work in progress. like life

She winked, and smiling with her eyes,
kissed my parched lips,

I could not return her kiss,

and though the years have spun their cobwebs,

fashioning vacuums out of forgotten dreams,

It is that kiss that I most miss.

Tonight, I lie awake,
lathered in layered memories,

of love lost, and of love gained,

of open skies,
and of rains crashing through my weak rhymes,

that have strained,
across the vast emptiness,

seeking absolution,
for my emotional crimes…

(This Scribble is a Work in Progress. Just Like Life)

Port of Call – a re-post of one of Scribbler’s favourite scribbles

Port of Call

…
…

Barefoot on a talcum beach,

alone, not lonely,

with the breath of the ocean a caressing balm,

soothing pained memories away,

to the swaying of a solitary palm.

…

Barefoot on a talcum beach,

alone, not lonely,

feeling the brushing away of all past turmoil,

on a quest for solace,

ever so hard to find,

yet comforted by the crashing of the waves,

as the tide cleanses all pain,

and leaves despair far, far behind.

…

Barefoot on a talcum beach,

alone, not lonely,

drenched in a sea-breeze of mist,

that hushes the ache of bygone moons,

tasting the salty tang on my lips,

as the burnished sun,

over the distant horizon,
swoons,

and dips.

…

Barefoot on a talcum beach,

alone, not lonely,

searching, ever searching,

for a slice of solitude,

as memory bids a final adieu,

reaching under the sea so vast,

and seeking comfort in the depths,

while embracing,

the tomorrows to come,

wishing that they be true.

…

Barefoot on a talcum beach,

alone, not lonely,

seeing my truths drown,

as they slip beneath the turquoise waters,

feeling my heart ablaze,

with a passion that rarely falters.

…

Barefoot on a talcum beach,

alone, not lonely,

yet knowing that I am home at long last,

wishing the waves would wash away,

the defences that once stood,

like an impregnable wall.

…

Barefoot on a talcum beach,

alone, not lonely,

I have found, at long last,

my final port of call.

The Dilution of Memory

The Dilution of Memory…

Embers fade,
disappearing into the hushed night…

Petals wither,
falling on the soft grass…

Words pale,
obscured by the anguish within…

Faces blur,
dimmed by the galloping years…

Kisses lose,
the urgency of those bygone depths…

Feelings recede,
lying dormant in shielded vaults…

Love loses,
fatigued after numberless skirmishes…

Pain flees,
seeking new wounds to inflict…

Scars remain,
sentinels against,

the dilution of memory.

Ashes

Savage lies, mercilessly spoken,

battering emotions, a heart exposed, nakedly open,

companionship was all that was sought,

not blue-chip bonds, hastily sold and bought.

The bonds I sought were simple,

peaceful nights, scribbling verse in unseen black,

delicately caressing words of love, my fingers tracing poems, over the contours of your soft back.

It saddens me to say, my thoughts were dreamed in vain,

and it grieves me see, the ashes of our love,

floating down the streets we walked,

scattered in the rivulets of this night’s pouring rain.

Alone I scribble this paltry verse,

the darkest of nights, in the midst of howling storms,

and though I may heal some day,

the memory of the ashes of our love,

floating down the streets we once walked,

shall remain buried deep,

until my dying day

I Want to Walk with You

I want to walk with you with our heads held high

Never cowering, never with heads bowed

With our feet on this blessed soil, and our dreams reaching for the sky

 

Dreams of simple joys and of peace and of mirth

For all our fellow travelers on this delightful earth

 

Dreams not of wealth or of positions of high standing or of mighty power

Simple dreams of a walk in the aftermath of a Johannesburg evening rain-shower

 

Dreams of bread and water and dignity and shelter and clothes for all

Dreams where all fellow travelers may together walk this earth proud and tall

 

I want to walk with you, my fellow traveler, with our heads held high

Never pandering to power, never silent in the face of its abuse

Always firm in our convictions that we can all make peace if we only try

 

If we try to stop and think and sometimes not to look the other way

If we practice what our different creeds really teach, we will surely see that day

 

When we all, fellow travelers may walk with our heads held high

Never cowering, never with our heads bowed

With our feet on this blessed soil, and our collective dreams reaching for the sky

 

Call me silly, call me naive, call me hopeless, and if you must, call me weak

But is this not the common good that our different creeds and cultures all seek?