NaPoWriMo 26 - Kennings

For day 26, some kennings. Bjorn at the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads presented the concept of Kennings. Or compound noun combinations.

My impromptu attempt :)

~~~

A leaf-fall. A leaf
falls on to the forest floor.
Beyond that, silence.

~~~

A heart-knock. Someone
knocks on my heart boarded up.
Beyond that, silence.

~~~

A tune-lilt. Lilting
tunes slowly take me apart.
Beyond that, silence.

~~~

A death-wish. Dying
to the past my only wish.
Beyond that, silence.

~~~

NaPoWriMo 24 - Caves

For NaPoWriMo day 24, a confession -

CAVES  - haiku

I found there are caves
in my heart I didn't know about.
There be demons.

~~~

tulip - haiku

light lay laughing lithe
in the tulip bulb, transformed
into glowing orb

~~~

The last shot

On a bare mattress he lay
blood splattered half naked
Colonel Gaddafi
of Libya quite dead

the photo barked at me
wrenched me in the gut
an unspectacular end
to a pompous life

made me wonder
at the one chance he had
the one shot at life
to uplift to create

these holders of power
yet niggardly of spirit
the beggars of light
who not finding any

proceed to escape
the approaching darkness
by snuffing out the light
in other people’s lives

~~~

The hiatus of evening

hanging between wakefulness
and sleep
is a hiatus

like the golden hour

when the day pauses
looking over her shoulder
reluctant to leave
at the night at her heels

the tender moment
of their meeting
so full of mystery
and magic

that birds fall silent
leaves rustle in whispers
shadows settle soft-footed
into everything

and you slide
into the awaiting darkness
of oblivion

and the stars come out
as dreams

~~~

A race of hands

scramble sprint run
it’s always a race
to keep ahead of time

I know from the start
I have no chance of winning
yet my hands propel me forward

as if it is a race of hands
mine against the clock’s
it always wins hands down

yet tomorrow I know
I shall try again
using the tricks I learnt today

I imagine someday lying cold
and timeless in my grave
I would have won the race

but no, I only pass the baton
to another pair of hands
running a futile race

an afternoon snapshot

the birds are still

the trees are still

the air rests among

the blades of grass

only the clock pours out

in staccato spurts

a litany of tick-tocks

a river of time segments

in which I’m halfway drowned

sometimes just swept away

bullied and cornered by

an illusion called time

the air and grass don’t care

the birds they don’t know this

certainly not the trees

therefore they are in bliss

~~~

A place I call home

Among the folds of the hills nestled
on the valley floor spread
a sparkling jewel, a gleaming gem
is a place I lovingly call home

‘Where is Middle Hutt’ I was once asked
‘this is Middle Earth’ I had said
should have said ‘A slice of heaven
about which stories are written’

Where my spirit sings to the drumbeat of rain
on the roof, and stands in awe to the sound
of the wind wailing against the walls.
and laughs as the Hutt river does

as it skips through meadow, hill
and vale singing a silver-tongued melody,
of mad longing to merge with the sea.
Where my spirit soars to the twinkling stars

And the moon rises laughing behind the hills.
Where my spirit rests in the hollow of the valley
Nestling among verdant hills lit up with the laughter
Of a hundred, babbling, sparkling brooks.

~~~

Today was National Poetry Day, so the local library had organised a poetry reading session, where poetry based on our city or location was read out. So I had my first public poetry reading with the above poem :)

 

May

The calendar 

I find today

sits on May when

it’s almost August

maybe it’s telling me

through all the days of

May and non-May

that I May let myself

take the lid off

my box of dreams

and believe in

their coming true

ease into life

let go of fear

trust my wisdom

go with the flow

unravel unspool

bring down walls

love like crazy

find myself again

~~~

The dance of housework

household chores to
music performed
becomes a dance

so play that CD
or befriend the
radio and

sweep away
cobwebs to
the sweep of song

stir in stirring
symphonies into
sumptuous lunches

trap-zap that dust
to the hip-swing
of rock-n-roll

let the lilt of
low litanies
lighten your load

let the rhythm
sweep and dissolve
the drudgery

let the music
your pulse enter
let the fun flow

~~~

The poetry that lies in fingertips

you face, your face

it’s always your face

I fingertip touch

in poetic trails

of heartbreaking joy

tearful tenderness

that trembles where

skin meets with skin

singing pulsating

symphonies of love

laughing exulting

rivulets of joy

that must be when

soul flows into soul

dissolves into God

surrenders in bliss

~~~

The dam

An avalanche waits
gathering fury
within heart walls

It’s only fear
that holds it in
of destruction

The dam bursts
debris washed away
new beginnings

Unripe

a blank page waits

words like seeds packed

the pod not ready to burst

It is strange

It is strange how
some people can talk and talk
and still not say anything
as if the words were
mere empty husks
falling to the ground
seedless, impotent
incapable of growth

It is strange how
some people can be silent
and you understand everything
as if the very silence
spoke in tongues
scattered seeds
that fell into your heart
and blossomed

~~~
 

The meeting

it must have been the rain

falling soft-petalled on the roof

the clouds in flower festivity

raining down their laughter

or the solitary bird

singing a single note after note

pulling in the reluctant evening

like a relentless oarsman

that my clouds of thoughts parted

and memories flooded in

and there you were

sandal-scented and smiling

your voice as you said my name

husky with tenderness

and I had simply melted

dissolved into pure joy

the world had ceased to be

time was irrelevant

there was no you or even I

just the lightness of being

One step to bliss

I surrender

in Your arms.

I cease to be.

Bird watching

Sitting on the fence, back to me,
it doesn’t know I am watching
as it watches the yard next door.

Yellow beaked, black bodied,
head bobbing, eyes darting,
the blackbird looks for food.

Then, it sits still for a long time,
head held high, like a falcon,
as if sunning its beak.

I wonder if birds meditate,
or plan their day, maybe
stake out hunting grounds.

Or are they totally unaware
of the past, escaping fast
and the future, madly onrushing.

Living in the timeless Now,
unconcerned, about
an illusion called time.

Heeding only the voice
of instinct, as it surely guides
them from birth to death.

When I turn away,
it’s still there, unmoving,
as if frozen in time.

Home

The wind rages
like a crazed animal,
snarling up trees,
curling around houses,
scowling, howling.
In stark contrast,
the voices in my head
slowly stop clamouring,
stop rippling and fade.
I settle into stillness.

There is a place within us
that the winds of turbulence
cannot reach, the fire of
crises cannot scorch.
The floods of despair
cannot dampen. Here,
the soul resides.
And presides. Here,
boundaries vanish,
distinctions dissolve.

All it takes is a stepping away,
a conscious shift,
a delving into the silence
beneath all sound,
into the space in which
everything arises.
It is there, always,
ready, waiting.
For us to disengage,
to come home.

~~~

The chase

Something niggles,

like an itch in a corner

just out of reach.

The day was a pleasant enough,

helping a friend serve the monks

at the Buddhist monastery.

Steeped in tranquility,

lulled by birdsong,

sang to by streams.

But a haze came creeping around the corners.

Like a nebulous shadow

cast by a rain cloud

lurking just beyond the horizon.

I try to pin it down,

out-stare it in a staring contest,

but it shifts shape,

defies definition,

steals away.

Maybe the boil will burst in my sleep.

Maybe in my dreams

it will show its face.

For now, I chase

the shifting shadows.

The other side

It takes only a small mis-step,
a tiny, wandering thought,
to derail my train of happiness.
The flooding of pain
is sudden and unwelcome,
like a dark thunderstorm
it blots out the light.

I apply the usual balms -
music, dance, books.
It retreats and bides it time,
and just as surely,
when the beats stop,
the book is closed,
it is there, waiting,
like a faithful lover.

I marvel at its insidiousness,
its tenacity.

Maybe I should give it its due,
pay the blood-price.
Maybe pain is the other side of joy.
Why should I expect
to enjoy the charms of daylight
without enduring the night?

The night is going to be a long one.
Perhaps, joy waits on the other side.