I take a deep puff
Of small town fume and smog.
An old man stares
With a basket of bananas on his head.
Old bicycle wheels run
On the roof of borrowed bus wheels.
Brown eyes question
Beneath a lime-green head band.
He quietly wonders
I answer with a smile.
An artist seals
The dusty beauty with a pencil.
A small crowd gathers
Around a lady with pale skin and eyes.
A fat bee strays
Onto my thousand coloured shawl.
We sit and wait
For the bumpy ride to Pokhara.
*Uneditted and written while we were sitting at the side walk in the small town of Dumre in Nepal @ 11am, waiting 1-2 hrs for the bus that would take us to our next destination.
It danced upon the very air,
Like a puff of silver breeze.
It swirled around my ankles bare,
Like froth within my coffee.
It tickled my nose most teasingly,
Like a feather fluff not there.
It licked my ear so subtly,
Like mist that kiss the wind.
*Always wanted to write a ‘pretty’ poem…so there we go.
Winter’s caress holds no warmth,
Her embrace holds no love.
Her mercy comes in numbing kiss,
That shatters soul and will.
In silent night where fervent prayers chant,
Disguised she comes as a spirit meek.
Only to ravage and devour,
When enchanted you freely weep.
Dawn’s harbinger flits on wings soft and warm,
Having just met the sun in form.
Heralding o’er sleepy land and sea,
Swiftly breaking dream-chains free.
Leaving gentle love trails of gold,
The sun’s own tresses it is told.
Having done his work e’er so subtly,
Dawn comes behind not quite quietly,
On thunderous hoof and frightening move,
In brilliance burn and beauty churn.
Amidst a chorus angelic and pure,
Of every morning bird of yore,
To shake awake all lonesome life,
And shatter the night of endless strife.
Behold the glory that is done,
For Dawn has come.
*Here I imagine dawn as having a harbinger, and the little small things the harbinger has to do to every morning to prepare for the arrival of dawn.
Ah, how it irks me to just pen my poems on paper,
For I see its footprints on mountain stones,
Its charm in valley, field and plain,
And I see its painting in the dawn sky.
Gazing high above I see its weave in clouds,
And by night the stars tell me something entirely different.
Yet a few words can weigh a thousand year old mountain,
And markings of parchment, art for a generation.
So will I continue to leave my mark and signature,
On paper after parchment after book,
In hope that someday someone pondering upon them,
Can see the stars, the sky, a legend.
*Yes, another one as a wood-elvish bard. :)
‘I wish to know of magic,’ I said,
Tongues of flame round me He made.
‘I wish to know of magic,’ I said,
Fine drops of rain to earth they fade.
‘I wish to know of magic,’ I said,
A violent storm heralded His rage,
The gentle wind caressed me in shade,
The brilliant sun burned brightly in red,
The birds’ dawn song in my ear, was played,
The flower fields like a carpet was laid,
The charming war horse looked high and neighed,
The cold blue seas roared on, uncaged,
‘I wish to know of magic,’ I said,
Then understood that for me it’s been made.
*Another one written from the point of a wood-elvish bard.
Listen to me my lovely one,
Sit and listen to my tongue.
Magic frail and gentle, where,
Hanging thinly in the air.
There it lies in the bosom, closed,
Of a rose most finely clothed.
Surrounded by a crown of thorns,
Meant for kings and not for pawns.
For surely pain and beauty intertwine,
Burning hearts like dark red wine,
Burning right and burning wrong,
But surely burning strong.
There it lies to make me sigh,
Behind that shy gleam of your eye.
Behind those deeply purple orbs,
Doing nothing yet it robs.
Shining bright in darkest night,
Where light wakes without a fight,
Twinkling radiantly in burning stars,
With passion stolen from such afar.
I sense frail magic in the air,
Spinning silver strands round there.
Of a web so deceptively thin,
Of a web not quite easily seen.
By one of nature’s very child,
A spider queen both grand and wild.
Her kingdoms formed with fancy laces,
With moonlit threads for palaces.
I smell strong magic in the air,
Burning, crackling, sizzling there.
Dancing wisps of orange flame,
Licking air with no care or shame.
Sparks and sparkles left adrift,
Fading non-existant between rifts.
Ashen glow just a moment seen,
Now unseen has been and never was been.
I sense real magic everywhere,
With eyes shut but still quite there,
Nature’s fingers weave it bare,
For all to kiss and all to care.
*Written while playing a wood-elf bard in carrionfields.com. About real magic lying within nature, and everywhere.
Plip said the rain as it drummed on my pane,
Plop said its echo as it fell down the hole.
Tick said the clock as it watched the rain dock,
Tock it went on to mock the rain’s talk.
Ding said the bell as it dwelled on the wall,
Dong it said lazily as the rain beat on grainily.
Woof said the dog as it lay in the way,
Woof it said, again and again.
Sigh said I as I stare at my ware,
Sigh said I sadly as they went on their medley.
*Wanted to try something I don’t usually do.
The deep bass sounds of horn and horse,
The ancient spirits stir.
The furious pipe of flute and harp,
The hour does draw near.
Of mystic dreams that do be true,
And truth that lies in lies.
Listen to the distant moan as
swiftly it proceeds.
Peer out upon the dismal plains as
Death heralds the age.
The silver strands that wander down
From the moon that hangs on younder skies,
Glisten in its moonlit way
Like fairy dust and stars.
It left behind a magical trail
As morning came on golden hooves,
To exchange for its silver strands
A golden gleam or two.
*An image of night giving way to day.
