We have come a long way —
you and I —
sauntering along paths of tales,
narrow, slippery, serpentine, endless.
We crouch at spider-ways,
through the fustiness of late-rising dawn,
feeling the rapid beats of a stolen heart and the
entanglement by an unending network of
webs and encroaching thorns.
Cockroach feelers we rely on to guide us
through the length of seaside lichgates.
Life is one Hell of a place, we agree.
It’s a cup of cliché we drink on daily basis—
like hastily brewed coffee at the city’s rush hour.
But, like the radio, it has a tuning fork —
and with it, one operates on frequencies
mute and clear, wavy, far and distant.
It’s a challenge.
Remember Michelangelo
lying supine on ramshackle 16th century scaffolds
and painting the Sistine Chapel for four long years,
his fragile back hurting, his paint brush screaming,
his pots of paint on tilt . . .
Now, that’s some labour!
And with restive paints of stress dripping,
Dripping, and streaming and sweating down on the
broad canvas several feet below, staining
the usefulness of enchanting woods . . . !
Oh, I hate the putrefaction of desolate souls.
Hands hold tight to the loose ends of hope
As we toil and crack, night and day,
Hoeing up bits of earth and its fragile retributions.
Our crops and little beads of sweat drip to waste
On the ground’s boiling soils.
Eyeh is another name for a deceased generation.
The ones that sprout stubbornly through restive
Delays get re-greened, losing vibes of communal
Watering, ceremonial baptisms.
Birds build their nests in haste,
When bent cusp-blades sprout secretly at twilights,
Behind ethereal curtains of dawn falling
To the consternation of treacly, bitter syrups of time . . .
Is this continuous planting . . . and delirious season?
Has it come to that —when drunken war mongers
Form weapons from slats of pallid bamboo stationed
At the guard posts of violated yams and their flaccid
Tendrils?
I fear.
Such suzerainty over yellowing crops
Transcends the coats of black dust hiding from the disease
Of identity.
It is still planting season, brethren.
The deafening sounds of cannons shake the stalks yonder.
There's a smug dance of weevils on the graves of tubers.
Family foibles and festive baubles to share
Frivolity frolics jollity & alcoholic histrionics
Swilled fables & tables filled with similar fare
Suggestive seasonal strolls for restive souls
Cast bitten still smitten bestilled by chilled air
Bedevilled dishevelled by some distilled wares
Pagan past perch in their old peculiar church
Dare to revel with another level devil may care
No graces or airs just familiar faces and lairs
Don't be reckless or feckless this Michaelmas
Feuds rude moods eschewed along with despair
Plied with yuletide pride bliss of this solstice kiss
At last no faff or fuss for us secular Christmas fayre
Two circular villas perched on the bony roots
No coat, no paint, only the scent of the bare skin
Restive camera instinctively released its telelens.
From nowhere, a tornado started wreaking havoc.
________________________
7 September 2025
Fingers gliding along the sonorous wire
Captive birds inside get restive for the sky
plucking and flicking of fingers then continue
At the still point thousands of wings are free
________________________
7 September 2025
my heart rises, falls like restive waves
it brings the weight of fears I cannot voice.
joy swells then slips silently away
memories lingers like salt on my skin
i follow its pull, unsure but alive
in its rhythm, I find my steady beat
A green gust dancing
amidst the leaves of ferns
In the obscure dawn,
the birds are all restive.
Had we all been
a swarm of unleashed birds
For sure we would have built
a Mediterranean sea
__________________
25 June 2025
Never at rest, ever restive
like shifting sands of the desert,
my mind is
a labyrinth of quagmires and booby traps,
you step on it
and you’ll either be sucked in
or blown to smithereens…
Going in is a child’s play
Coming out—
A gauntlet run!
What‘s better than a biscuit?
Hard to debunk
Treasure trunk funk
Should you let
It get wetter
Would you dare risk it?
The trick a quick dunk
Or could flunk..flick..kerplunk..
Mushy chunk sunk..messy junk
Slushy slunk..in the tea you drunk
So at your leisure
Pleasure one’s self
Don’t regret your stealth
Forget your health
Wealth beset on the shelf
So feeling restive?
Yearn for a digestive?
Appealing…suggestive
No shock..dark choc
What else will cut the mustard
With a brew…for a few bob
Recurring theme..does seem
Will always dream
About a custard cream
Almost sob…as I Lob
A hob-nob in me gob
Ta pour more cha
In fine fettle
Be a slob
Turn on the kettle
Bickies in the jar
On the sofa settle
Sins within tins
Spurn concern
Ignore the racket
As
Hats do doff
Knew from the off
On a roll
The sole goal
Quaff another cuppa
Down your cake hole
Scoff the whole packet!
The Last Lap
Ignorance and fire
now common partners
lying on a restive bed
The night now owns the day
as the day now basks
in opaque blackness
The burnt-out embers
scattered to the wind
now reassembles with kindling flame
Great hopes and dreams
flashing through the phase
now swaggers in as lost sleep and mirages
Light* that lights all lights continues to glow
triumphant midst woe toward jubilant today 'til tomorrow.
Blest light wakes soul up
perking with God's prop.
Divine light wafts hope
propels faith midst cope.
Sun light for work height
prods glad labour might.
Light to brighten time
sounds achievement chime.
Gentle light ends grief
ushers joy's relief.
Smiling light from face
defies angst; shows grace.
Pardon light we see
makes our spirits free.
Light against stress-hush
quiets heart's strong rush.
Light amidst love bliss
never should we miss.
Lord of light brings joys
cheers restive night’s poise.
Light that lights all lights smites evil darkness' blights
illumining humankind toward goodness' delights.
*John 8:12 - Then spake Jesus again unto them, saying, I am the light of the world: he that followeth me shall not walk in darkness, but shall have the light of life.
December 8, 2024
I take my pain to where ragers rage and writhe
in their self-absorbed gluttony on all-winter days
their tea cups are only for them
interspersed with silence and solitude
the streets are buildings without them
who are the signposts talking too?
I could have been one of them
I was one of them
and still am if hills facing the sun are cloud covered
and I don’t look out of the window to notice
then, in those un-costumed days, I am
but, and it has taken rotations of earth
backpacking through antonyms, through tropics
I have conquered tinnitus, now a comfort blanket
aiding sleep as a heart monitor line crossing a screen
I have conquered deep wells, now jews harps
jaw harps if you prefer, gewgaws, yes I have conquered
the cave of crawling space days
goblins are only a light switch and their rising finger away
but my rising finger plucks at overtones and distances
between neurons, between stars, between mees
its sound soothing, rubbing balm on a restive chest
the vibrations are fizzing and feeding me
I take my white noise and float away
sound, my therapy
In restive response to the nature’s call,
in the disciplined dog-line they all fall.
Not far is the place to pee,
tree never seems to be free.
Leakage curbed canine bladders learn to stall.
Lipogram Sonnet 4-12-24
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Spring Sonnet
Spring bursts out from winter’s silent cocoon,
Fluttering luminescence on new wings,
Freed up from the midnight’s monochrome womb
Silk ribbons of ice melt into wellsprings.
Thin borderlines edged in dull grey on white,
Feeling the tickle of divine kisses,
Explode in hues borrowed from the first light,
Colors flit over icy snow with bliss.
Gliding on the virgin winds’ new story
Neon wings trickle colors on flowers
In purple tendrils of yellow glory,
From solstice sleep life returns in showers.
Young springtime emerges, from restive sleep,
Rising with morning - promises to keep.
Black Noon
The restive wind
weds the surging waves
merging spirits and souls
leching away meekness
spiced with weakness
as the way is paved
for the destruction
that rummages at noon
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