakens the sincerity,
burdens the heart.

isn't it obvious?
the word being used so frequently is 'obvious',
because there isn't another way to look at it.
when its repeated,
can you not sense the immense routine sigh,
premonition no more,
when its so predicted.
and yet, no blame
because wants and needs are different.
being contented, to hope for more when you want it,
it will just end with a dash to the heart.

who asks?
don't we all wish the others know what we want and just do it?
but we all know how horrendously futile that is,
some just don't understand the needs,
are no longer the wants.

hesitant, that is the outcome.
the fatigue sinks deep,
to bother when the reply is so dead,
so 'anything',
whether or not that be it,
its obvious whats expected,
nothing.

is it the priority? is it the placement?
or is it simply because the cut was too deep,
wound opened to be hurt again.
it is for no one to understand without explanation.

Is this the intention?
when you expect it, its going to come as it is.
when effort diminishes,
when expectations fall,
when the dealer becomes the 'object' of disappointment,
when drifting becomes fading,
when bother becomes pain,
when proving becomes hurt,
how can anything last?

or is it just misfortune?
is it just coincidence?
is it punishment?
we wonder won't we?
blame points its ugly fingers right
back at the heart,
'am i at fault?'
every inch you try to dust,
every speck a reason for failure.

lingering weakness,
what can we do with it but suppress?
cause human nature is the cure,
and human nature has expired.


nonchalant to the wonder

usual novelty

a simple glimpse of joy,
and pointless bitterness fills.

why do we put up with ourselves
repeating everything that hurts,
to say, its the end, and fall weak to comfort,
to crumble at the sight of solace.
we cover our pain with a cloud of denial
for what? to linger on a past that is past?
to pretend that the world will stop for your sake
while we are moving past you?
is that worth the trouble for a pinch?
reality shows you that you aren't in deep slumber,
or would you rather live in a world where pain
is just is word?
you want the hugs and kisses,
but not the pain and affliction?
where have you been living all your life?

'we choose which paths to take,
but we can't change the path we are on.'

eject, play back

with stares and glares,
a meaningless smile.

so undeserving,
is that why you possess it all?
with silver trays and red wood tables,
an overflowing goblet,
enraged ruby flame.

glass shattered,
clarity no more,
elaborate puzzle pieces,
an ageless process.

like an egg in water,
abandoned with care,
is how perception floats,
hopelessly outnumbered.

four walls,
and yet no ground to stand on,
grab for the ceiling,
cause gravity hates you.

'you can break the human spirit,
but that's as far as you can go,
and no, that isn't enough,
cause we have something stronger.'

better days

bed of ash,
murky lake.

is still air so hard to take in?
need Eastern winds blow? so directionless.
bring up the ashes and distribute it among the trees.
the roots will heal in time,
as the bark just darkens, let it be a shelter,
let the roots dig deep again to find water.

a primeval forest,
fires come and go,
centuries withstanding,
expanding and growing,
burnt bark sheds off,
to grow ring after ring.

sunlight through the mosaic,
such a welcoming sight,
filtered out with distance,
till no shadows can be observed.

life is like a shirt,
starts of so new, untainted ,colour intact.
then comes the occasional spills,
with every wash cycle, it cleans.
the tendency of that shirt getting that type of spill again lessens,
if spillage continues, it wont be worn outside as often anymore,
eventually the shirt gets worn out,
colour fades, threads come undone, an unsewed patch by age,
reduced to wiping stains, and then discarded.

'make me a happy ending,
the recipe is by trial and error,
to suit an individual's dainty taste,
so you better get started'

stranger

its funny,
how often do you have those close to heart in thought,
and then have that 'i'm not remembered, not bothered by them'
'i'm a short term comfort, a convenient friend'.
but aren't we all similar?
so won't we all think we aren't remembered by those who remember us most?
to think that you are one day here and the next day gone,
is to have absolutely no self worth,
you aren't thin air, even air is remembered.
expression determines,
but how often do we show it all, or even half of it?
how often do we show someone's importance in our life?
to let his face shine more through appreciation.
an empty 'thanks'?
what difference would that make us as compared to those who have no conscience?
its always a trial and error thing.
so you have no idea, just take a simple step,
how hard is it to get up once you fall,
especially if its done for someone so dearly held.
we ask when we say we wont,
and deny the whole package when the blame comes,
people wonder why everything is so fragile,
we contributed to each crack, so fix it.

done backstage,
to be viewed through curtains,
to listen to the applause given,
rose petals, satisfied expressions,
leave through the backdoor.