Each day is a reminder to me,

Each turn of the daylight wheel,

Brings you closer, day by day

Each friend I see; now coupled,now married, with children, and families of their own,

Each time I see them, I notice their children are a little more grown,

They call me by name, then uncle, ciya/grandpa or old man; until, finally, I’m gone

Remember parents with ageless beauty, both then and now-

Perhaps, that’s the affect of love bourne deep & strong

Each event is a repetition of what’s gone before:

Brought home increasingly swiftly to you, in neat-pocket size devices, in small bulletins to elicit rapture…until you move on…

My love, the implications of these words are hard to bear at times… I know;

Whatever cometh or happens in this life, let’s manage as best as we can.

You don’t understand,

For this place is a storm of sand,

Weathering your skin to parchment in its wake,

Hold tight & don’t let go

Otherwise, you’ll be engulfed within its whirlwind/turbulence,

Dragged off!

Never to be seen of again,

Now- look at me, I did not surrender;

I held on until my time came to an end,

The storm did pass,

And I could stand up once more to face the day again,

Evidently, I was left battle-scarred

But I still remain (as the song goes) a remarkable work of art,

Like you!

I comprehend

I understand

I imagine a world better than what I find

I strive to make it better,

Assuredly, it’s how I feel, every second that I’m alive

I am no paragon of virtue: nor, saint, nor any of that jaz; but what makes you think I need be?

I regret any ill will, I bear you none

A little unrefined, uncouth & dishevelled, at times,

With a propensity to exaggerate, as you can read in these lines!

My  efforts may not bear fruit in the end,

And,  I may regret all that I’ve achieved (or not), in hindsight/retrospect,;

Regardless of all of this, I try.

Because, that is who I am

The Foregone Man

Lives in a soundless land

His raspy, painfully-dry, whispers, raises the hairs on the back of your neck

Turn round swiftly, but, you’ll be sure to see through him

Stand idly by, & jolts of spine-tingling bolts will tie your insides up in knots

The memory of music sustains him

His inability to hear speech or speak clearly, frustrates him to barron depths others soberly fear to tread

Though, be not too afraid of this near-invisible apparition-

For *this* forgone man is you, in another time and land:

Whispering truths, you, as yet, choose not to hear or wish to understand.

A sunset outside my window,

Reminds me of my insatiable appetite for FRUIT!

Yes! Where the rest would see mingling clouds, framing a sun in the midst of gradual retreat, to an encroaching night;

I see: Oranges, Peaches, Raspberries on a floating,  up-ended, bowl of diced fruit- sitting pretty on a vast bowl of diminishing blue;

Drawing a peachy, syrupy, sweet, canvas around a big, ripe Satsuma centrepiece…

About to be eaten by the selfish bowl within which it sits (so mouth-watering does it look!),

The rest of the delicious mix is loathed to let go, and is being pulled into a gullet somewhere along the bowl’s rim, I’m sure!

Quick! Quick! Before my competitor finishes and belches the remains of the day!

Hand me a big spoon so I may scoop-up this delicious display!

A man fires a gun, indiscriminately, 

Under cover of rain that runs like blood, given what’s happening 

In (feigned)’righteous anger’ 

At foreigners he (likely) sees as less than scum 

He walks through an idyllic island– 

Shedding younglings’ blood, 

Ironically, none among them (save one) is of foreign blood 

It is, in the end, all, of course, just blood 

Both protector & protected caught unawares,  

Fear & unfamiliarity with violence, leaving the man unchallenged, 

To wreak havoc for near on one hour- 

When finally confronted, he did surrender- 

With arms obligingly held over head, to his armed confronters 

His ambition, it seems: is to become the centre of media attention, 

A figure of hatred for this infamy, 

To propagate his political agenda, idolatry, to proselytise followers new and old, 

Look at that photo of him, looking on at the swarming, frenzied, paparazzi with a self-satisfied smile, 

His writings & self-made Q&As, setting out his (eerie) rationalisations of his actions- 

Have since been published, circulated widely, & gone over multiple times, 

They have undoubtedly caught the interest of similar thinkers, whose eyes are also glazed with prejudice, hatred & bile 

If I was his jailor, I know what I’d do: 

I’d slip a smoothly curved butter knife into his prison cell in solitary confinement; 

Wait, until, he, with agonising difficulty, tries to take his own life 

Every success rewarded with some medicine; until, at least, his wounds are healed, and he can close his pain-free eyes, 

Only to find the blood-rusted smooth butter knife to once again magically reappear before his eyes, 

I do not enjoy visiting torment on others, 

Nor have I (intentionally) hurt a fly 

But I realise patience & inaction in the face of such wanton horror, cannot be allowed to just lie.

Riding on the bus y’all

I’m sitting on the back seat, jumping to the humps y’know

 There be a fine looking honey in the row in front of me, swanning herself with her silky red hair swinging to the motion – I swear – *almost doing a solo dance for me!*

 There be a dude with a couple of dozen extra pounds, to the far right corner from me,

 His left leg and thigh folded on the seat, angling his body in the direction of the dance,  means, the show is no longer *just* for me!

 There’s something more here I’d rather not share; out of modesty- for his, and mine- that demands me to withhold…

 Alright! Alright! Stop badgering me! He’s got his left hand in his pants- wrist deep, looking on a bit longingly y’see…

 Be it out of habit, instinct or something else, your guess is as good as mine!

 Don’t laugh too hard- for that would be too harsh- for even a fat man needs, on occasion, to marvel at something so fine;

 Looking forward to each bump ‘n’ turn of the road, the greater the rock, the better her hair rolls; we care nowt for comfort, just this show, y’know-

 ‘Driver! Drive faster’! Take each turn a little wilder; for to behold this dance is divine & a marvel!

 Both of us enthralled, though I must point out that my own hands remain fully above board!

 Wait- is that music I hear above the droll of the engine? Yes, yes, it is!

 Such a melodious tune, escaping from her earphones to my unencumbered ears! (‘Is it really hers, or another’s, for you cannot see her ears?‘ a fleeting, unhelpful, thought I suppress!)

A surreptitious look to my right, reveals that the music (like the dance) is not only for me; for my seated friend’s eyes appear to have taken on a particular intensity-

Though, thankfully, I note, his left hand- still enclosed within his pants- remains stationary;

Alas- men, it seems, have not changed since Medusa’s reign- as my friend here & I have been turned into the modern equivalent of stone & we have not yet even seen her face!

The maker of mist

Is a creature of trysts 

Who weaves a weave of subtle grace,

Absorbing up the scenery,

Gently, seducing you into languid, complacency,

Then, playing on your naiveté;

He veils your eyes, with tendrils of lies

Neither swiftly nor hastily:

He works with deceptive efficiency- adding ever more layers of embroidery;

To confuse and perplex you;

To mar, embroil and entangle,

Cast wide, this net of muted, opaque colours…

This invitation to wonder ensconced within a trap most delicately set, yet deliciously foul;

A camouflaged contraption to ensnare your soul-

Trapped like a fawn caught in brambles, nettled and bleeding, waiting to die…

For the creator doth delight in your fright and the dangers it blights:

For the killer in earnest is you, out of fear and terror, the twin disguisers of the truth.

Your soul to keep; your body, for the reaper and the vultures to take,

Animosity this creates; for the boatman’s toll remains unpaid

A collector of precious souls- not trinkets, sapphire nor gold

Imagine the alchemy! The intricate sorcery!

To what end? Or, design? They do whisper, speculate and antagonise

I know not, nor do you; for death’s guise left on a lost soul, is the only remaining clue.

Sleeping alone, can be addictive y’know:

Freedom to roam, the bumpy plains of comfort and warmth!

No cold feet or upstarts, to disturb your slumber!

Yes- anathema is company- To solitarily recharge in uninterrupted luxury!

Such commodities (like to sleep and recharge) are luxuries taken for grant:

For example- my friend Steve, he finds it impossible to sleep except in threes, fours (or more);

Deep subconscious abandonment issues for sure, the cause,

But it means that he’s become a philanderer of sorts;

For, aside from one, at most two, his bedroom companions don’t appear to want or need sleep

Instead, choosing to stay up and play adult games and – yes! – even hopscotch &/or hide ‘n’ seek!

Steve, always being happy to oblige, doesn’t seem to get much sleep, even in the company of 9!

A few times he’d tried to up the number to 12 or 13-

Yet, again, sleep evaded him, for his marbles were throbbing!

Alas, what to do when one man’s curse is another’s muse!

In a rare moment of sympathy, this author had suggested to get some sleep therapy,

Regrettably, it didn’t work out-

For the therapist was comely, and though her efforts had at first been sincere, neither had had any sleep that night!

Now, don’t be too blue for Steve;

For he and the therapist, Isabelle, have now been wed for four years;

They work as sleep & sex therapists;

And have become quite well known-

Working out of plush offices, off the King’s Road!

Sleep, you say? No, there’s no conceit, deceit or any of that foul play;

For Steve now sleeps soundly at night, in the company of his wife and their child!

Alas, the same is not true for me-

I am now old, and regret that I missed my opportunity-

By selfishly refusing to fulfil my need for company!

 Regret & sorrow, alas, are not very comfortable bedfellows!