The past comes back to me as I drag my feet
my dirty jeans collecting shreds along the way
through alley-ways of memories to an age-old beat
the pounding of pavements on every street
reminds me of years gone, but many still to repay
the past comes back to me as I drag my feet
each time I remember a moment, bittersweet
experiences no more than half lost hearsay
through alley-ways of memory to an age-old beat
sections missing, a puzzle incomplete
saying I'll fit them together one day sounds clich�
the past comes back to me as I drag my feet
it's too much to put it back together, I'm near defeat
shards lost along the way, complete disarray
through alley-ways of memories to an age-old beat
each memory batters me in this bruising heat
and falls apart, each full of rot and decay
the past comes back to me as I drag my feet
through alley-ways of memories to an age-old beat.
Portrait of my lover as a pair of jeans (after Selima Hill)
Over-worn and under-washed,
frayed at the edges,
faded in the middle;
tough, but wearing thin,
dragged with me,
trailing behind like a lost dog;
patched up from my travels,
pieces gathered along the way;
holding close to my skin,
rain-drenched but happy still;
trodden down, yet undefeated;
you hold up like worker�s tools.
Autumn haiku
Trees flush orange red
embarrassed by their gradual
disrobal by the wind.
Inspired by �Augatora�, by Sujatta Bhatt
The wind�s silent eye watches
through the dream catcher at the window
catching the dreams of those long gone.
The wind whips and pulls
unfurling the web of memories,
the childlike expression.
The past untangles
from my hair.
Day melts
and you trust magic blindly,
as children come out to play,
flowers dancing in fire light
to the hot sacred rhythm of history,
the throb throb of drums.
An ashy perfume fills the air,
as smoke breathes,
inhales,
exhales,
eternity's voice calls.
Trees, now barely bones,
circle from the outside,
secretly decaying.
On new days,
sad clouds float by,
and blue grass whispers,
light shows reality for all it is,
piercing your fool�s dreams.
Listen,
Wake,
drink the morning sky.
The tattered old sails remain
of time's wild past,
the memories of the nights past,
of people never freed,
broken prisoners,
trapped in memories,
with dirty ancestral eyes watching them.
Lovers� words
My words strung on an invisible cord
proud sounds issuing forth from my contorted lips
like hot stones dropped into icy water,
cold silence follows,
as each word spoken
is visualised,
inspected,
criticised, read,
like two lover�s eyes wandering the other�s surfaces,
fingertips to clammy skin,
an unseen tie pulls us closer,
one cheek burning against another,
close enough to feel each other�s breath in the surrounding air,
united in a meaning,
a meeting of minds
becoming one.