I hear the susurrus of wind
combing through sycamore
leaves,
a liquid, percussive hush
that trembles against the
windowpane.
Distant traffic hums- a
low, guttural undertone to
sparrows
arguing in bright, staccato
syllables above the
telephone wires.
I touch the luminous grain
of the wooden table,
cool and pitted, worn
smooth by years of palms
and coffee rings.
Sunlight lays itself across
my skin in incandescent
ribbons,
while the air carries the
faint, powdery silk of dust in
motion.
I smell petrichor rising
from the rain- washed
pavement outside,
mingled with rosemary from
the kitchen and the
resinous breath of pine.
There's cinnamon, too-
warm, nostalgic, curling like
amber smoke-
and the metallic tang of
ozone after thunder has
passed.
I tasted morning on my
tongue: coppery water,
the buttery unctuousness
of toast, honeyed and dark,
and the faint, crystalline
effervescence of cold air
when I step outside and the
world fills my mouth.
This is the world- tactile,
sonorous, fragrant,
palpable.
Not abstract. Not Distant.
A benediction of sensation,
pressing itself, generous
and vivid, into me.
In a nearby place I frequent,
a quiet country road -
paddy fields stretching either side.
the road broken and pitted with potholes.
I rode there time and again,
often drove that road,
enjoying the peace and the countryside’s scene..
Jungle mynas often walked
striding along the roadside
while a cha - bora restaurant stood nearby,
run by a lone woman.
There, my wife and I would sit together,
relaxing over cups of tea and eating bora
watching the quiet countryside pass by.
But as time went on
private schools and houses began to rise
upon the paddy fields,
violating the laws -
but no one came.
Instead more and more buildings
continued to spring up –
motor workshops,shops,petrol pumps, restaurants-
along the edges of the paddy fields
by the roadside
The paddy fields began to vanish;
the wandering mynas were nowhere to be seen.
So, the little cha bora restaurant-
The countryside’s agrarian character
and its peaceful rhythm have vanished.
Tide thins over pitted sandstone.
A knot of kelp loosens itself.
Under a skin of clear water,
something palm-sized breathes
among seagrass and Neptune’s necklace.
A bare foot pauses above the pool.
A child’s hand makes a shadow.
Its arms pour through a crack in the stone,
tasting the rock with pale suckers.
The creature answers
with rings of impossible light—
beautiful as jewellery.
Now blue:
not sky-blue, not water-blue—
blue struck from a wire,
blue coins opening,
small halos switched on
around dark centres,
exact as a warning sign.
The tide turns in the pool,
lifting the necklace of beads.
One by one, the blue coins close.
It becomes a dark shadow,
folded into the rock’s breathing—
a small secrecy the tide cannot name.
Eyes opening;
Gaze slowly focusing;
White sheet covering;
A cold body quivering.
Icy shallow inhales;
Straps binding loosely;
Unable to move or speak;
Yearn for eternal rest.
Forcing another breath;
Strength so very weak;
Free of all addictions;
Search for a final veil.
Pitted face; rotted flesh;
As I slip into the void,
Of this endless black.
Forgotten in the morgue,
just needle me to death.
Old sailor, clad in stone
anchored to the turf,
like a marble statue,
a careless navigator
washed up by the sea,
tastes the sting of salt
feels the wind whipped sand, burn the skin,
squints pitted eyes, staring out, leaning in
to the sun, rising from the sea.
A metallic muzzle
breaking through a scrubby bog,
an unlikely find out here
in these rain-riddled marshlands,
I finger-dig the soft ground
to reveal the snout of a snub-nosed
clay clogged revolver.
Who hid or threw this,
this ‘who done it’ out here
is an unsolved mystery
laid to rest
in these acres
of wind swept nowhere.
Bluing worn away,
steel beneath dented and pitted,
firing pin corroded,
an old 38 special,
yet heavy still
with some
unknowable sin.
I took it home -
cleaned it up a bit,
but a week later
buried it
under a weeping willow.
The pavement in front of great-great grandmother's
house has become pitted, scarred and worn away
from the feet of young ones, sisters and brothers,
making their way for the next overnight stay;
they never were shy to race one another
to be first through the door for a hug most gay~
today the house has been sold, sidewalk repaired,
still that old pavement held memories well shared..
Old, friend, as you come slowly into view,
why is it, I ask, am I always seeing you?
Your grainy, pitted, asphalt complexion
seems always to pull me in your direction,
where your answer is dispiriting, but true.
Running from my nose, a stream of blood
drops on your pebbles, mixing with your mud.
Our visits, for reasons multifarious
and circumstances, diverse and various
are punctuated by your answer with a thud.
Sometimes, it's another drunken fight
or a girlfriend who kicked me out at night.
Is it comforting to know that, in the end,
I always have you, my faithful friend?
Very soon, I see we two will reunite.
Concerning our reunion: in this regard,
my heart and face are already scarred,
and I can feel you now as I make impact,
and though your message is a fact,
why must your delivery be so hard?
This ailment sure for long shall go,
In an ill world along shall go.
Yet, head held high shall go with life,
Where so it goes gung ho shall go.
And like every life upon earth,
Pitted like a ping pong shall go.
Man a human, it’s obvious,
With him his every wrong shall go.
With a cautionary signal
The church may warn, loud gong may go,
And still with same gait world shall go,
Jingle bell-like ding-dong shall go.
Who can change the gait of this world?
As ere, with the same song shall go.
______________________
Ghazal |06.07.2025| world, change
The cradle of three of the biggest faiths
Rocked by the claim one agenda stakes
Locked and loaded and ready for war
With righteous blessings for terror and gore
Sentiments civilities and landscapes pitted
All of human decency finally outwitted
It stands propped
against a wall in my memory,
that green two wheeler bike,
my first, bought second hand
from a neighbor.
A deep, gravel graze I got
from learning to ride it, I swear,
still pains a phantom nerve
in my now arthritic knee
after all these years.
How I loved that bike,
its dented frame wearing
layers of paint pitted by history,
its last coat was a thick glaze
of leftover house paint
the same green color used
as trim on window frames
and fences fashionable
back then.
To me it was a gem.
I rode it to the boundaries
of my world carried on the
smooth ride and hum
of its tyres, sank its rims
deep into the muddy riverbank
and raced around a track
that skirted the football
ground. That bike
was pure freedom for me.
One day someone took it
and left it hooked on a tree
in the local park. The top bar
of its frame had been
snapped clean through.
Beneath the layers of paint,
rust had eaten away
its metal core.
In tears I wheeled it home
and put it in the shed and closed
the door. It was like closing
a book on part of my life.
Donald ate beans to full capacitance
Added pitted prunes for extravagance
He courted the town strumpet
She said, Put down your trumpet
All Donald could produce was flatulence
________________________________
Entry in 'Open Poetry 9 Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Charlotte Puddifoot
May 22, 2024
A week was forever not to see those beautiful pale eyes.
How I missed your gorgeous wide smile;
I thought they were stolen from mine.
As exciting as first dates,
Now I got to see you once more.
So we decided to head to Fev’s Diner
And showed you that your love had brought me to my core.
“If assurance is what you need,
I’m committed to giving you my all.
I’m committed to loving you and your flaws.
Just like how you admired my pitted scars on cheeks,
How could our love grow so grand? We watched it stand tall.”
Under the crescent moon twinkling,
I realized how I had missed those little moments
When you held my calloused hands shaking.
But I was overjoyed to feel it again.
As I looked at you smiling,
“Oh, how were you so adorable?”
It made my whole night complete.
“Thank you, Daffodil,”
“I love you to the moon and back.”
Molly Ann could barely wait said her dad
To show her hippie grandma her cozy pad
Where would I sit? Grandma asked eying the pit.
Daddy laughed so hard, for on the floor she used to always sit.
It’s wonderful, all rainbow and stuff, Grandma admitted.
But my arthritis is acting up, and my colon is all pitted.
I don’t want to grouse or gripe any more.
But I doubt I can lift this heavy body off of the floor.
Calling, falling cast a shadow,
Dark the pitted claw does dig,
Diving deep inside the shallow,
Rising above what others did.
Stark the teller of the story,
The bitter end will show no grace,
The battlefield still washed with glory,
Who won the fight to take their place?
What looms our sight in comprehension?
The tension holds us fast and tight,
Sit better pressed in cold contention,
And reappear in summer’s flight.
Arrest the moment for its treasure,
The pressure closed to take a bite,
A universal mould to measure,
Weary from the dead of night.
Revered for ebony jet black feathers,
The weather bathed its inky gloss,
Rescue the clasp that holds the letter,
Or let it seek out those who lost.
Float higher still in sweet surrender,
A warning to those who hear, or think or feel,
The flesh is sharp the beak is tender,
Gently it’s pressed impose it will.
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