Long Dust covered Poems
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Cosmic dust of color, spread across the marble table,
where you, with sacred grace, draw esoteric circles,
watching me as I prepare the canvas for painting,
laughing softly, slipping your powdered finger into my ear,
like a secret sign of our mystical initiation.
Surprised, I was caught in the alchemy of creation,
gathering colors like precious relics,
unaware of my surroundings,
of your gesture approaching like a gentle incantation;
I laugh too, realizing the intimacy of your sacred dust-covered finger,
which seems uninterested in my art,
but I continue to mix the pigments in water,
watching the miracle of colors blossoming,
our senses tuning to the scent of earth and mystery.
Thus begins the cosmic tango of dryness becoming wet,
a touch of salty taste, colors binding in an astral glide,
until inseparable unity is formed, profound warmth in union,
inevitable growth, pigmentation seeking release.
But not yet, oh no...
First, there must be a pause, a relaxation of thickened magic,
delayed contemplation, then the pressure of my hands,
pressing, shaping, pressing, forming the essence.
We sip our wine, speak softly, anticipating the inevitable drying,
saying to each other: "We are ready for the final phase:
the inspiration that binds, merges disparate colors,
ultimately yielding to the delicate, inevitable finish",
Later, as the canvas dries, as it must in the ritual,
we cannot resist nibbling bits of still-hot inspiration,
dipped in the melted butter of art, feeding each other,
transcending words, finding new ways to see
one another, in ritual light.
The Wandering of a Dead Man
I move slowly, like a lost soul, a walking dead,
My vision, foreign, no longer belongs to me,
It is merely that of a human animal, an unwitting heir
Of Greek culture, Roman order, Christian morality,
And all the illusions that weave the civilization in which I live and feel.
Like a dreamer in a sea of shadows, my mind wanders,
Each step an echo of ancient temples, each thought
A reflection of the extinguished lights of the past.
In the flow of my consciousness, waves of faded memories
Crash against unknown shores, carrying me
Through labyrinths of marble and silences.
My soul was sculpted in the cold marble of Hellenic thoughts,
But Roman order raised walls around my heart,
In rigid laws and stone structures, chaining my freedom.
Christian morality painted contours of black and white,
Splitting good from evil in a world without nuances,
Where the light of day swallows subtleties.
My heart, an ancient relic, pulses slowly,
A museum of dust-covered ideas, of illusions lived and felt,
An empty temple where the echoes of lost beliefs
Mix with the whispers of melancholy.
Advancing slowly, like a wandering dead man,
Through a world of shadows and ruins, a stranger
In a civilization that lives its agony before my eyes.
In this dance of shadows and lights, my vision fades,
Leaving behind an immense void, a memory of a world that was
And of illusions dissolved in the eternity of oblivion.
I am a traveler in a universe of unrealized dreams,
An echo of a falling star, lost in the void,
A wandering soul, without aim or destination,
Just an ephemeral dream in a fleeting world,
Where illusions dance on the stage of our transience,
In a dance of shadows and lights, in the infinity of melancholy.
A SONG OF DARKNESS
DR RANJIT DUTTA
When the sleepless nights
Disappear in my eyelids
All my saddest thought
Awake up silently and
hammered my bleeded heart.
The eye-drops are so
Rude and disobedient
They drench my cheeks
despite my wish ,
Time also stands as wall on my path. ,
The dreams thrill on the
Bed of thorns
Like a paralysis patient.
The burning fire of mind mind
Shapes my heart into ashes.
The seasons come and go
On their own way,
The pages of my life
Look also faded
With dust covered there on;
The pains become tired and
Merge into sweet smiles .
The smiles are nothing
But mimosa pudika
Just faded on
A small touch of pain
In the old dark coal mine, brought cold feeling.
It was underground and very dangerous and hard work.
Wearing dark clothes, leather boots, and canvas hat
With a leather brim with metal lamp brackets to hang off a light.
My owner would carry me on his shoulder
When he walked into the tunnels of the mine.
He would hold me firmly with both hands.
Forcing hard with his body, would push my blade into the hard ground,
Rocked my handle back and forth to loosen the ground to get to the coal.
He came out dust covered black with me on his shoulder
All wore out needing to be sharpen for the next day.
I pondered about winter; it would come, and snow would fall.
He'd get me out of the shed, cold chill I would be to the touch,
And shovel the soft fallen snow of the sidewalk.
Years have passed and also my owner.
Now I hang of the wall with my blade painted.
His daughter in tribute, painted a winter scene.
An endless breadth curtain of a blue sky
As it closes the sun's view going down.
Patches of snow on the ground and bare limbs on the trees
My owner walks down a path with his dog.
As he had walked that path so many times.
Little pebbles of broken glass, litter the streets, but the children run barefoot anyway.
Stubbing toes, contracting disease, playing with cigarette butts and discarded syringes.
The teens hide by the dumpsters, and quickly pump a vein.
A homeless man, jealous of the teen; instead, clenches his timeless drug of choice, a good ole' fashioned beer.
The sun still shines on the dust covered signs.
The streets crumble under the weight of America's ever increasing obese population.
Nothing has really changed, besides new acceptance of tried and true vices.
There’s always little kids causing trouble, teens using drugs, depressed old men drinking away their shame.
America is still the same great country,
Far superior than all the rest!
Despite their reduction in crime, lowered drug addiction rates, drop in homelessness, and constant upkeep of their buildings and streets.
Well besides all that... America is still Superior in Every way….
The meteor hurtled silently through the mute cosmos.
Till it fell and shattered over the granite rock of a planet.
Hunched men ran afar, afraid, adoring the goddess,
The woman, in late pregnancy, that lay supine on the altar.
Steadily, many moved towards the gaping hole.
All around metallic shards lay around.
Someone grabbed a pointed double-edged weapon.
It served well to dig and carve and increased its hole.
Many joined and even lit torches from the fire of the temple.
The men discussed what best to do, considering their limitations.
They decided on a three-tier structure, explicitly decorated.
But full of tricks in honor of the pregnant goddess.
Years passed and then centuries. Dust covered the rocks,
Modern times came and houses were built everywhere.
Till a man realized a large hole filled with water.
Slowly the hole became large and old bones appeared.
Archeologists arrived. Years passed until the soil was removed.
All was careful not to scrape the walls and a hole was emptied.
The lowest part had strange stairs, some straight, some uneven.
It was meant as a trap for thieves who went down for riches and food.
On one side was a burial place. And on the wall was depicted
A tree of immortality. No one knew what paint they used.
And opposite was the mystery of all. A mystery no one can solve.
Speak into the hole. Ask a question. From behind a curtain, you’ll get a reply.
Yet here’s the mystery of the hole. Any man could speak into a hole.
The sound would be well heard and full of strange echo.
But no woman could have its voice be heard in that dark adjacent room.
A riddle? A theory? An assumption? No solution for a female voice! Only male.
Placed 5
While cleaning up my dark attic
which hasn't seen sunlight for ages,
I expected to get an unusual headache
from dragging out dusty items like picture frames
hidden in boxes or stacked up as old books...
and my awesome discover was: Bing Crosby's Decca Album;
yes, something told me to open up that neglected room!
Wasn't I thrilled by his youthful looks?
On an old Motorola record player never used,
I play all of his songs, but imitate him
with , " My Isle Of Golden Dreams " and be immensely amused...
could it be more real than a dream?
If he could come back to life, we would do a duet...
a well-performed song we could never forget!
Sing, Bing Crosby and entertain me for an hour or so...
until your last song fades away, not leaving me yearning for more!
Before dust covered this precious album, hiding his smooth face never getting old;
now, it is clear as day brightening up my dull living room
as it once refused to let sunlight in, only shaded by doom!
Oh, this unique musical treasure I've found is as genuine as gold,
on my book shelf it will lay and as its keeper, nobody will get close to it;
I will allow others to stare at it from distance...forbidding them to ever touch it!
The sun had woken up the people.
The morning was quietly inspiring with a role,
When a deafening strong wind irrupted;
It hurled and made trees bend.
Grass everywhere was ruffled vastly.
I could not move properly.
Birds hid in branches of trees;
I too feared being blown on knees.
Leaves fell off the trees, others flew up.
Dust covered the grass and the flowers top.
Beauty became ugliness at once,
But suddenly quietness reigned like pence.
As the wind reduced its intensity,
Everything became normal in mind.
Though with fear at times and prosperity,
Life for sure continued to find.
Poem by Mugisho N Theophile
To elope is that others are doubters
they wish to devalue the way you feel
saying your emotions are
fadly expressions
saying what you feel isn't real
To agree and say to your lover
there's a place where strangers
will understand
a romance for others to discover
a love between ah woman and man
( Champegne and dinner for two)
One day we'll look thru dust covered pieces
one day we'll smile and glance
we'll kiss will one intention
I'll smile and hold your hand
Only a true romantic person
could convey the feeling
to wish us to overcome
say we are lucky people
to want us to be as one
I gotta hunger for some music
wanna dance with my bride
sit and and toast my lover
and thank her for taking a chance
Sweat drips from little dust covered faces in the grim back-alley factories
No time for rites of passage other than fingers nimble enough to spin and
Balance wheel spool spin and stitch regulator to their master’s instruction
Anyana is not unique but one of the ‘fortunate’ ones
Gloved hands mop up droplets of perspiration from a lace veil and seduce
A myriad of lovers before she even enters an intricate parquet dance floor
Takes a cue from the orchestra and whirls on stilettos and rhapsodic flair
Chantelle did not purchase her dress at the charity shop
Their stories unite as neo-liberal gangsters spin a yard on wheels of fortune
While their procession fails to trickle down moderate glimpses of hope
Some stride on the cat walk of privilege and others are scavengers in rags
Exposed nipples are rather dissimilar but follow a different path
Anyana gathers her virtues and sends love across the boundary of despair
Her shoes bear no fairy tale stories when midnight strikes at the fashion
Of stolen passion from sweat shops for garments scented with perfume
Cause and effect cannot moderate nor gloss over amoral fabric
03rd November 2019