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Ramblings…

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Dancing words

leaning,

…wildly knocking on an open door,
crazy colours, glittering halos,
sea’s roaring, smashing with the wind…

in the disagreement of You
pillars leaning in history,

it’s there, a pull deep in despair….

love

The angry wolf

Sits outside my house

Difficult to ignore

Easy to feed

Hard to love

everywhere,

I see you in-between the trees
I look in places of green.
Hiding from you in the critique of me
wondering,
if it’s a daughters smile,
a friends greeting,
or want of a teachers love.
Gentle, kind and loved,
you remind me of my fathers eyes.
He said, ‘little one, look everywhere’.
So as I continue to climb ladders
searching,
outside and within,
pondering,
how the distance is my refusal
I sing…


Allaahumma salli ‘alaa Sayyidina Muhammadin
wa ‘alaa ali Sayyidina Muhammadin

walking in the cracks,

‘Walking in the cracks, be of those’  She said.

‘But what of the golden path?
What of the kindly paved stones?’ I said.
‘And the cracks have sharp edges,
and sometimes –
you can walk for hours and it leads to walls.
-Paths have signs,
………….warm fires
and traffic lights…’

‘Sometimes’
You said
‘A path is caged,
history decayed
paralysed in a season,
the queried left un-queried-
it leaves a person in an upside down circle,
-find a fracture,
walk left and right, up and down
shrug your shoulders,
pull the string.’…

So I did,
and I found you,
Mevlana
Rumi…..

m

fierce eyes

Brick walls,
are they all the same?
Embracing , desperately seeking a home.
On a sidewalk a mother combs a child’s hair,
the sun disappeared with her dreams.
We place her in Arequipa, Tower Hill, Konya.
Is it more, is it less we have?
She is excavating for her something,
plastic carrier bags of cotton buds,
block ears to the sound that pulls.
She clips her hair back and finds her fierce eyes.
We are her, recognised by worn shoes and a new dress that catches the moonlight.

women

(Image: David Joaquin)

oily

untitled-1

Gritty I think,
sometimes a little oily.

The dust I am sure I cleared.

It’s an old thing.
Not so much of left behind,
but the parts that become
as useful as my bones,
my veins.

I wonder, is it really so useful
this polish?

Clarity, like a gazelle in the far distance
it runs at sight.

It’s too late.

Once you see clarity
nothing else
seems to work.

It was so lovely to meet you…

siema.jpg

By ST

the humming song…

Squeeeeze…
is the sponge dry?
Every ounce, every drop is precious.
Squeeze
When you lay your head down,
will you say,
did I?
Did I squeeeeze every drop?

How many pearls roll into the gutter…
The chorus will sing to her last breath,
oh heart, turn and say –
Squeeze, every ounce, every drop is precious.

Oh my I, my me, my who, my questions,
tangled in spaghetti words we are…
take the discarded me, and the well kept I and say;
Squeeze – every ounce, every drop is precious.

As harsh as wires wrapped tightly around my wrists,
her throat is dry
You look down, pen to paper but even with the dearest heart it’s gone.
We gamble an hour and somewhere,
she’s screams.

And they are present, immersed in writings,
decaying in open fields,
humming ‘we were here, we stood in flight’.
Oh heart, turn and say – it’s only a single dance,
Squeeze
every ounce,
every drop
is precious.

and not one questioned remained,

 

i would return it all
body parts
even the pieces that shine in the dark
so I bought some stuff
things and rings
books and pencils and pens
i turned it all upside down
and the inside came out
i wrote letters and emails and stories and essays
magnificent poems
songs that would make an ocean cry
it took days and years
before I knocked on the door
my breath lost its point
not enough
so I returned with medicines and cures
pills and rejections
rulers and scars
it was a few more years before
i knocked on the door
my breath got caught on a fishing line
i was spinning
and all of me fell on my head
i took out my list of many thousand questions
i stood
“this is it, all of me
may i return it?” –

‘No’, You said
so I stood, in all of me
and not one questioned remainedquestionsstars

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