morning commuter

he was earth-skinned and sky-scarred

with his dark brown jacket, black beanie,

dark jeans and black shoes

he got in the transit train to Toronto & stood

with left hand cupping his ear, conversing about

rides, station stops for the entire 30 minutes ride

was he talking to God?

because his jacket elbows & sleeves were

frayed & tattered, as well as his jeans & worn shoes

his fingers keep pointing to the train subway

map, marking his destination to the west, further

than my stop.   he did not sit down but stood pacing

and talking by the exit doors.   his voice - 

a lost wind, a lone bird without a flock -

swearing & mocking to the invisible party

was he talking to God?

because his hands were empty

because his pockets were empty

his eyes, the black sun

or was it a black pearl?   or was it my

eyes reflecting back, wanting daylight to arrive

& banish the darkness from the tall stranger

 The False Mirror by Rene Magritte

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - OpenLinkNight - Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.

dear traveller

 

Do not wait for me

I have found my map

Though my pockets are lined with sadness

I carry your gift, a wild flower yellow pin

I have found my map

And travelled to another country

Carrying your gift, a wild flower yellow pin

Reminding me to smell the flowers along the way

While travelling to another country

Your letters keep me company, soft as light

Reminding me to smell the flowers along the way  

Will our paths cross again?   Maybe, I'm hopeful

Your letters keep me company, soft as light

Though my pockets are lined with sadness

Will our paths  cross again?   Maybe, you said.  

Please, do not wait for me.

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Pantoum, hosted by Merril D.  Smith.  Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.

Insomniac

Let us talk about insomnia

at 3:15 am.   A dark bird sits on my bed

& wants to talk about his ambition.   I am 

curious, where does ambition come from?

Is it a seed that suddently grows into

giant tree out of my head?  Is it a slow

painting of canvas, taking shape, defining my face?

The bird wants to climb Japan's Mount Fiji.

The bird wants the fancy feathers of peacock.

And fling himself to the moon.

His ambition is burning his feet after jumping

over fire stones after piercing the hornet's nest

Well I had enough of the bird chatter dream

I want to talk about my ambition - that 

fire within me that refuses to die when an idea

Comes to me, like a buzzing bee 

over the blooming yellow daffodils

Deafening sounds, lively chitter-chatter  

As my heartbeat is running faster and 

faster.  Sleep is forgotten library book.  

My feet are itching for calm after 

leaping into the air, like a gazelle

bounding out to the open fields

My spine tingles as if a lover's touch

stole my sleepy head.   Finally 

dawn comes with pink hues and holds

a giant mirror to my small idea bulb, 

now scribbled with crooked arrows.   Will I survive 

the scrunity of harsh reality? Dark bird, remind me 

again, where does ambition come from?    

Come to me in circles.  

Come to me, piercing my bosom.

Inspired by Anne Sexton, The Ambition Bird

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub- Poetics hosted by Sanaa Rizvi.   The theme is Maggie Smith and Conversational Mode of Address.  Thanks for your comments and visits.

Other Worldly

 

we are floating in dust & gas

we catch burst of light

as well as the tail blue-violet of darkness 

                                                                         there is an awakening 

we are shapeless yet shaped

by forces unseen, more powerful than ocean's

turbulent waves & scorching as

volcanic eruptions

                                                                         a daffodil blooms 

a nursery of beginnings of space &    

matter.  over time, where do we cast 

ourselves listening to the waves 

of energy & light  

                                                                        budding leaves of tulips rises

around us, clusters of stars & dark matter

colliding, collapsing, pulling & pushing as if

following the blue print of Master Hands

                                                                       digging the soil, soft as rain

the black hole divides

us,  the sun completes our divinity

though we are mere specks, wrapped

in the continuum of light

                                                                          a season of firsts, spring

 Photo by John McKaveney: The Orion Nebula. “This is an active star forming region about 1400 light years away, of condensing gas and dust, illuminated by newly forming stars. Our solar system formed in a region much like this about 5 billion years ago. The photons that were observed when this picture was taken, left the nebula in 624 AD.  At that time, Mohamed had just won the Battle of Badr, in Saudi Arabia, the classical period in Europe was ending and the middle ages beginning, the Mayas were just beginning to build their largest pyramids, and Europeans had not yet set foot in North America.  Throughout this entire time, those photons of light were traveling through space to be captured to form this photograph, where their journey finally ended.”

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Stepping Out of this World, hosted by Lillian.  Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm.  Thanks for the visits and comments.