Walking the woods,
evening caressing my face
with its moleskin fingers,
eyes blue-flamed
by a shape-shifting twilight.
Listening to the deep delving sounds
of forest roots
as they clutch the earth close
before another nocturnal drama
slinks close enough to pounce.
Hoot owl calling,
hoot owl answering.
For a moment
I am one short life, a brief fluttering in
the actualization of a sound.
There are stars in those owl eyes,
in the black acres of its gaze
my eyes there also – looking back.
Look!
See the swivel of our night watch?
see the communion,
the simplicity of vision
as owl and I stare
into the same coming shadows.
This swift way of being
demands only blood and union;
owl knowing has
ears on the pulse of us all,
and this stroll –
just a droplet of time
acknowledging
its walk
through infinity.
Mother and three siblings to keep,
bread winner, man of the house,
at pit head, down into the deep,
to extract coal like a sucking louse,
twelve hour shifts, morning to night,
water to drink, jam and bread,
working in poor artificial light,
coal miners life until he's dead,
thousand feet down, four miles along,
on man rider to coal face,
sound of mind, with arms so strong,
essential to keep up the pace,
with pick and shovel in hand,
now at the sharp end, damp hot,
more coal employers demand,
this hard life is a miners lot,
miners blood flows through his vein,
coal the centre of his soul,
buried Ancestors down pits remain,
reaching retirement his goal,
from a sunless place,he emerges,
moleskin trousers, dirty shirt,
gassed canaries, in cages,
aged fifteen, an inherited convert,
his hands are rough and beat,
grime ingrained into palms,
his fathers boots on his feet,
miners lamp, full of charm,
head to toe covered in slack,
survived another day young lad,
colleague to scrub his aching back,
thoughts of dead, especially his dad.
Ruminating over a golden era gone by and over possessiveness filled me with nostalgia
Ultimate luxury of vying for a car as well as owning a chauffeur driven one was
Sadly for the migrated rulers who ruled over another dynasty across oceans
The massive Ford drove into grandpa's driveway in the early forties
Exactly thirty years later it stood dark, forlorn, inviting rust under the banyan tree
Devoid of its master whose ashes were bestrewn within the old British Raj bungalow
Benign weather peeled off layers of its glossy makeup despite its bare upkeep; our
Undulating frustration as it drank too many gallons; moleskin upholstery on bucketed
Seats laid bare its withered ribs, spouting foul smell in rain and sun; the rolling
Tyres busted for the wheels didn't spin down the familiar roads along the hill; our
Eyes got sore at its lost lustre while we heaved deep sighs at its opulent maintenance
Divine providence intervened to refurbish the vintage for glorious view in the Museum
Contest Judged on June 26, 2016
July 1, 2016
For Broken Wings
Contest: I Got Zero, Nothing, Nada - 1
*Migrated rulers refer to the British rule in India
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