Cleaning the dust never ends,
There is always a girl in a wardrobe,
Who does not let go of your hand,
There is always a girl in a museum
who does not look at Matisse and Cézanne,
There is always a girl in a garden
Who steals apricots and oranges,
Cleaning the dust never ends,
There is always a cat on a pink chair
Who yawns seeing you happy,
There is always a blue cat in yellow sheets,
Who waits for someone to stroke him a hundred times,
A young cat in trouble who thinks
to the mango that you covet.
Cleaning the dust never ends,
A wild orchid asks for water and love,
A wild orchid is still waiting
May a poet change his life and color,
It is enough for Matisse to comb flowers
To remove the dust from the world, that
Grapes in the fruit basket.
Tis the nature of the tribe,
Distant and near rivalry,
Contests to compete,
Best of nothing at all,
Glory, medals aloft,
Human nature turns to dust,
Hard to change in poetry,
Rather send to humanity,
Good vibes to all our tribes....
dust to dust, whether a success or a bust, life will end for it must!
DUST PIXIES INSIDE GRANNY’S CEDAR CHEST
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Amidst the ancient whispers of timeworn wood,
underneath time and the cedar’s scent
a gathering of dust pixies flutters, luminescent.
adventurous, bubbly, curious, daring, effervescent.
Their xerophytic murmurs fill the attic air;
dancing on sunbeams upon gossamer wings,
these aerial acrobats ballet on dust motes illuminantly.
flecks glimmer, hundreds invade jubilantly.
Prismatic creatures of color, lively as summer’s breeze,
they celebrate the dust, mundane
journeying through mystical realms where they reign.
kaleidoscopic, luminous, microscopic, numerous, opulent.
Zipping back into the cedar’s shadows,
innocent guardians of memories hide in forgotten linens,
their fleeting glimpse of magic locked away.
playful, quirky, restless, synchronous, twinkletoes
From her delicate wings a fine powder exudes and lands on the ground
by the light of the blue harvest moon a touch of Pixie Dust, in nimble magic !
Harmonious weaving, intangible strands of music coming from the sphere
sweet and beautiful arias, melodious twittering from a fairy wing's enfold
Wings not made of nylon, cellophane nor iridescent tulle but made of silk
like spider's webs tough and resilient from the Master Spinners pedipalps
Appendage wings made from embryonic liquid from ejected Neutron Stars
like butterflies they flit and fly through air currents, landing on little twigs;
Fairy dust of old as ancient as the parallels from this world to the next
dare say I, ... if ever you have been subjected to their fairy dust appeal
then flying limbs you shall receive and like it or not you will fly away
inside a land of pure magic where every thought is like a sweet reveal
From her delicate hand a sweep of the wand resting easy on your shoulder,
one single dose is feathered on you and suddenly, you are able to hold her !
Once, when I was small,
and banished to the hall
for something I had done that wasn't right,
I stood awhile in shame,
but then the sunlight came,
and lit the dusty air with dancing light.
I watched in wondering awe,
as suddenly I saw,
what, standing in the shadows, I'd not seen.
Invisible, but there,
the dust that filled the air
had caught the light and turned to silver sheen.
Now sometimes, when I find
this life to be unkind,
I view my world with sorrow and disgust.
But then God's radiant love,
like sunlight from above,
streams in, and I see beauty in the dust.
I am looking out my dining room window, overlooking the birdbath in the small garden of my flat. The arum lilies have added a new bloom—just as the last one is dying off—beside the grave marker of my pet: not just any dog, but my trusty emotional support animal. A black bird takes an early morning bath in the yet icy-cold water, while another waits impatiently for its turn.
the arum lilies
are exceptionally showy
this year—
the etymology
of my name
captured
by the S f U l Z o E w T e T r E s
it’s five months
since his passing
emotions
plumose …
What if every soul has no where to go?
What if when we die our souls take flight?
What if they take the form of something we hurt or killed before?
What if the next time round your killer is you or the other way round?
What if that wasp that stung you has a soul too?
What if before we go we must feel the pain of all we don’t let grow?
What if the clouds in some future sky form in the blink of an eye to tell tales of you and I?
What if it’s all connected through and through?
What if those rain drops contain something of you and the moon and the sun knew where we all begun and they’re laughing at us spinning our insanities on a world of dust?
The hegemony of height
gets too much.
The city robs me of the horizon
and hides it behind towering
cathedrals of concrete and glass.
Even trees conspire to fill
the gaps and extend their
leafy reach to obscure the sky.
I long for uninterrupted distance,
horizontal vistas of the open sea
and the flat, unfenced expanses
of the inland with its views
to infinity. Something in me
seeks wide spaces, craves
room to breathe, imagines
sparse outback plains punctuated
only by the height
of dust devils wandering
the vastness that stretches there,
lifting up the silence
in spiralling columns of prayer.
Play a role till the gold of your soul runs dry
leave the ghost town far enough behind
through the parched winter of the mind
search for virgin glitter on the next horizon
The sirens sing to endless weaknesses
it takes everything not to cave in... again
take up the rusted sifter and battered spade
while digging for gold you're making your grave
ghosts of old town, sliding on down from the mountain
Roses are tossed to the echoes of the lost
the soul finds a fresh role in the shadow of
a dust bowl
dreaming.
They planted trees but forgot their water.
Each leaf a wrinkled newspaper clipping
from a world I never subscribed to.
Noise here is curated.
A choir of car horns, a sermon of drills
but I hear the silence
between footsteps
and the echo
of one slippered child
crossing the pedestrian overpass
with rice in a plastic bag.
My eyes collect
forgotten wrappers,
graffiti prayers,
the melancholy
of sky cut by concrete.
They say you must harden in Manila.
But I cracked
gently,
like an eggshell left in heat.
l came from a desert you've never heard of
l am the source of the potters clay
in the storm of the desert l wander
in a desert that has no home
then l rest upon the surface of the water
and the sounds that leaks through your windows
l can deflect back into space
and then she calls your name across the desert
and across a sea of sand dunes
khol eyes of darkest nights, veils and wails
she burns the reddest sunset
l am the storm you've never heard of
my mist of thirst is like a poison
it's death stroke is the wind
l'll circle back round from where l came from
in the desert dust
and fill your eyes till suffocate
l am the storm
........................l am Simoom
after ‘The waste Land’, by T.S. Eliot
I met a woman on a glitching screen,
her face a whisk of pixels and prayer.
She spoke of shattered systems and survived code,
“The cloud remembers everything,” she said, "but forgets what matters.”
A rat hurried through my feed at dawn,
past memes and headlines, each a kind of omen.
I tried to fast-forward spring,
but April clawed through my notifications anyway.
In a thread of ghost towns and tagged regret,
I noticed a cafe with no floor, only static,
A man sipped Espresso beside a socket,
charging his distress while waiting for replies.
Data rains in blasts, all prediction and pop-ups.
The Sun sets in Beta,
and we refresh the silence,
hoping for something new to load.
For then, below algorithms and ash,
a bud breaks code in cracked concrete,
muted, untagged,
but blooming still.
A pony
her dream
only
orthodontics
violin lessons
yearly safaris
these exigencies
dreams to dust
duly turn
E-ven
R-iver
I-s
C-ascading
A-nd
M-ountains
A-re
E-roding,
M-en
A-re
N-ot
I-mmortal
C-reatures,
A-s
N-othing
I-s
©bfa052525
Monocrostic (Birthday of Ericamae G. Manicani)
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