Chasing Sunshine

When a wind
Starts to blow,
It sets in motion
The little things –
Dry leaves,
Plastic bags,
Paper,
And clothes
Let loose,
From their precarious perch
On a flimsy drying stand,
And of course, dust and sand
Lots of that.

The wind
Does not ask
To be followed.
It simply,
Sets things in motion –
It demands
To be followed,
And even the mighty,
The seemingly strong,
Are swayed by the currents
Of a ferocious wind,
That seeks to make
Its essence known,
On whichever path
It chooses
To blow on,
Leaving in its wake
The vestige
Of an upheaval.

Image Credit: Photo by Ian Livesey on StockSnap

The road is endless,
Dry and arid,
Not a touch of moisture,
Nor anything pleasant,
Such as shrubbery
By the sides,
Or the shadow cast
By a lonesome tree.

The going is tough –
The heat from the asphalt
Seeps into the soles
Of the travel weary feet,
Soaking the socks
As it barges in;
That sweat,
Is the only wet,
For miles on end,
On this endless stretch.

The sojourner,
Seemingly has no choice,
But to go on –
Although at times,
It seems pointless;
For where is the beginning
Of the end,
Of this journey?
They seem
Utterly clueless,
Nevertheless,
They keep walking
Because that
Is all they know.

The paint can tipped
Spilling paint
On the rock,
A fairly large blot
Of bright red,
A remarkable spot
Against a dark canvas,
Comfortable in its inlay.

Rain, hail and wind,
Sandstorms too,
Have lashed on the rock,
Since the fateful tipping,
Of the unsteady can,
But the bright red,
Has held on,
As only it can,
To its spot
On the rock.

The rock,
Once obscure,
Is now an eyesore,
Blemished,
Stained,
And extraordinarily
Out of place.

To be out of place,
Is to not belong,
Where does a rock go,
To find itself a home,
Bright red stain and all?

A solitary street lamp
Has not shone,
For days on end;
Just like the unlit windows
Of the house behind.
The neighbourhood
Has carried on,
Not noticing
The darkness,
That takes over
The comma in the making,
Come twilight preceding
Each summer evening.
Unless it smells,
Or maggots appear,
On the doorstep
And window sills,
Life will go on,
The same as before,
Except in this pocket
Of a permanent shadow,
Which is but
A fading reminder,
Of footprints that failed
To trace their way back home.

I am sat on a bench
On the lonely platform
Perhaps awaiting a train
Perhaps not
Or maybe it is
Quite simply
That I am either too early
Or too late
For there is no one else
To be seen
In the vicinity
There is silence
A lack of announcements
The electronic display
Is remarkable in the absence
Of any messaging
I should be bewildered
At the very least
I should question
My upper storey
As to why I find
My lonesome self here
In the middle of nowhere
At this unearthly hour
But I don’t
It is almost as if
I am shellshocked
Perhaps only a tremor
Of the same intensity
As before
Can jolt me out
Of this transience
Of being in essence
One with nothingness.

Image Credit: Photo by Ian Livesey on StockSnap

Each time the root
Of the towering tree
In the neighbour’s yard,
Grew deeper past
The border on the east,
And each time it grew
A new offshoot
In the easterly,
It was an infringement
Upon my lands,
But I let it be;
For nature knows
No limits,
The bounds we define,
Cannot confine,
Its abundance –
And when it does
It is but,
A travesty.

Not so
Although,
The things
That are man made;
Each time
They curled their fists,
And uttered words
With intent to shame,
It was an infringement,
Upon my dignity,
But I let it be;
For I had no strength,
To bring to an end
The travesty,
That they unleashed.

Image Credit: Photo by Matt Bango on StockSnap

The river
Keeps flowing,
Its water
Has no rest,
From being
In that state,
But when that water
Empties into a lake,
Or the ocean,
It learns,
Almost at once,
To cease motion
That carries it forward;
Its movements then,
Are confined within,
The mellow ripple,
Or the tumultuous wave –
Neither ever,
Progressing ahead
For miles on end.

Water holds no memory,
Or if it does,
It is as much at peace,
Within the depths
Of the boundless sea,
Or the gurgling mirth,
Of the mischievous stream.

Perhaps the key
To lasting peace,
Is to let free,
Every vestige,
Of memory –
Whether painful,
Or abounding in beauty.

Image Credit: Photo by Sergei Gussev on StockSnap

The train rattles hard
As it lurches forward,
Everyone around her
Responds,
In one way or the other,
But she sits there,
In her seat by the window,
The scenes outside,
Not particularly captivating,
Just not yet,
Her eyes seem rooted,
At a spot in the distance,
Although her stare
Is notably vacant.

There is something about her,
About the way she has her legs,
Drawn up to her chest,
And her head resting atop
Her bent knees,
While she looks far away,
Into the distance,
Seeing, yet unseeing,
The flashing scenes –
Yes,
There’s something about her,
That reminds you,
Of how not to be,
Like a sore thumb
Sticking out.

It is evident,
That she is not
Quite alright,
And yet she seems,
Unable to fix
Whatever it is,
That is causing her
This untouchable grief,
That sits beyond a barrier,
She has carefully constructed,
In her demeanour,
And her very being.

Her eyes though tearless,
Are not fearless,
Although she keeps them
Carefully averted;
If you looked carefully,
You would notice,
How she shrinks imperceptibly,
From time to time,
And holds herself tight,
As if to protect herself,
From something
That only she can see,
Far out there
In the distance,
Amongst the flying trees.

Image Credit: Photo by Mike Wilson on StockSnap

When music does not
Manage to soothe,
The frayed nerves
Of a soul so lost,
That it knows not,
How to regain
A semblance of footing,
On a jagged terrain,
Of overwhelming pain –
And nor does beauty,
Or the pursuit,
Of a beloved hobby
That once fostered peace –
Perhaps it is then,
That the soul begins,
A journey inwards
To discovery.

Image Credit: Photo by Bonnie Moreland on StockSnap