The weather in Dhaka is cool and lovely, and we savor our jackets and duvets, but meanwhile my loved ones are living through their first Scandinavian winter, and I fear it is something of a grey experience for them.

.

.

Dark afternoons

.

You’re in gloomy afternoons now, huddled in grey,

where everyone looks the same.

Rain doesn’t stop, rain doesn’t start,

when cold is the only color.

.

All identically hurrying now, on ice cobbled paths

towards a mythical spring.

Time doesn’t stop, time doesn’t start,

where grey is the only weather.

.

.

.

In honour of Scottish poet, Robert Burns birthday. One of his many, lively poems:

O my Luve’s like a red, red rose,
That’s newly sprung in June:
O my Luve’s like the melodie,
That’s sweetly play’d in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonie lass,
So deep in luve am I;
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a’ the seas gang dry.

Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi’ the sun;
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o’ life shall run.

And fare-thee-weel, my only Luve!
And fare-thee-weel, a while!
And I will come again, my Luve,
Tho’ ’twere ten thousand mile

Like it or not, the goals we strive for are rarely the final solutions we expect.

.

Through the gate

.

Arrive at final goal, sweating,  

panting – exhilarated.

The strived for moment.

 .

Final barrier closed, but unlocked.

Lean all your weight against

its solid resistance.

 .

First glimmer of light breaks

through splinter slim gap,

opening, cracking apart.

 .

Heart leaps with bright first ray,

dancing particles in sunny light

as gate creaks slowly wide.

 .

Delight and relief flood in,

sweet satisfaction as your gaze

falls on new landscape.

 .

But now you see –

there are three paths,

each with forks and bends,

 .

with potholes,

broken cobble stones,

indecipherable signs.

 .

Unexpectedly you face not a single

smooth path but again a blurred

choice and no map.

 .

.

Today it is one year since I posted my first weekly poem!

Thank you to all those who visit the site, and for all your comments and encouragement, both on site and on Facebook. I have posted 60 poems over the year and kept the commitment I made when I started 12 months ago. Meanwhile the number of daily visitors has gone from 18 per day in February 2013 to 150 per day in January 2014. I don’t know how accurate the count is but the trend is clear, and a great source of encouragement when inspiration is lacking. Thank you for that!

And so, the struggle continues.

Welcome to Year 2!

Walking in the city on winter nights is yet another interesting experience Dhaka has to offer. Behind the blaring, hooting traffic hides a different night.

.

Pause

.

Red lights behind and north,

a pause between thoughts,

 .

night sounds walk on

while engines hooting  fade away.

 .

In the dark eye

bicycles whoosh past,

weary workers, burdened students

exhale, hold,

inhale, the night shift.

Low voices; stars are there

below street lamps,

reflecting in dark water.

 .

Lights turn green, engines

roar and gears shift.

 .

Night cuts to  

bright, blaring action.

 .

.

On this cold and foggy Dhaka morning, at the beginning of a year which makes no promises of easy solutions or diminishing challenges, I renew my resolution to live life fully and to be the best person I can be,

Possibility

.

I’ll live in possibility, where odds are always high,

embrace the opportunities a lively life supplies.

When unfamiliar music starts, I’ll step out on the floor,

not held back by some nameless dread, but ready to explore.

 .

I’ll recognize potential – the spark that wants to glow –

notice seeds in frozen ground that need some warmth to grow.

The apathy that hides a fear of failure can be fought,

we can succeed if we believe without a second thought.

 .

I’ll take responsibility, I’ll not deny or blame –

a misstep is a lesson learned and never cause for shame.

I’ll contribute the best I have; engaging in each task,

the more we give the more we grow; the end is a new start.

 .

I’ll speak out with integrity, I know that words can harm –

my words will build and not tear down, they’ll comfort and they’ll warm.

I’ll cultivate the power of the words that set us free,

in truth, with warmth and clarity, from loving honesty.

 .

My expectations are for good, from life and fate and you –

an optimist still sees the sun when clouds block out the view.

I cultivate a sense of wonder in this world we share,

the path may not be as we plan, but still the path is there.

 .

.

In appreciation of January, and with fondest greetings to the members of the ‘Association for the Appreciation of January’ all over the world. (this poem should be read in ‘rap’ tempo.)

.

Ode to January

.

Let me tell you ‘bout January

First month of the year

When there’s champagne and fireworks

You’ll know that she’s here

That’s January

January

.

Her first day is quite short

‘cause you wake up real late

You chuck out your calendars

And write the wrong date

That’s January

January

.

She likes lots of planning

Sends kids back to school

Kicks out Christmas décor

And sets some new rules

That’s January

January

.

In the North she’s real cool

With snow and grey skies

In the South she’s all hot

With heat waves and flies

That’s January

January

.

Treat her with respect

And a small pinch of fear

If you get her right,

You’ll sure have a good year

That’s January

January

.

.