Chasing Sunshine

The storm clouds gathered in droves
Unfurling the darkest canopy
One might ever see,
Sending people rushing back
Into the relative safety of their homes,
But not without a gnawing worry,
Assailing their minds,
Of whether they could withstand,
The fury that would be unleashed,
In a matter of time.

The wind on the ground, gathered force,
To keep up pace with her friends above,
Collecting in her wake, a veritable army,
Of twigs, dry leaves and the finest sand,
The people she met as she ravaged the land,
Held their heads hung low, not daring to meet,
The fierce fury glowing in her eyes.

The people have waited for a long while,
With bated breaths, not daring to tread
Beyond the confines of their stuffy homes,
Whether hours or days, one cannot tell,
For such is the passage of suspended time,
That is lived in anticipation
Of the worst possible destruction,
That can occupy the limits of the human mind.

She waits and watches too,
Like everyone else,
The storm in her belly for once,
Is as quiet as the proverbial mouse,
That graced the dusty pews of God’s house,
Perhaps it is not a storm after all,
When nature shows up,
The pretence must stall.

There is something to be said
About the justness of this world,
For it reserves a special corner,
For absolutely everyone.

There is a corner for everyone,
Even for those who believe
That they have none.

Now this corner mayn’t be fancy,
It may lack a love seat,
And a lush carpet,
For your sock clad feet.

You may find that your corner,
Is a rather odd shape,
Of a welcome patch of cool shade,
That almost never fails,
To appear right on time,
On a hot afternoon,
Embracing the park bench,
Where you sit to vent,
While the world goes by,
Doing its busy thing.

Your corner could just as well be,
That lonesome seat in carriage three,
Of a westbound train,
Every Tuesday evening.

The point is this as it has always been –
Your corner has existed,
From the beginning, long before you did.

And when the time is right
You will find your corner,
Whether grand, or subdued,
And you will claim it,
With quiet gratitude.

Twin blades of grass
Standing tall almost,
Amongst greying rocks,
Adjacent to railway tracks.

They are here this morning,
Spritely, bright and verdant,
Although there’s no knowing,
What the day will bring,
And if there’ll be
Another day on their anvil.

But for now, today,
They stand there –
Faintly swaying,
Aided by the breeze.

They represent an anomaly,
In the grand scheme of things,
Growing where they wouldn’t thrive,
And yet, managing to stay alive,
Now that they have been
By some strange twist of circumstance
Been brought into existence.

If you were the thinking type,
You might pause,
For a brief while,
To wonder about their purpose;
And that purpose,
Could just be this –
To spark a thought,
Perchance even,
A conversation,
Among perfect strangers,
Looking out the windows,
Of their moving carriages –
Of resilience,
And of living right here,
In this moment.

Fifteen hundred steps
To light and freedom,
From the bottom
Of a deep, dark, pit.

In trying to climb out,
To survive the odds,
He had spent much effort,
Rallying his energy,
And often floundering spirits.

Only after he was out,
All fifteen hundred steps
Finally beneath him,
Did he give it a thought –
Who had crafted
Those steps,
From the bottom of the pit
To its mouth at the top?

And sometime thereafter,
Followed another,
This, slightly more somber –
What had he done,
To make it better;
For the next person,
To wind down there?

The rain pours down
Relentlessly,
At first, it was soothing,
A gentle melody,
Sent down from heaven,
If such a place exists,
To calm the unrest,
In the heart of even
The lowliest heathen;
Hours later,
It hasn’t abated,
And what was pleasant,
Is now cold, wet, a depressant –

I look for meaning,
In nooks and crannies
Where none exists,
Perhaps it is fitting,
This outpouring of rain,
Perhaps it will clear,
The storm cloud,
Filled with
What was it again?

We are children
Of a lesser god
We lost everything
That we valued
Not precious stones
Jewels, mansions,
Or possessions;
No, none of that –
We had nothing
Of that nature,
No earthly treasure
To begin with,
Except our honour,
Cloaked in dignity,
Shimmering
With the radiance
Of innocence.
They went for it first,
That fragile thread,
Perhaps its glimmer
Held the allure,
And when it broke,
There was no furore
Only silence,
And bewilderment.
So much so,
That the further loss
Of dignity,
And honour,
Perhaps didn’t register,
In our broken beings,
Trembling,
For lack of warmth,
And the rupture,
Of everything
That meant safety.
Nobody came rushing
To take us on their wings,
To tend to our broken bones,
Or our bleeding wounds,
We had failed yet again,
By becoming prey.
Our first failing,
Is in existing,
For there is no place here
For the likes of us,
We are children,
Of a lesser god.

The beauty you see
All around you,
Fails to enthral,
For there is
Far too much of it,
All at once!

It is as if,
Nature,
Overcome by bias,
Decided to bestow,
All of her virtue,
On this piece of land,
Over many others.

For miles and miles,
That is all your eyes
Can take in,
The rapturous beauty,
Of the turquoise lake,
With the serene mountains
Standing guard, watching.

You can only sigh so much,
Your eyes, mind, and heart,
Are for once,
So utterly full,
That you decide,
They’ve all had quite enough,
Of all things natural,
And beautiful.

It is only later,
Much, much so,
That the vision,
Of mountains
Capped with snow,
Smiling on,
To tranquil lakes,
Return,
As a faint smile,
On your weary face,
And you breathe
That long, deep sigh,
To finally let in,
That perfect moment
Of beauty, and peace.

What was that noise?
It wasn’t the loudest,
And yet,
It was quite profound,
In the stillness
Of the cold winter night.

It dropped on me,
Instead of creeping in,
Leaving me perplexed.

Why?
The foremost query.
Followed by
How?

What was that noise?
Was it the vestige
Of something
I’ve now lost?
I’ll not know,
Will I?
And yet,
I think I’ll keep asking,
Why?

You have no friends,
You know that now.

You were slow
To latch on,
But now that you know,
“It is time”,
You decide,
To move on.

You are quiet
As you go about it,
Packing your things,
And tidying up,
The space you’ve taken
All this while.

You have regrets,
A lot of them,
Although you would
Have preferred none,
“But such is life”,
You decide,
And step out,
Beyond the threshold,
Not turning back,
To check if they line up
To see you go,
For you care no more.

The vapours emanating,
From the surface of the pool
Quite rightly named Champagne,
Are a wondrous sight –
One that will have you enthralled,
If only you can withstand,
The pungent odour,
Reminiscent,
Of high school science labs.

And if you are,
Quite the thinker,
You will let your mind wander,
And settle down –
To the depths that wonder,
Where the vapour
Rises from;
Is it the bubbling surface,
Or the depths below,
That produces
This incessant show,
Whether anyone’s watching
Or not?

And also this –
That beauty can coexist,
With a raw force
Such as is off putting,
The kind that emits,
A “keep away” signal.

There aren’t many
Who would care to draw near,
And spend a short time,
Or a long while,
In its presence
Not for them
The lure of this dichotomy
Of rough beauty,
Reeking of rotten eggs,
Despite the brilliance
Of its jagged edges.

But those that do,
Are the ones who choose,
To sit with something,
That is at once
A delight,
As it is an ache,
Of the throbbing make.