You will say something unexpected,
a sudden potency will bruise my blood.
I mention an ordinary thing,
you show me how my words are clouds
beneath your skin.
An invisible tissue
connects our common language.
I imagine the tympanic bones
of our ears as they converse
in contrary vibrations,
duets that we sing from different rooms.
You say an odd thing
which I cannot translate.
I comment upon something
you have no knowledge of.
In-between the words
campfires ignite
in synaptic junctions.
Eventually we arrive at an understanding,
practice a deep listening
ignoring all dictionary meanings.
This is when the old and the young,
beasts and confraternal drunks
damn the consequences of death
lying porous on crossroads upon
bifurcated paths, fractured junctions
and ceremonial cul-de-sacs...
The time is immaterial,
so long as the traffic lights — the veggie-green,
the claret, and the urine-amber —choose their slow
blinking and rapid-eyelid movement carefully.
And moon might decide not to power its own light.
Tenebrous tracks then fill our eyes with the age of
sea monsters blinded by charcoal waves.
Need I hail the neon signs of bordellos!
And the city’s restless constellations!
They sparkle with rage and with the brio of rioting stars,
thus adding celestial films to our already overloaded eyes....
But that’s another story.
C’mon... we are no Deer or Asahel descendants!
Closely related to sloths, millipedes and snails,
we drag our feet, which in turn drag the volumes of
stupidity in us, aggravated by drams and midnight parties
held between a flowing weekend and a stagnant Thursday.
LIFE
Youth gives us sparkle and energy, we are invincible, strong with memory.
Life’s chapters open and close, some long, some brief or quick dose.
The episodes get grayer as we cruise through junctions, while continuing with purpose.
Life is a voyage, full of bumps, tears, laughs and memories
Our world can change in the blink of an eye.
Forks in the road, which path to follow, hesitating to make a decision.
Humans, like the revolving seasons, will change, the journey differs for all
The aging process, a percentage of survivors persist.
Life’s road is a passage, this existence, how we each deal with the distance.
Looking back at our journey, those emotions we encountered
Love, fear, helplessness, anger, heartache, contentment and excitement.
Life differs for all on the trek we travel, where does the time fly to?
Cherish and embrace the good, learn from mistakes, gain strength to carry on.
On this highway we travel, may it be trouble free with the kiss of good health,
Until the day we die.
Hold my breath, gaze the space, thinking louder, this thoughts are enormous, fighting like two wounded elephants, my emotions suffering the devastating effects. Traumatized, lil and fragile mind and heart, inside me, hiding behind these heavy shadows of dread
blurry understandings, slittered senses, concogtion of confusions. I'm centered in junctions of complex decisions, with none serving as solutions, empty shells of questions, deserted lands of answers
Look high, in hope of asylum, grounds I'm standing on, failing me. Inch by inch, my feet lose their soles, marrows in my skeletons, dries up. Strength in me, grow nails, this body of mine, turns sore, I wanna jump out of it but I'm shackled to this pain, wish wings were compittable to men, I could use one now
#Poetic_Ink
What we hear is a haunting,
of words not said,
there’s only this deep listening,
yet who or what attends?
Something mundane is said,
a sudden potency,
a brief sonic feathering
awakens inner ears.
The mention of an ordinary thing
connects us,
a span of invisible tissue,
bridges one foreign language
to another.
Tympanic bones
drum to the same beat.
contrary vibrations
dance in step.
Meanwhile the passion
keeps pouring through,
conjoined
synaptic junctions,
and our words
try to keep up as best they can.
NEURON
Nerves all end in junctions
Not just any synapse
Never just point to point
None of the nerve signals
Needing reinforcement
Nature’s evolution
Now better understood
Tropical moonlight illuminates divination waters.
Seeking clarity in the cloudy mist
Traversing the corridors of my Mothers
Nightly birds , flying the afternoon skies.
Chaos yearns for a visit.
Whose doors will it knock on?
mine, no, another’s
Lightning stuck more than twice.
Who will console the mourning mother?
Whose child died after yesterday's cry
Mourners await a call.
To weep blood on a sunny market day
Cradle tired of harbors
Mat shredded and Back aches
nightly drum beats gone stale
If there must be a stay,
A sacrifice it is ;
Seven graves, seven heavens, seven carved Iroko
He who will dance with the winds must be well rooted.
Four points, four initiates, four-four faced kola
Only the sages have seen the last
Three times, three ages, three junctions, three white roosters
Another day is another morning.
To take from the spirit,
the earth must conceive from a splintered kola
To commune with the ancestral realm
Roosters must go on a journey of no return.
When morning comes, the Iroko sleeps.
The road to your heart
Is always busy
Sometimes jammed
A lot of junctions
A lot of traffic signs
A lot of flyovers
A lot of humps
A lot of bends
Dangerous and challenging though
But amongst the many stops
Yours should be the last stop
The safest to rest
The most joyous to relax
Soon, they shall flood matters channel
To the formed five-man panel:
East Town's urgent need of good spade
That shall into big waters wade
And arrange useful bridge,
As one drowns and next is the fridge.
East's Generator to suck flood
Like mosquitoes would sleepers' blood
No Government's fast attention,
A sad picture's odd retention
Yes, pavements, too, at the junctions
Waters there need interruptions...
East's flood zones to face big tunnels
Or if you wish Trillion funnels
A spoon sits in the warmth of my palm
Its incandescent sheen flitting through the darkness
Edges ribbed and sharp like a knife
My finger traces the speck of each point
The electricity of “almost” buzzing through the junctions of empty
And as my fingers gingerly trace the beauty of danger
I bleed
A red cherry drops from the tree
Gushing, blooming, alive.
More fall, one bigger than the other
Dropping silently into the basket I placed so many years ago
My breath falls as storm clouds darken
The trees shake and moan as Atlas drops the weight upon them
And lightning finally breaks
Bouncing through each nerve in my brain
Setting myself on fire.
I stand holding this weapon
This spoon of many talents
Talents like drawing fruit from midair
From drawing lightning from storm clouds.
With two hands I plunge it into my chest
Carving, scrubbing, sobbing
Until all that bleeds in my hands are you
The memories of you
The happiness of you.
All that bleeds are the broken dam of lust
The red dripped glaze of dark eyes and hooded hearts
I have carved out the piece of me that was you
And I bleed free.
You will say something unexpected,
a sudden potency
will bruise my blood.
I mention an ordinary thing
and you show me
how my words are clouds
beneath your skin.
An invisible tissue
connects our common language.
I imagine the tympanic bones
of our ears as they converse
in their contrary vibrations,
duets that we sing from different rooms.
You say an odd thing
which I cannot translate.
I comment upon something
you have no knowledge of.
In-between the words
campfires ignite
in synaptic junctions.
Eventually we arrive at an understanding,
practice a deep listening
ignoring all dictionary meanings.
Bridges of the past crossing my mind
reminding me of leisure rides, once mine
While a fine fine sun coated my yearning desires
I flew into the stormy spaces of a wide open world;
Polka dot dresses, sunglasses of yellow
Elizabeth Arden lipstick and lemonade kisses
You were always at my side, tanned and beautiful
fresh as linen by the covet of the sea;
Sandcastle dreams and sailboat rides
beneath the boardwalk, promises made with pride
Junctions, intersections, passages never to be reversed
I recall soaking in the stars, cradled in the sand
swaddled with the cautery and charms;
A bridge was crossed, and when I count
the things I've lost,
you come to mind,
a ship at sea, searching for its ghost.
When alone in a quiet space
still the distant slamming of doors,
or the rattle of castanets
confirm that the world is not shut out
but just moving from room to room,
soon it will burst through paper-thin walls,
skeletons will make love on tin roofs,
harpsichords will rattle amid
the bedsprings of sleep.
The need to be alone even when alone,
hides an even deeper want.
Corridors where the days tramp
echo with a ghostly clamor.
Busy junctions behind closed eyes
erupt where the dead and the living gather
to talk louder than thought.
To be the only listener at the water cooler
or in a crowded auditorium; that is the answer.
Alas when the hall empties,
when the last exit closes behind
the high pitched babble and laughter,
there is still a strident chorus line
of memories stomping echoing boards,
a whooping louder than any voice
anywhere.
The grave of life stories
on the shoulder of flying shrewd hawk
As a worshipper of nature
I enjoy it copiously in excellent scientific inventions.
All through dazzling scientific junctions
I forget life is short living.
The universe would live in an ancient savage natural world
if like my narrow thoughts, the reverend scientists would think
To me- life is short, and art is long
But to the creative scientist- the whole of me in wrong
A creative life is a valuable part of the universe
But lazy life is a narrow-minded pulse
So, let's leave the perverted thoughts of life
Be creative, avoiding all illative believing strife
-09.12.2020 Chattogram
It was yet another day
Tossing my bag in the car and driving away
Dodging through the busy streets
Amidst the tyre screeches.
We thought Corona was at bay,
But still the virus crept its way,
Leaving us short of breath
Torturing some to death.
We were all let down
When came the lockdown.
Panic, fear and desperation
Exacerbated by the sequestration.
Hearts filled with dread,
Not knowing what lay ahead.
Health worker went to heal
Mask on,with the same zeal.
Busy streets now deserted
All forms of traffics now busted.
At junctions, instead of horns blaring
Cheerful chirps of bird are airing
Humans are healing from their bruised ego
Shut in their houses with nowhere to go.
The atmosphere is eerily calm
As if Nature is applying its own balm.
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