This little fleeting fleck of time we share
Suspended breath caught in frosty air
The Morning Glory trumpets the dawn
But withers and wilts by late afternoon
And we too are but a sigh of a moment
Lost in the passing wind sojourned
A momentary glint in Nature’s eye
We carry our burden of ephemerality
Like a Mayfly circling its solitary day
We flutter and flap between birth and
Death our little gains and tiny failures
Buried in the deep earth of nothingness.
Round and round the seasons blink
See the corn turn gold from green
Touch the silent river eddies
Twisting down to the brawling sea
The surging marauding bully surf
Molesting the stubborn granite rock
These primordial foes will never chime
Trapped between lightening and thunder
Their tussle is the earth’s oldest paradigm
And we in our little moment stand small
On the shifting sands all our endeavours
Are dissolved by the folding waves of time.
We live — but not on level ground,
We are sunlight clinging to the edge of a crumbling wall.
I remembered Grandmother’s voice,
She warned me once: “Boy, beware the fall.”
We leap —
and soon enough
this house of days
will crash upon us all.
We were mountains once —
and still we held,
Like millstones
bearing every crushing call.
In a blink, the starling flew —
and from the highlands, they all withdraw.
I suffer the market’s ache today,
Where souls are sold and bent to law.
She asked me,
“What are you doing here?”
“Growing fat in a pasture
meant for slaughter.”
Knives are sharpened, lambs grow sleek —
In the end,
the knife writes every fate.
Traps and snares on every path —
from the tavern’s door to the lover’s gate.
And when the final cup is drained,
They march us up
the gallows straight.
But look —
again, our morning reign begins!
The sun breaks through the long black night.
Grief has closed its weary eyes —
I’ve carried so much pain
to reach this light.
And now, today, the “King” is smiling,
Joyful in his lover’s gaze —
They meet beneath the sky
in a world remade
by morning’s blaze.
Gone in a moment, yet timeless ye be:
Flame in my candle, and soul that's in me.
All of its nonsense does end here.
World's. Its furthest blown point.
Murky but deathly stilled water's
Of tranquil acceptance.
Even so, which glory, gold leafed
By what hangs and spooks round
Spreads, for ghosts of disillusionment
Cursed sounds. In abundance!
No seed that’s on the earth ground
It’s tree now, offering the shadow
And life of sound
No green leaves there are
It’s yellow to withered
And blow away far
My forefathers, many of them
Now hanging on the photo frame
One day I’ll be the same
Dawn sun comes and goes daily
Dusk to a dark night in the same way
time never comes as rotatory
Scorching summer merges into a soaked monsoon
Rainy drops in the autumnal wind and wintry frost
No season is stable though spring in a lovely tone
Winter dew on the glossy green leaves
Shining rising sun evaporates minutely
Some are anytime rest in peace
Snowflakes cover the red rose petals
A floating wall of fog suits a ghostly vision
Out of time, all are in ancestor’s trails
Forever, the word is not forever
Like the time of summer to winter
And spring in the impermanent gyre
© Mahtab Bangalee
Chattogram
-January 25, 2023
"What is this strange place we find ourselves in
Trapped in the open, we find ourselves within"
Who can hear the forest still
Its light and mist fall calmly hushed
Bereft of leaves gripped in winter's will
Its naked soul lies burnt from autumns rust
Sundering haze as breath in cold
Melts in air through sunlit stands
Of forest simple, soft though bold
While natures will and peace command
Its parable is yet untold
Eyes behold serene repose
As tides of glimmering beauty shoal
To surge with mighty grandeur's glow
Into the heart it comes to rest
Zen's remedy is yet to show
The puzzle of this life’s mystery
As oneness flows to disclose
Can we be as one with every tree?
March 20, 2022
disassembled
and torn
scattered
in the fetid
air
beyond
repair
in
higher
dreams
unheard
unspoken
a
thousand
whispers
in
the
night
of
this
brief
transit
inspired
by Ash Wednesday TSE
Shining ray- the dawn
Dew plays game of glittering
Brevity counts down!
-November 22, 2018 Chattogram
The inurbane world faces its fate
with malignant joy, unaware
of it being a scapegoat in the
capricious transitory thing called life.
Yet we perspicuously flatter ourselves
and gravitate to the greatness of life
till the body dissipates and soul alienates
on the all- encompassing altar of death.
9/9/2016
My tenant body constitutes a lease,
A rented fabric owed to landlord Time,
From smoothened silk to wrinkled leather’s crease,
This shuttled thread is bound in deed to grime.
My mind he stakes a vested interest in,
Its vibrancy is forced perforce to fade,
The stain of Lethe’s dull oblivion
Shall wash and sink this mind in murky shades.
Immortal dyes Arachne used to draw,
(While mortals die unraveled, naked, sheared)
Her strings contested Nature’s with their awe,
Art’s golden wool outwears the looming Weirds.
This trunk of life is tailored for a fashion,
Yet timeless wove is art’s transcendent passion.
Let us float in these moments...
Like clouds in the sky ;
Without worries or predicaments...
Without tears in the eye...!
Let us not think of tomorrow...
Nor brood on the bygone yesterday...
Transcending the shadows of sorrow...
Let us welcome the glee that comes our way....!
Let us pluck stars from the firmament....
And festoon the garden of our dreams...
Let us find the traces of enjoyment...
As we sail against Life's turbulent streams....!
There may be a thousand reasons to cry...
But let us delve deep to discover...
The one reason to smile before we die....
Because in the next moment, all of it can be over....!
The Transitory
A feline has
Moved into the shed
Gave birth
Two six kittens
I’m looking for a hammer
To hit a nail
Into the wall and hang
Up a painting of Jesus with
His eyes closed
Looking remarkable like
Gaddafi when he was murdered
The painting is a fake
Kaddafi was not
I shall miss his splendid
Sky-blue uniform.
just
under
the
skin
the you that echoes the actual
physical
scarring
that
shows
just at the very outset of your
supposedly
sane &
publicly
presentable
exterior, lies with you a problem
that
you
can't
quite
fix---and yes, you try to work it
out
with
others,
both
those others selves within &
those
individuals
on
the
slashed & scattered outskirts (like
cracked
little
pieces
of
linoleum) but nothing seems to
work
when
everyone
has
the blatant sinister audacity to ask
if
something's
wrong
but
to offer nothing in the way of ideas
as
to
how
one
might go about medicating any real
issues
of
which
you
yourself may in fact be concerned
about
to
the
utmost
extent---
alone & dwindling in the madsphere
of
things
you
find
a much better way to deal with it all,
found
now
solely
through
the expression of the self & its very
transcription
now
noted
visually
aurally
aesthetically
within your every blissful moments
of
what
others
observe
in
your own behavior when they smirk
with
condescension
saying
"this too shall pass."
Clouds Are Transitory
by Rick Rucker
At times, to keep the blues away,
I remember that the sky's not gray,
It is blue, and bright, and clean,
A truly idyllic scene,
It is, like we say, “Nothing but blue skies from now on.”
Once the intervening clouds are gone,
The sky is blue, and will always be,
For him and her, and you and me,
The clouds are there to make us see
Just how drab our lives would be,
Without blue skies, to lift our hearts,
To help us to pursue the arts
Would artists paint, and writers write,
If the sky were not so bright?
I don't know, and I don't care,
Because blue skies are always there!
Transitory Mirror
Dark pools look back
These eyes
Now slow mark their lines
Crows feet emotions
With sun kind smiles
Older now
As they stare
Their sparkle sheen
Hides the so many things
Times have come
Gone into an Iris of thought
The lookouts of my soul
Wonder at themselves
Behind me
Spent seconds of captured light
Ricochet in sadness and laughter
And draw their features
In ideograms of tears
To their corners
Here where my dreams reside
And where my fear can hide
Gentle brown they seem now
Of one time darkness confiscated
And madness rims
In their violence no longer becomes
The person beneath them
But echoes still
All the footprints of life
Stranger they are to the knowing
Recognition reflecting
The thronging colours reassemble
And presume to know me
The lover me
The hidden me dips the razor in cold clear water
And carries on shaving
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