This week’s poem about those odd moments when nature shakes you, you find yourself for a few moments in an elevated state and you realize you spend far too much time not fully awake.

Awake

I woke walking the park, just before dark.
Light was golden on treetops,
every leaf alive and clear,
uniquely formed in silhouette.
One moment I cannot forget.

On worn tiles radiating fading day
my steps echoed each heartbeat.
A single breath could fill my chest.
I felt communion with the breeze,
heard a bird scratch fallen leaves.

Later, in traffic, I feel asleep
wandering home through lifeless streets.

Dhaka 2015

Reflections

Nothing clear in drying pond,
light patterns shattered to chaos
by ebb and sway, long drowned debris
emerging as images soak silent away,
searching for inspiration.

Life settles wriggling in muddy sediment,
numb sentiment waiting for rain’s
rivulets to flow, sated seeds to burst.
Below dull surface seek to find
germs sprout, dreams grow.

Dhaka 2015

A mix of rain and wind and waking up, happy from half-forgotten, fast-fading dreams.

Rain dreams

Strong wind,
rain sweeps our city at night.
Dreams sweeping muddled minds.
Forgotten sight,
fading sounds, smells,
but a clearing away of debris,
a sense of something
fresh in the air.
Torn green,
broken pots amongst glistening leaves.
Blue sky greets morning.

Dhaka 2015

This week’s poem, inspired by recent dubious judgements on my part.

Superwoman

Here comes Superwoman,
dressed in cloak and tights,
knocking down those barriers,
fighting for your right
to rise up, early every morning,
shouting from great heights.

See you watch me, skeptical,
rolling eyes show whites,
in the end I better let you
fight your chosen fights.

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Dhaka 2015

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This week’s poem grasping for the strange feeling of waking up in dark night after traveling and having no idea where you are.

Night

Opening eyelids marks no change,
and I can’t remember
which way to the bathroom.
Total blackness. How did I get here,
where is the door?
Ask silence, am I alone here?
In blankness search for trails to follow
back to where I am.
To who I am.
And I can’t remember my name.

Dhaka 2015

This week’s poem inspired by a recent reunion with my four siblings for the first time in twenty years.

Sibling oenology

Not only wine grows more complex with age,
more defined, sharper,
astringent and dry.

Not only wine develops spirit and depth,
more intoxicating, balanced
quirky, unique.

Not only wine brings on reminiscing,
renews memories,
rejuvenates pasts.

Not only wine, lovely wine –
but it helps.

Denmark 2015

Waking

Reaching out to wake you,
gently shake you
from subterranean depth.
Somewhere distant you fling
sweat damp limbs,
twisted in tying sheets.
Restless head thrown hard back,
on bunched,
punched pillow.

Did I try too hard, demand too little,
expect too much?

So much I didn’t know.
I only wanted to give you
an extraordinary life.

Denmark 2015

This week’s poem, a message for all those walkers and joggers who fill their ears with music instead of listening to the morning.

Just listen

Turn it off and hear birds sing,
bat wings cling
wrap around
sounds of morning.

Beyond dewy hedge life rattling past
on bicycle wheels,
floating
slices of conversation.

Whispering of leaves,
breezed through foliage
drifting under
crunching steps.

Shy birds chirp
in shifting shadows.
Crows arguing,
over some intriguing thing.

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Dhaka 2015

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Knowing myself,
Growing myself,
From inside, in.

Dark golden core,
Discover, explore,
From inside, in.

Dhaka 2015

This week’s poem inspired by memories of a time that, like all times, has disappeared – and a place, that disappeared along with the truth that sustained it for a while.

At the time

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Seemed correct at the time,
important, organically true.
Unquestionable fantasy facts
on sharp metallic threats.

Seemed wisest to believe
self-righteous statements.
Anchor our importance,
clarify our sanctified position.

A place,
a time,
a truth
that disappeared.

Remember, we were young
and mostly innocent.
The world was scary –
they said they’d keep us safe.

Terror tales that might be true.
Power seemed unshakable,
unbreakable authority,
lies purest white.

“Follow our rules, you’ll be fine.”

Should have laughed scorn in stern faces,
questioned their unraveling logic.
Instead, before we fled,
we feebly flailing, clinging on
to sinking systems.

A place,
a time,
a truth
that disappeared.

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Dhaka 2015

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