NEONS

NEONS
The morning mist clears. The beginning of a day
brighter now behind the hills;
the neon lights are out,
the last vestige of the night.
In a single sweep they wash out
the night's illusions of grandeur.
In a city the nights are brutally bright;
their illuminations darken the heart.
And yet I choose them by the night,
a compulsion , a need.
The yellow lights on the walls, the reading lamp, then the night bulb enduring the dark,
the night , my night of the heart's solitude
is scared of the overwhelming floods of lights
washing away the cordiality, the gentle intimacy
of the unlit ways where street lights shine
few and far between

Image Credit +Latif Z

The Ropes

Vultures flew and eagles watched
complacent, satiate, from mountain tops.
Vultures swooped, picked up the prey and bolted back to the sky.
Blood in rivers covers the lands,
fire balls rain,
devastation where the land was green.
Centuries wrap around like ropes,
centuries of slavery of the meek to the power of lance.
The ropes of slavery around the eyes
hide from view the little dove
that dares to fly
and sends a call to the blind
to follow the ear and catch the note.
The signal reverberates in the silent air.

Image Credit : Latif Z.

My Maker, Rush In

In the stormy seas
the colors bleed, merge, and the dye spreads
over my days and nights..
The dyer's hand will never cease
to weave the magic in the swirling waves.
The dancing wings
and the coaxing birds,
and on their back I ride,
an intoxicating chimera of light and dark,
the sun and the moon
and the stars in the night as pearls in the wind.
My Maker, rush in , give me a hand,
and row this plummeting vessel till the end of the sea..

Image Credit : +Suma Ro

Spring Is Coming

Spring is coming,
spring is coming with songs.
In spirals the sun and the moon will go
beckoning all to join
Let none lag behind.
The sun, the truest leader of the ever hiking humanity
knows that the spirit of leading is not in running ahead
of those who follow the blazing trail
but sometimes to lean over and hold
the hand of the weak lagging behind..

Hands

 HANDS

Memory of love on a battlefield,
an anomaly,
it can kill
faster than a spray of bullets
.
Those hands I see,
I can feel them breathe,
silent without a word,
a gardener's touch,
a painter's brush,
even when dismantling,
a careful thought.

What did those hands have anything to do
with guns and cannon and fire?
And how long did it take me to see
the power that made them survive and save
a heart that concealed its real, its true desire in life?
The heart that mocked, laughed
a suppressed sardonic laughter,
a heart that lived
for an estranged daughter,
a heart that despised the world,
and at rare moments said softly,
"I remember"?

Smile for the camera....