Chasing Sunshine

We don’t talk about the things
That hurt us in ways we didn’t know exist.

We wonder whether we really hurt,
Or if it is just a vague discomfort;
Maybe one of those feelings
Akin to the itch one cannot scratch.

We talk about the happy things,
And we applaud them who share
The happy happenings in their lives;
We send our hearts, starry eyes and upturned thumbs,
For happily glowing, beautiful countenances.

But when someone so much as frowns,
We coax them into assuming a pretence
That all is spotlessly clean and well,
Because God, humans and every other being,
Love them endlessly, so they must stop moping.

So, we don’t talk about things
That hurt so much that we don’t even know it hurts.

I

If I grew wings and flew away
Into the darkness that stole the day
And hid its light in its belly,
Would the daisies weep,
Or the merry trout in the stream,
Or even the manky feline
I’d taken under my wings
Thence deprived of its twice daily meals?

II

Perhaps they would not,
And that’s a somber thought,
Right up there amongst all the others –

For there’s something to be said
About wishes that are dead,
Because they are so impossible.

They are perchance,
The soulful ballad,
Of desolate hearts
That haven’t known rest.

There’s a hope hanging down
By a fragile thread, off a moonbeam
Sending a faint but steady stream
Of soft, radiant light,
Into the darkest corner in this quiet town;
But the girl sat there, on a lonesome bench
Takes no notice of the light or the stench
From the open, overflowing drain
That carries more than just yesterdays rain.
She is lost somewhere, in a web of her thoughts,
Or perchance it is the void of those
That she finds herself sucked into;
Wherever it is that her mind’s flitted off,
She hasn’t gone there herself.
Instead she has chosen this godforsaken spot
To sit awhile, and ignore hope,
It has come too late, after the boat has sailed,
And for all she cares, it can go to rot.

If they could just keep quiet,
All would be well with our world;
It would rain sunshine,
And the fields would host unicorns.

There would be no crying foul,
No vague stories of bogeymen
Nor horrific ones of weapons –
Nothing really to be afraid of.

We would walk into our homes
That would look spotlessly clean,
And waiting for us there,
Would be a pot of warm broth,
Made of chicken and leek.

And if it tasted even slightly off,
Of course we’d teach them
Their right lesson!
And they would learn it,
Stifled sobs, unshed tears and all.

If they could just keep quiet,
We would have our say,
Just like in the old times,
Every time of every day,
And we would make merry
While we were at it.

If they would just keep quiet,
Our world would be restored
To a peaceful and happy space,
Where everyone knew their place –
By rank, colour and gender –
And nobody would complain!

Ah to have that idyllic world again.

Alone
A state of being
You didn’t choose
Yet adapted to
Perchance gracefully.

Thousands around you
Hundreds you know
A dozen you could call
Close, or really so
And yet you remain
At your core
Alone.

The world has a way
Of moving, of being,
That is at odds
With who you are,
And what has been,
The rude reality
Of your existence;
And so you choose,
Out of wisdom perchance,
Or maybe sheer desperation,
The state of being
Alone.

The dirty rag is wrung
Squeezed really hard
To let every drop of moisture out
And yet it holds on
Obstinately so
Inviting yet another round
Of merciless wringing.

And then it’s slapped
On to the dirt laden surface
That demands to be cleaned
Taking in more of the filth
That has already seeped in
To the essence of its being.

The surface lies clean
While the rag is tossed
Without a thought
Into the murky water.

The rag has always known
Its place under the sun –
The one time it was pristine
Was when it was spotlessly new
Ever since, it has been its bane
To mop up filth
And keep things clean
For filth belongs
Only in certain places
And the rag knows
It’s one of them.

A white lily grew in the wild,
Amidst the bushes by the roadside,
A thing of beauty, until the eventide.

The fresh rays of a new dawn,
Fell upon it, yet failed to adorn
Its blemished countenance, so utterly worn.

Yonder in someone’s much loved garden,
A white lily thrived – like a fair maiden,
As pretty as on its first day of bloom.

The lily by the roadside died a quick death,
Scarred and bruised beyond recognition,
By the time its last petal had fallen.

The garden lily stands proudly
In the centrepiece on the marble countertop,
Forever the victor over the annihilated.

Image Credit: Photo by Tomas Williams on StockSnap

If social media commentary
Is any measure of society,
I’d say it is going south,
And that’s not to say
In a direction geographically speaking;
Nay – it’s going south
The other way – such as when,
That famed apple fell on
The scientist’s head.

Everyone is precious
About their lineage,
Pedigree, colour, religion, creed
And everything else in between,
And wears it as a matter of pride,
That they can engage in this diatribe
And score a win or two or three,
Almost as if that’s all that matters,
In showing love and loyalty,
Towards political party, religion, country,
And everything of that same sheen.

Perhaps this ought to matter
As much to me, as everyone else,
I try to feel all riled up,
Outraged, angry, and all those feelings
That one summons, to show one’s deep passion,
But I feel none of it –
Except a tinge, perhaps of sadness,
That people fail to see,
The unfairness, or the sham, or the evil
Or whatever other vice it is,
That has them in their grip,
In that moment when they succumb,
To this vicious call – to cry foul,
And to decry,
Everyone and everything,
That appears foreign,
To themselves.

You are stood on the floor
All wet and dripping,
After effects of my walk,
Earlier in the evening;
The rain drops slide deftly
Off your pitch black skin,
And onto the floor
In tiny streams,
Adding a glisten
To your rich darkness.

By the morning
You’ll be all ready,
Waiting to be folded,
And packed for the day;
But tonight you get,
A rare chance,
To spread your wings,
And to rest,
Even as the rest of us
In the household sleep.

There’s a long line,
Winding down the lane,
People hunched from the cold,
Arms crossed, heads bowed down.

Nobody talks much,
Except to ask the time
Once in a while;
Everyone cranes there neck
Every now and then,
To check if someone’s headed back,
From the place they’d been in.

There is a an undercurrent
Of tense anticipation;
One senses it in the cold mist,
That escapes as breath,
And is held in suspension –
No warmth from conversation
To dissipate it.

The lone passerby
Stops, and looks in askance,
Nobody bothers to reply;
Words are rationed here,
As is compassion,
That elusive commodity,
They’ve all come seeking,
Before the month is up,
And they’re thrown out,
Onto the streets,
That will have everyone,
And yet no one.