Tag Archive: forgiveness


thoughts of yesteryear








thoughts of yesteryear.






in a haze of pure memories, beseeching them from fleeing,


dozens of thoughts rage within,


as i lay helplessly lost,

alone in my being.





searching for solace, to stem the onslaught of bygone loss,


to still the assault, of elusive nostalgia,


grinding me to a jarring halt.





and when the helplessness within,


fades slowly away,


vanishing into folds of the distant thicket,


i grapple simply to breathe today,


left, hugging truths of long ago,


lost in the past, so painfully far away.





the shedding of skin






the shedding of skin.






parched lullabies seem jarring, the gentle persuasion an assault,


mute understanding, reeks of decay,


under this skin in which i stay. 





dreams of moulting,


shedding the hubris of crafty words,


flushing away all famished rhymes,


in this world obsessed with nothing but gold, silver, nickels and dimes.





ripping the fibre of an ink-stained past, 


far too late now, for the die has been cast,


and all those honey-soaked kisses,


though breathless then,


seem now, destined,


never to last.





an experimental scribble






the elasticity of love.






1.



truth.

lies.


spaces in-between, 


teeming mindscapes,

arrhythmic heartscapes,


wildly cacophonous soulscapes.


2.



truth slithering through cracks,


scarring and wrinkling the face of time. 




3.



embers turning to ash, in souls,


doused by fires of yearning. 




4.



how dismal i feel, deadening such whispers, 


cremating unburnt passages of loose-leaf verse,


delving deep into a core once pure,


searching for that panacea, that elusive cure.




5.



my shunned pleas, my plaintive cries, 


sewed up, cocooned,


slipping inside private nightmares,


awakened only by long dormant fears,


eliciting a flood of tears,


aching to find belonging, a semblance of peace,


a measure of solace, even a mere trace,


within myself, deep within me,


in a once accessible place.




tattered scrolls 



Tattered Scrolls.





tattered scrolls, lifeless,


beneath a wreath of memories.




torn fragments of spirits departed,

littering moments in between.




fractured hopes,

crushed desires,


swatted away like annoying murmurs.




returning only to whisper, the endearing lie,



that breaths of passion,


disappear eventually,


into the evening sky.








my wish for you, my friends, as you retire from this day, as languorous evening slips away.



may peaceful slumber envelope you as night begins to yawn,



may your dreams be scented sweet, as over you the sheets are drawn,



may your sleep be gentle, may you awaken tomorrow morn,


to the fresh promise, of a hopeful new dawn.




they do not see me at all






they do not see me at all.





1.




they do not see me at all,


rambling through desecrated avenues,


amidst soulless frenzy,


feeling them brush past me,


on my knees i crawl,


they do not see me at all.





invisible, slammed against as if a wall,


reaching out, shrieking, oblivious to my drowning call,


they do not see me at all.





broken, spent, exhausted, fatigued, to the cold damp ground i fall,


trampling over me,


they do not see me at all.





standing mute, scribbling verses in an unintelligible scrawl,


they hardly gaze,


they do not see me at all.





never looking back,


i cast no shadow, listening to their monotonous drawl,


they do not see me at all.





2.




when along alleyways, flickering recognition sweeps their deadened faces,


i slither into the sanctity of my nothingness, 


cocooned in my tattered shawl,


where i hope,


i hope,



they do not see me at all.




searching






​Searching,


through the detritus of yesterday,



finding only fragments of indifferent time.






Searching,


through trashed emotions,



finding only moments hastily cast aside.






Searching,


through blurry scribbles,



finding only slivers of defeated thought.






Searching,


through layers of my moulted skin,



finding only the stillness of a once beating heart.






Searching,


through reflections in shattered mirrors,



finding only snippets of long forgotten faces.






Searching,


through blank canvasses,



finding only echoes of faint life.






Searching.

veils






Veils.




​embroidered smiles, smoothly hewn conversations.




banal. hollow.


the callous, practised apathy,


smothering all whispers of the forgotten.




as smiles abound,

over cappuccino and croissants.







​the chords of dissonance.





tempestuous waves lash the shores of my being,


smashing cliffs, thrashing the ramparts.




feeling the erosion,

within,


gradual, incessant.




clad in my armour,

shielding me,


against frigid waters of fate.




until now.




the armour pock-marked,


battle-fatigue clawing at my throat,


what once was a crescendo of promise,


disintegrating into jangled chords of dissonance.




but, still, and yet,


trying to stem the cacophony,


somehow knowing,


that from jagged rocks of memories,


from icy waters of destiny,


from the dissonance of infinite chords,


that, yet, maybe, perhaps,


there awaits,


the promise of a new symphony.





​double-helixed uBuntu

double-helixed uBuntu …





these interwoven veins,

dna double-helixed,


microscopically binding,


me.

you.


us all.



through

this common

shared

truth:



‘I am because you are’*



all of us.

together.

as one.


me and you …


… uBuntu*

  
* – uBuntu is an isiXhosa/isiZulu concept that espouses the “belief in a universal bond of sharing that connects all humanity”








she walks alone









she walks alone.

barefoot in the paddies of rice,


breaking her back for some precious grains.





she walks alone,


in jo’burg town, with a black eye,


abused by him the previous painful night.





she walks alone,


in the streets of neon hazed manila,



along the decaying hedges of rotten london,



on the crowded pavements of lonesome new delhi,



across the rolling plains of the vast bounteous pampas,



over the winding back-ways of the sloping and grimy favelas,



on the glittering pavements of sickeningly ostentatious jeddah,




through the blindingly false boulevards of that sad los angeles town.





she walks alone,


bearing the burden of mother and daughter,


of cook and sweeper,


of wife and mistress,


and always inhumane mans punching-bag.





she walks alone,


through your streets and mine,


standing up as she is beaten down,


loving a lot as the bruises on her face turn purple,



feeding the little ones with morsels of hastily cooked beans.





she walks alone,


in factories and in mills and in buses,


in schools and in brothels and in horrific places in-between.




she walks alone,


staying alive on the alms of the ‘charitable’,


violated by those who from the pulpit preach.





she walks alone,


my sister and yours,


my mother and yours too,


my lover and your beloved as well.





she walks alone,


caged by society in its invisible prison,


a slave of norms and culture and religion and caste.





she walks alone,


but she is the conscience of me and you,


screaming at us silently in hunger and despair.





she walks alone,


and though fearful of all you callous men she may seem,


be warned that she shall not be this alone,


she too dreams and thinks and believes,


she too needs and wants and loves and weeps,


in the silent night of complacency,

while impotent mankind sleeps,


she too is rising and in rising she will slay,


the beasts that in your men’s hearts prowl and lay.




she too will demand her rightful place,



for every mother, sister, daughter, wife, lover,



has a real, human face.







a child of war and terror




a child of war and terror.



 


as she lies bleeding,


the girl who skipped, hopped to school,


all of nine and a half years old,


with ribbons in her hair and a laugh that was her father’s pride.


 



as she lies bleeding,


shrapnel lodged in her torn stomach,


she stares at her skipping rope,


blood soaking it the colour of cherries her mother buys.


 



as she lies bleeding,


she sees human shapes all around, thick in the black smoke,


blurred visions of scattering feet, 


shoes left behind,

hearing nothing but the pinging in her smashed eardrums.


 



as she lies bleeding,


she slips away and then she is dead,


a mangled heap of a nine and a half year old girl,


whose laugh was her father’s pride.


 


 


as she lies bleeding,


even in death she bleeds some more,


shrapnel wedged in her torn stomach,


stealing the light from her bright innocent eyes.




as she lies bleeding …



in jallianwala bagh in ‘19,

johannesburg in ’93,

leningrad in ‘42,

freetown in ‘98,

soweto in ‘76,

beirut in ‘85,

hanoi in ‘68,


st. bernadino,

manchester,

baghdad,

brussels,

london,

tripoli,

miami,

jenin,

paris,

kabul,

raqqa,

basra,

mosul,

gaza,



aleppo still.


 


as she lies bleeding,


a little nine and a half year old girl,


whose laugh was her parent’s pride,


we know she’ll bleed more,


tomorrow and in many tomorrows yet unborn,


with shrapnel in her stomach,

ripped open and torn.


 


as she lies bleeding,


a child of war and terror.





​mushy & schmaltzy






it is your presence, your being, that makes me swoon each time our eyes meet,


it is your body, your skin, that fuels this raging cauldron of desirous heat,


it is you, and only you, with whom i share each waking breath, every thud-thudding heartbeat,


it is from your lips, i sip the nectar of love, ever so sweet,


it is your fingers intertwined with mine, your body sensuously inviting me,


it is through your eyes, that i have finally begun to see,


that it is with you, and only with you,


i forever choose to be.








​i stand mute, a vision of you bathing me in softly murmuring light,


i am transfixed, your lips reaching ever closer to mine,


you smile, your breath warm, your touch sensual,


you kiss me gently, our tongues ablaze,


our dream at last within our grasp, to have found our abode of peace,


away from the glaring city lights, far from the metallic choking haze 






For Ernesto ‘Ché’ Guevara de la Serna 

(14 June 1928 – 9 October 1967)




The Wind Carries His Name …



They shot him do

wn,

to silence a man of flesh and bone.


Even as the bullets tore through him,

the wind carried his name.


Far across the weary fields,

high above the stubborn peaks,

over the blood soaked streams,

the wind carried his name.


They shot him down,

to silence a man of flesh and bone.


Yet the wind carries his name,

to you and to me,

to them and to us.


They shot him down,

but his name resounds,

as it floats on the breeze.


And,


still they try to shoot him down,

to silence us all, 

to stifle an ideal.


But the wind cannot be stilled,

and the wind carries his name.




“Che”.




a simple wish



my simple wish, of seeking a gentle being, a warm heart, to share the crests and the troughs, when gazing into her eyes, all melancholy may depart.


a companion to walk on moonlit beaches, a refuge to dwell in when harsh times take their toll, a simple wish to lean onto each other, to always be there for one another.


in her smile, a tinge of pain, having braced this world so often cruel, my assuring her of unwavering truth, to be her rock, to be less the exception, and more so the rule.


knowing that I am not young anymore, the years fled past, leaving me alone, desolate, lonely to the core.


my simple wish to find in her my abode of peace, her love wrapping me in a warm shawl, in her laughter a lifetime of pain finding release.


our love not just quaint and comfortable, but with passionate desire burning, scalding our bodies with aching longing churning.


a simple love, of holding each other tight, cocooned within the folds of our warmth, cherishing each day, welcoming each night.


ah! but to find her, to meet one so true and infused with love, i ramble along these highways of stone, famished for being so long, so alone.


so tell her I await her on the greenest plains, across the mountains and in valleys deep, where once found, together in love,


we may till daybreak sleep …



​thick as a brick …






bends in the pathway, obscuring the view, akin to the twists of this life, at each turn expectant of starting anew,


rolling and rambling on streets of splintered glass, hoping against hope that this too shall pass,


beyond quaint idioms and hollow platitudes flung around, taking a pained step further on the broken ground,


we walk along, carrying the flickering flame of hope, held dearly in the recesses of the heart, braving the gales that swirl, threatening to tear it all apart,


we fake smiles, and pretend that all is well, breaking a little more each passing day, nursing that foreboding feeling, of staring down a deep well,


what has become of us, needing so little yet ever grasping for so much, splitting love into twos and threes, eroding casually the sensual feeling, of that ever sought after human touch,


how have we trashed, the genuineness of gentle love, for a couple of trinkets of gold, scurrying around this auction floor, where sentiments are traded, bought, and sold,


in a world of treading on people, in lusty blindness, always wanting to accrue more, selling our souls to the highest bidder, bargaining away the virtue of being humane, yanked out of our very core,


yes, it is true that we must seek more to luxuriate, in bubbly jacuzzis cleansing the outsides, while toxic greed feeds, rapacious, insatiable, clawing out the essence of our hollowed insides,


in this diseased society, where one is branded by the label of a shoe, where flimsy haute couture becomes impenetrable, poisoning all that we say, and much of what we do,


does this rant make you yawn, not for just its tepid verse, but because it feels so wishy-washily preachy, against all that we are taught to slobber over and fawn,


if so, dismiss it all as the ravings of a temporarily unhinged mind, that has sought out pristine places, as they become ever more difficult to find,


and render it all rubbish, in style and in so-called verse, far too eager to make it all rhyme, sanctimonious and long winded, humid and fetid, relegating it all, to await garbage collection time,


well, these may be the disjointed thoughts threaded together, a patchwork of ivory tower rhetoric, lost in the incomprehension of words, just words that do not stick,


well, that’s fine, for we have all heard it before, the mindless chattering of a brain,


thick as a brick.





skin to skin 



skin to skin, soaking in the fragrance of incense, our bodies fused, lips and fingers heightening every sense,


we drown in the depths of each others eyes, swirling under undulating passionate embraces, knowing too well how time flies,


we are one, you and i, our sweat glistening under the starry sky,


holding on to each other, never wanting to let go,


and though we are barely embarking on our fiery voyage,


as lips brush against lips, we know,


this passion can only ever continue to grow.





in the deep 



in the deep …




flailing, thrashing for gulps of air, when well-meaning words ricochet, and emotions in the deep lay,


when one is yanked into the chasm of the deep, blankly staring at the ceiling, chasing fleeing sleep,


alone, with misfiring neurons coaxing, inviting, paving alleys for gloom to slowly seep, when pangs of emptiness deeper still, begin to creep,


sleep vanishes, ushering waking nightmares in, a jangling discord of the day, the night, and of yesterdays din,


one reaches for slivers of hope, the double edged scimitar of life, the jagged rawness of seemingly unending strife,


ah but seeing a solitary shard, the lifeline of coarse hope, the being entire reaches out, digging in fingers to get a foothold, on that slippery slope,


and as dawn approaches, gently ushering in day from night, one feels renewed, rejuvenated, in the soft glow of morning light,


for it is the fragile strands of the new morn, keeping darkness at bay, nestling petals with the dew of hope, against the odds, 


welcoming new life,


banishing the pangs of emptiness away …





alone





alone in the midst of the throng, where might is right,


i wish to stand firm, wishing always,

never to just belong …






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