Wednesday, October 31, 2012

At sea

What will I be to you?
A treasure at sea.
Buried deep under
the vault of the ocean.
Out of sight.
At the bottom of
a liquid blue heart.
Camouflaged by
anemone and shoals
of bright neon fish
and scar tissue.
The dive to find me
will be too risky, too hard.
Riding the waves on the
surface of normality
will be easier perhaps.
I'll be plotted on a map.
A map you can no more,
or rather not, read.
Sure, maybe you'll
always remember me.
Love me even.
But what solace is that?
Yes, I'll be
a memory unforgotten.
But that's all I'll be.
Just that.
Nothing more.

Wednesday, October 17, 2012

The dusk coloured child

Why is it, he asked me,
that my stories
sometimes fall silent.
Why, he asked me, 
do they go unheard.
Why is it that sometimes
my hand is left unclenched,
unnoticed. 
And my questions are left 
unheeded, unanswered.
There are no waves rippling
on the surface.
No flowers dancing,
no carefree pebbles skipping,
no playful winds whistling
through the reeds dotting
the mucky, messy shores.
There is a quietness so deep 
that my feet quiver
when I decide to dive in.
There is a stillness so sad
that my hands shiver
when I decide to touch it.
Why is it that
every time I look in
I am confronted by eyes
staring back defiantly
like they have seen,
and understood, more
than they should have.
Why is it, 
he wanted to know.
So I looked him in the eye
and gave him the answer.
You can take the child
out of the shadows of dusk.
But it isn't so easy
to take the dusk 
out of the child. 


Saturday, October 13, 2012

Knowing. Unknowing.

If all you had seen
was a sky
blotted with smoke.
With the canvas of blue
merely existing in pictures
on a few walls.
And in fables
construed in a few minds.
Would you know
how to clear up the smog
and bring light to a morning
that belonged not to you?
And would a fatherless child
be a better father to his son
because his childhood
was shortchanged
by the hand of God
or destiny or chance.
Would he know
what to give better
because it was the better
that he lacked?
Would he know
for instance
that a child 
needs to be pushed
into the first rain?
If  you had had bars
on your windows
and the rain
had never caressed
the dust off your face.
If you had merely wondered
from behind the closed shutters
how it would be
to feel the drops and rivulets
running down your sooty cheeks.
I wonder, would you know?
Is it easier to give happiness
when you haven't had it
because you know
what you have missed?
Or is it easier to give it
when you  know
what needs to be given
for it to be called happiness?

Wednesday, October 10, 2012

Steady

I am running.
Whirrr whirr
go my feet
and I am running.
The landscapes
are changing
all around me.
And seasons,
they are passing.
Leaves are changing colours
and they are falling.
Tumbling out of the sky
like sparrows carried
on the wing of an
intoxicated, directionless wind.
The land is drying, soaking
freezing, cracking, baking,
shaking, sighing.
And yet I am running.
Running at a steady pace.
Whirrr whirr go my feet.
In an eternal wheel
just fighting to keep my place.