Behind
That small red door
Lie my passions and dreams
Whims and fancies, I’ll share
With you…
The color of yours?
Writing
The sinking sun
With heavy heart
and weighted dread
I saw the sinking sun
isolated in a white sky
Then flare blindingly
bearing down
as an uninvited guest
to morning’s awakening
Knots of fear
knitted into the pit
of a tangled mess
bottled up and kept
I stood on the edges
of the neighborhood
looking into a hazy view
confused in what next to do
Praying to God above
for a brighter sun
to turn the cheerless skies to blue.
Moving to the slow lane
Oh the feel of those fast cars!
so long and shining-sleek,
those soft and smooth…
tight leather seats- laps
behind the power-steering.
Let’s not talk about the torque-
just watch me as I take off…
silver rims rolling in reverse-
perverse to ride with such speed,
not to mention the ultra-sound.
Racing like it was a marathon,
I’ve got to break the habit…
set up my cruise control,
got to act more responsible.
Fleeting pleasure-
not the measure of who I am.
Too many speeding tickets,
it’s no longer fun.
So I’m taking it nice and slow
Which one – wouldn’t you like to know?
I’ll stay with the automatic.
Settling down in the slow lane
Autumn’s Bounty
When I leaf through
the pages of my seasons,
I revel in Autumn’s shades,
the ambers and blush,
the yellow and gold
of bliss-filled abundance.
The fragrance of life,
undertones of florals and spice,
intoxicate me into a daze
of bewildering vistas,
of places I have been
and people I have seen.
This moment I have paused
to take stock of it all
and remind myself to
be grateful. Not for
stocks and bonds : for
those I have none –
It’s in the talents I’ve been given
to turn brown leaves to gold
and stack wood for the cold,
that abundance has found me.
Hard days and nights I’ve travelled
from where I once began.
Now as cold winds blow,
fire crackles in merriment,
cheered by warm hearts
upon whose rungs I have stood.
I see the greatest gift of all
in those surrounding me.
Autumn leaves roll out new seasons.
Receive your present
Seize this prize moment,
cash in your winnings and spoils.
Luck’s temperament
plays her pendulum mood-swings.
Her metronome ticks,
losing your seconds
that could have been precious hours.
You may never recover
from losses you earn-
in the time you have burned.
Feel the wind’s quick breath
as it whizzes through your hair!
See the color range
through nature’s masterful art.
Hear her network sounds.
Count the daily smiles
among the people you see.
Light up their world to
with gifts you willingly share.
Yield surprise returns.
Happiness is found
in each moment we relish.
The bitter and sweet
in aftermath come to greet.
Glad tidings they bear.
Cherish this moment too my dear!
Poet’s Billow Challenge 30:Welcome my dear soul
To my readers who have followed me on this journey – Thank you! This is a journey I have enjoyed immensely, though it has been tough and gruelling in turning a poem out every day. It’s taken me to some interesting places both externally and internally and in many respects, I’ve learnt alot about myself and hopefully it’s engaged you to think about some of the topics. I have used some poetic licence in places. Those who haven’t read my challenges, they’re here whenever you find the time. My only cop-out was a topic on American politics where I substituted with my own topic.
The last challenge is to: write a poem that starts with an end and ends with a beginning.Enjoy and thank you for reading:
The tear wells had dried
as we said our final goodbye.
No more uncontrollable sobs,
no more fumbling for tissues
Just us- walking away…
How could something so
fraught feel so right?
How could something so good
hurt so bad?
Would I ever be whole again?
Months rolled by
but the chasm of pain
was a gaping wound, bleeding
more profusely everyday.
In glimpses of you, I saw the same.
Two souls torn apart,
so many reminders of each other.
We’d always known this day would come
but the reality is not what you plan.
When you called, I learnt how to act.
But time is a healer, I do believe.
We still talk as very good friends.
You were always my confessor,
always knew how to make me laugh,
even when burning in your own hell.
Memories of you still locked away,
only you hold the key.
Funny how we travel the world
only to find,that love was right here
all this time.
Hello new world, the storm has passed.
I’m planting a new rose and calling it
Nouvel Armour!
And when I see you again, I’ll say:
bonjour ma chère âme!
Day 29 Poet’s Billow Challenge:Stairway to the light
The challenge for yesterday, 29th April only arrived this evening. This challenge asks that we give an account of a dream in our poem. I’m a great believer in dreams and the symbolism and messages they offer. I’ve had recurring dreams over the years about climbing up staircases and they’ve been dreams filled with menace and struggle. This poem captures the essence of a dream I had about two weeks ago. Enjoy!
How agile I felt!
Moving swiftly up the stairs,
silver, polished-
gleaming brightly, good as new-
to another floor.
Yet another still,
until the bright rooftop light
beamed on the floor,
spirits lifted, roaming free-
so unlike before.
No grim steel incline,
daunting and breathlessly steep,
no longer afraid-
looking up at distant hope,
a smile lit my face.
Then right before me,
She appeared! we both cringed…
almost took flight!
Choice imposed her will on us
fear dissipated…
A stranger appeared,
lavishly smiling at me.
Then I heard him say:
Move on, do not be afraid!
What relief I found-
In those words he said to me…
Day 28-Poet’s Billow Challenge: What’s in the news?
Today’s challenge : a rant or complaint about something .
Go softly with me tonight
my head aches with all this noise
of suicide bombs – explosions
that fill my head with shrapnel
rat-tat-tat of alms, images, arms
in tatters and mounds- wherever
all over, filled with surround- sound
Go gently with me tonight
my vision has become very blurred,
stop the many words, too many books
information overload, if you please-
stop that tweeting and scrolling
that deedle-de-dumbed down ringtone
Go carefully with me tonight
no more corpses left piled in heaps
no other hungry mouths left to feed
no further adulation of one human being
what about the rest who follow ourselves
no paparazzi flash-shooting our selfies
no platinum albums or lemonade to drink
Walk straight with me tonight
had enough of fake politicians’ lies
thinking we’re stupid and dumb
retorting in silent protest so that
the polls, won’t hear- what lies-
in our hearts, our bottomless soles
lost without the feet of our souls
Day 27-Poet’s Billow Challenge: Love unrivalled
Challenge: Write a love poem
I’m not a star poet, I’m sure you can tell,
Can’t carry a tune to high notes very well
My health’s not been the best that it could
So can’t promise eternal love like I should
But Babe I am yearning to tell you this!
When your metaphor touches my paradox
My locked secrets escape from my black box
The pilot who knows how to steer my wings
Will land me gently with the joy that he brings
When the DJ starts playing our favorite song
Don’t know all the words,but we’ll sure sing along
It’s not with voices that our hearts now speak
But our feelings tuned into the violin’s high peak
How your cupid arrow makes me quiver
As your oar canoes me through passion’s river
I’ve loved you throughout the ages of time
For ours is a love unrivalled and sublime
No other man matches me as much as you do…
Day 26-Poet’s Billow Challenge: Origins of a Trollop
Today’s challenge required me to choose a word randomly (blindly) from a dictionary and write a poem on the origin of that word. This is my take:
She bears the trademark of ancient times
Illustrious tales have told of her sinful crimes
In temples and busy streets, her trade she plied
Many tasted her wine, though publicly denied
She’s a slave, an actress and a Goddess it seems
Depending on era, culture and the age of dreams
Bought and sold to satisfy man’s craves and desire
Sold to the the highest bidder with cash to buy her
Over centuries she’s been called by many names
Courtesan or Trollop, she’s played similar games
As the Geisha girl, the floozy the hussy, slut or whore
Traded in economies,she’s kept men coming for more
Legalise it, centralize it, scrutinize it, banish it! they say
But hypocrisy maintains it, sustains it, even to this day
When she flaunts her kisses freely, it’s called promiscuity
Judge her harshly and ignore the cloak-armed ambiguity
The secret lover, the mistress- are they all the same?
Or is it fame and fortune that determines her name?
One thing is certain, for centuries, she’s been around
All feeble attempts to sink her ship have run aground
Question remains, is she the lady or the tramp…
Chevvy's diary 