Old Echoes, New Echoes

Memories passed

From flowing present

Into comfortably etched history;

A thin veneer of time

Inching closer to oblivion.

 

But old echoes flickered still 

In summer's silent bloom

A frenzy of green, blue and maroon,

A hushed ritual of sameness.

Your Thought's a Hug

Your thought's a hug
spreading across the horizon
of my mind.
A sunset bathed in gold and shimmer
A distant warmth,
A hope, a glimmer
Of times immemorial.

A singular bloom echoing creation.
Tireless, you sit in quietness
and do what you do best:
Let your love hover across the expanse
Of the universe.

I Live in a Heart of Porcelain

I live in a heart of porcelain
With tiny glass windows
Bejewelled with cracks.
Emotions slide away
Through tiny glass windows
Beady traitors of chance,
Spellbound by a glance.

I live in a heart of porcelain
Where gentle things grow,
Unfettered by the world's raised brow.

I live in a heart of porcelain
Where wild things roam
A fragile existence,
Of a still unwritten tome.

Sometimes

Sometimes, heart strings utter the truth,
Sometimes, lines of the forehead do.
An elusive willowy figure,
Truth evades us until it doesn't.

A dance of mystery and longing
A circling ghost
in the city of the blinding
What a majestic sight it is!

Birds

In the stillness of
the moment
Birds fly seamlessly,
staining the air.
My pen's the arrow
Cleaving through
Their motion.
Ghostly apparitions
until ink fills them,
Graceful victims,
Committed to the
Prison of paper and thought.

The Walking Tree

Wispy branches piercing
the skies,
Elevated in wonder
and prayer
A still dance
frozen in earthy grace
Descended in the gritty mineral
A revolving eternity
Sifting through sameness
A summoning of
bark and root,
leaf and fruit.

That IT

       No, it isn't Stephen King's "IT" that I'm dwelling on, although I must confess the thought is tempting. It's a less gruesome one, but nevertheless daunting. It stretches under your eyes larger than the horizon and deeper than the murkiest of seas. Perhaps its apparent enormity pushes us into active oblivion, ushered in by the grind of daily living. No trifling matter, that fundamental search rooted in the core of our humanity. It's the chase for meaning, fulfillment and happiness. On a personal note, I've grown to realize they all converge in the unearthing of calling. As presumptuous as it might sound, I see it as the keeper of fulfillment. We are makers, creators, forgers. Not workers. Creation lies at the heart of our being, unlike work which implies a descent into depersonalized effort. A poor substitute to the spark of emergent novelty. 

Credit: Butterfly

     Creation rejuvenates identity; it shines a light on those tricky spots where a seedling pushes through. It's in the glimmers of childlike joy that comes along in your doings, a sense balance restoring you to yourself. Work is oftentimes alienating. Like a Victorian Frankenstein perpetually resurrected with the sole purpose of engulfing people, cities and countries under its thick mantle of gloom. When that flicker of enjoyment beams through again, the monster is kept at bay and moment count again. Days cease flowing mindlessly, like mere snowflakes staining the ground in a tiresome cyclicity of seasons. Eden is restored, if only for a moment. Perhaps the quest for that "IT" is a matter of the time to come; perhaps the breaking of the mold shall occur on its own under the respectable patronage of fate. 

Perhaps waiting is, in fact, a bad bargain with time. No, don't wait for that extraordinary event that will bring along the much expected earth-shattering change. Instead, sharpen your senses every day. It might not reveal itself at once. Like an elusive butterfly, it shies away from noise and bustle, looking for a space and time where it can spread its delicate wings. For once, allow silence to wash over you. Put your phone away. Breathe in the moment and go for a walk. Let nature float around you as it is and listen. The cheerful chirp of a bird, a sunray spilling through the almost still branches. And the comforting smell of dry warmth of a spring day. They all restore you to yourself. Perhaps this here and now will help the butterfly inside to emerge in ginger flight.