Chasing Sunshine

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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He lies there,
On the middle
Of a paved road,
A broken heap
Of bones,
Covered by torn,
Heavily bruised skin;
The blood on his body
Has crusted,
It is no longer flowing,
His eyes are shut tight,
In unimaginable pain –
Whether from the blows
They rained in
Mercilessly,
Or the horror,
Of being caught
Red handed,
In the act of thieving,
Or the shame,
Of bearing the humiliation,
So open, as if on display,
For everyone to see,
And yet, deeply private,
His final act of desperation,
To feed his young,
And thereafter himself.

He lies there –
His hands partially covering,
His bedraggled face,
While still holding on,
To the stolen loaf
Of days old bread,
That has pushed him,
To death,
And disgrace.

He lies there –
Still,
For in death,
There is no longer
Any of that tortuous,
Demanding hunger;
While his children,
Will remain unfed
For days on end,
And then eventually,
Be driven to thieving,
Much like him –
To quell the pangs,
That will rise
Deep within,
Their empty,
Demanding bellies.

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Some tears,
Never flow;
They come raging in,
And then, abruptly stop,
Right at the threshold,
As if they know,
That the breath
Of fresh air
That awaits them,
Is a death blow,
In allowing the flow,
They will let go,
Of their identity,
As they get buried,
In a pillow of tissue,
Or brutally wiped off,
Or simply left to dry,
No matter how,
They seem to know,
That in due time,
They will cease to be,
Perhaps that is why,
Some tears,
Never flow.

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A deep hole
Exists,
Where once
There was none,
And within it,
Apparently,
An endless pit,
Of a profound,
And debilitating
Composition,
Of shame,
And grief,
Or perhaps
Something else,
It fumes,
And churns,
Like a witch’s potion,
It neither drains,
Nor runs out,
Of effervescence,
Occasionally,
It does settle,
But not enough,
For the laying
Of a bridge
Across the chasm
To the other side.

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Each room
In this dilapidated home
Has a story to tell –
Its faded walls,
With paint peeling off,
Were once adorned,
With letters, numbers
And stick figure art,
All of which,
Came to life,
Every now and then,
In the throes,
Of windless summer nights,
Playing with the shadows,
Cast by tiny fingers,
Against the backdrop,
Of flickering candlelight.

So too, every window,
In this once long ago home,
They each have captured
In their broken frames
Tales from the yester years,
When they portrayed the charm,
Of out worldly artwork
As it appeared,
To the little pair
Of curious eyes,
Ever desperate to explore,
Beyond the confines
Of the little home.

The front and back yards,
Were like palace grounds,
Changing colour,
And contour,
To transform,
From the mundane
To the sublime,
A perpetual source
Of beauty and bounty
Enough to evoke
Wide eyed wonder
In the tiny beholder.

Decades later,
There is no place
To go back to,
The cherished home,
With its walls and windows,
And stately grounds,
Is all but gone,
Decaying before
The weary eyes
Of the life sore
Beholder.

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At first they were,
But mere whispers,
Spoken in hushed tones,
Wafting through the corridors
On the wings
Of the unseasonal chill,
Of the summer breeze.

Not long thereafter,
They gathered strength,
Repeated as they were,
By a few hundreds,
So whilst they were
Still whispers,
They were by nature,
And by intent,
Profoundly loud,
And very clear.

As they now reverberated,
Through the same corridors,
Seeking to devour
The lonesome soul,
Who stood alone,
And quite apart,
By themself,
In a dank corner,
Shivering from the chill,
Of the tempestuous whispers.

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I

I’m scared
Of opening the blinds,
And letting the light,
Flood in to the room;
Revealing its dark corners,
Dusty and rank –
I would rather
Keep it bolted,
Its blinds drawn down,
Even when
The birds are chirping,
The skies are blue,
And the fiery sun
Shines brightly on;
I would rather
It stay closed,
And bitterly dark,
I would rather
Retreat within,
And hide myself
For a million heartbeats.

II
There is no place,
For what I feel,
To be let known,
To be revealed –
This world, as big
As it is,
Is seemingly not enough,
It does not have
An apt space,
Where I can let down,
And then,
Gently open,
This heavy baggage,
And let go,
Of what lies hidden,
Deep within –
No space has been made,
No, none exists,
Where it will not
Be met with prejudice,
Where I will not
Have to let go,
Of the remnants
Of my shattered dignity,
Once more –
All over,
Again.

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