Fifty One ; Cloud and the Ramzaan Moon

Awake at 4 am,
when night is still sleeping,
and the day asks itself
the purpose of waking again.

I walked to the edge of my flat,
a peered around the slightly warm,
sweetish aroma
of two lives that lived within.

Then bored,
turned to stare at the sky.

Dark, dark like brooding.
no trace of the blues,
no the swirls of the winds,
just a vacant yawn between two
building with the same people
sleeping the same dreams.

One cloud hung,
hanging by an invisible tread,
lit by the Ramzaan moon.
Proud of the silver fringe.

A whisper passed my ear,
and I turned to look from where.
Nothing!

And my cloud in the Ramzaan moon
vanished into the space.

Shaking my head,
shaking itself to sleep.
I walked onto the bed
and threw the sodden sheets,
and woke up again to the shrill
Alarm ringing in the ear.

And the begining of another day.

FIFTY: When sky meets sea

Overcast skies and dim, dull light,
wet winds, the sky hanging low,
grey, sorrow of parting,
turning to joy,
in colours of union
So very anxious to merge with the sea.

The sea too is grey, grim awaiting the sky,
no longer placid blue, rich green or silver.
The calm of long months,
and turbulence beneath the tranquil,
Emptying all at once,
foaming away the lonely days.

Surging waves and dancing rain,
the sky pouring out emotions,
the joy of having met, evident.

Haunting and wondrous picture,
foggy with the clouds
Frightful joy and beautiful pain
attempting to overcome every strain.

There is water everywhere,
in the sea, the air.
Drama, the intense outburst of love,
when the sky meets the sea.

The onlooking rocks are not spared
- drenched to fit into the picture,
rain, sea, sky, water in different forms,
Merging at a distance,
proving.
The sky and the sea are one.

FORTY NINE: Goddess of rain

Woman of winds,
In the arms of a cloud
Dreams of a summer
Gone dull without fire.
A hundred hills scattered around,
Fortresses, grass and weathered trees
Patiently waiting for a streak of the sun
To turn the mist into a caress of golden brown.

Silhouetted against a grey blue sky,
Breeze twisting dark casacades of lustrous hair
And a gossamer gently suspended beyond,
Sacred, scared to touch her lips,
To break the reverie in her eyes.

The dayts too short, nights too small.
A thousand years may pass by
Rains can come and go, entombed
Within the dimension of time
To capture her images in my words.

One goddess of rain, woman of winds,
Stood in the arms of a cloud,
Watching at a distance the lifting veil
Of a newly wed bride.

FIFTY: When sky meets sea

Overcast skies and dim, dull light,
wet winds, the sky hanging low,
grey, sorrow of parting,
turning to joy,
in colours of union
So very anxious to merge with the sea.

The sea too is grey, grim awaiting the sky,
no longer placid blue, rich green or silver.
The calm of long months,
and turbulence beneath the tranquil,
Emptying all at once,
foaming away the lonely days.

Surging waves and dancing rain,
the sky pouring out emotions,
the joy of having met, evident.

Haunting and wondrous picture,
foggy with the clouds
Frightful joy and beautiful pain
attempting to overcome every strain.

There is water everywhere,
in the sea, the air.
Drama, the intense outburst of love,
when the sky meets the sea.

The onlooking rocks are not spared
- drenched to fit into the picture,
rain, sea, sky, water in different forms,
Merging at a distance,
proving.
The sky and the sea are one.

FORTY EIGHT : Never alone

Always,
amidst a brooding crowd
Not alone, never alone
not a single moment of solitary thought,
pestering for attention
In the plethora of ruins
Clustered as usual in lack of time.

I wonder often to this state
What mysteries lie in the sweet
essence of thinking alone?
In the infinite boundaries of thought.

Always amidst a brooding crowd
Not alone, never alone,
Not a single moment of solitary thought
As mind seeks release.

FORTY SEVEN : Untitled

How long can we hold
dreams that are ephemeral?

Cobwebs of fragile strings,
loaded down
by the frigid wetness of lives

One gust of wind,
And tumbling twisting rivers,
carry with them images
Scraped from two hearts
molten in the heat of two souls,
shaped into the name of our joy

How long can we talk?
In a screaming epoch?
Like crystalware amidst broken roofs,
And walls threaten imminent collapse.

Weighed and lofted into eternity,
and then gently settling amongst our daily routine,
Words that you said
and what ever I heard.

Together it may seem moments,
fleeting in formation of years
and heaps of syllables written in these books.

How long can we hold?
How long can we talk?
dreams, whisper.
Ever colliding into,
our definite daily lives.

FORTY SIX : Wasted Day

Along the day as it wasted
Coloured an intense grey;
Extended buildings into the horizons,
scrawny little fingers stratching the layer
Of stringy clouds
so the sun may drip through.

You and I
into a trance,
Like leaves caught in spinng dust
drifting between ruins
steering amongst rocks and dirt
Searching for love lost.

Delve not into explaining –
for what remains is what we have.

On wet deary days as this.
The warmth of tea,
in chipped cups
Is satisfying,
than the emanating revelation
From the corners of eyes.

I saw the day die,
into the weepy draw of night
And droplets abandon
their ritual descent
to shamelessly dance around mercury lamps

I saw you cry,
tears hidden by the dripping water

Only a torn ragged clouded sky remained,
testimony to the waste of another day.