Chasing Sunshine

Everyone is afraid,
Of disrupting
The natural order of things,
In their little world.

Nobody really admits
That this fear exists,
In a corner of their heart,
Or mind, or wherever it is,
That these things take root.

But it is perchance why,
Such things as faith,
Or even the lack thereof,
Came into being.

Those who believe
In a greater power,
Refuse to let go,
Even for a wee bit,
For what if this power
Got upset, and unleashed fury
All over their little world?

And those who don’t,
You know… believe in the greater power,
Sat in clouds or beyond,
Hold on to their belief,
In that lack of belief,
As that’s the thing that holds,
Their little world afloat.

But if a little world,
Should someday shatter,
Not from lack of care,
But despite it,
The mantle of belief,
Or its lack thereof,
Is discarded,
And in its stead,
Is left behind,
A broken shell,
Of what was once,
A promise.

Image Credit: Photo by Edu Lauton on StockSnap

There is a fading
That creeps upon you,
In the busyness of life.
One that you don’t realise,
Is nigh upon you,
Until your breath,
Is lost in its mist;
And when you try
To reach out,
To touch that whiff,
You see each finger,
Gently disappear,
As if it were never here,
And it is then,
That it occurs to you –
That you are fading.

There is a fading
That is welcome,
One you’ve waited for,
For far too long.
So when you see them disappear,
Each bony finger,
You breathe a sigh of relief,
And prepare to give in,
To the approaching fading.

Image credit: Photo by Dewang Gupta on StockSnap

Bullies can come disguised,
As friendly, cheerful allies.

Beware!
For the friendly smile,
That lights up their eyes,
Might just dim,
The faint spark in yours.

You could spend years,
And perchance shed tears,
Before you realise,
That their sweetest smiles,
And the most perfect words,
Wrapped in concern
And to top,
A bow of commiseration –
Are not quite enough,
To conceal their deceit.

And though they might be,
Among all other friends,
The very best,
For all the rest –
For you, they’d still be,
The worst bully,
You ever did see,
And that is fine,
It’s not your fault,
And it never was,
Though they might try,
To have you believe,
Otherwise.

The solitary note of music,
Wafting through the hillside,
Carries on its waning strain,
A story of untold pain.

What began as a wholesome melody,
Vibrant, and at once lively,
Captivating an enraptured audience,
Through its soul touching harmony,
Petered to a faint tune,
One you might chance upon
Once in a blue moon,
To remind you of what once was,
Soul touching, enthralling music,
Perchance like meeting,
A long forgotten cousin
At a family wedding.

Does every story that begins
On a bedrock of promise,
Stumble along its way and fall
Headlong into the shadows,
And does nobody notice,
The music growing faint, distant?
And the story losing its sheen?
Does nobody dare stand up to say,
Not that ending for that story,
Let it live another day?

The eager new house owner,
And their freshly appointed landscaper,
Both unanimously agreed,
And so the former decreed,
That the lonesome tree,
In the centre of the garden,
Should be replaced,
By a magnificent fountain,
Serving as a birdbath,
For the scores, no, hundreds,
Of chirruping little birds,
Flitting amongst the bushes.

When the tree came down,
Not with a thud, for it was removed,
Almost piecemeal, a branch at a time,
There was rustling, and some chirruping,
But mostly, there was silence.

The fountain now stands,
Majestically in the centre,
Of a verdant, brightly hued garden,
And the water gurgles, ripples and tumbles,
But there are no birds anywhere to be seen.

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?