Sometimes that is all you want to do,
rise above the city of melancholy
and watch the yellowing leaves fall.
Trace shadows of foliage in neon light
and watch our shadows grow tall.
Plant sweet kisses to dull traces of regret
of having loved in spite of it all.
In the branches of despair
Kites of damning thoughts get stuck
And so carefully in your
Chest pockets you must tuck
Fortitude a bird blue
Of all weathers
And find simple joy
In its iridescent feathers.
the poet goes
A lump in the throat
and aching toes.
But she gets given
a kiss on the nose –
(sugary treat for aching heart )
for her silken prose.
How does this sadness
even dwell in a heart so warm
Melancholy be its blood’s colour red?
Tell me Ieda
is there sadness too
in your ferruginous lunules?
But you will just fly away
into this floating dusk
Leaving me with my melancholy rouge.
Squint and you will discover
blue islands in orange-red flaming oceans.
The deceptive breaking of tides
is her stretching her naked limbs
as she wakes up from a lazy slumber.
A fusion of eclectic behaviour of dream patterns
created such projections
of the most vibrant of colours
those that rose from the depths of these strange oceans.
She was a purple green creature
who lived beneath these tidal waves
while he took flights in the pristine air above.
Tiny red hyperopia circles on the surface,
these oceans keep an eye on
the surreptitious movements of the clouds.
(Photo by David Maisel~ Library of Dust)
Happiness to me is
forgetting binoculars at home,
and finding the need for none.
For the bright bird perched too close and
and whistled a delicate song, privately for me.
Happiness to me is
forgetting my drawing book at home,
and finding a few crisp blank pages
at the start and also at the end
of my new favourite poetry book,
Simic’s That Little Something.
Forgetting my chocolate ration,
and finding a kind co-traveller
who offers me coconut sweet
made in home made ghee
served with a beautiful smile.
Forgetting my playlist at home,
but finding in every stop
buses that played melodies
one after another
filling the moist skies with lovely notes.
Forgetting my worries at home,
and finding the need for none,
no reason to worry about
in these ghats
soaked in rains
and where birds make homes
in dead trees.
Photo taken at Redstone Eco Centre
If hearts of those you loved
were flowers that could be saved
in between the pages of
your favorite poetry book.
How many hearts would you save?
How many flowers will I find
pressed in between the pages
of your poetry books?