Posted in Originals, Poetry, Reflections

Keep Standing Keep Fighting | A Poem for the Warrior Soul

There will be another chance, another battle,

when you can claim back your war.

There were battles where you performed so good.

There were battles you slayed the enemy.

And then there were those where you were slain

down to pieces, even if with the swords of love.

Even if with swords of misty, cloudy, confusing but still,

love. There will be another day, another battle for you to slay.

Keep standing. Keep fighting. Keep working on who you want to be

after those battles have been won. After the war has been won.

Keep standing. Keep fighting.

~

Thursday Thoughts

Posted in Artists, Originals, Poetry, Reflections

It’s My Life(BonJovi) and I am taking it back | A Poem

I wriggled I gurgled I ached in pain

Pain of seeing such beauty around me

And realizing why did I not see it earlier

Or why did it hid itself from me for so long

It was a painful celebration, of the delay

The delay in the arrival, arrival of wisdom

Arrival of love, of beauty.

And I danced. I shrieked in pleasure

From the bottom of my guts

Where for a very long time,

Lay only an aching dragon, wilted

There was now a gushing stream of fresh water.

Impure with all the mirth of my body

Opaque with the mud it was cleansing out

Yes, my art was dirty and imperfect

And that was all you could see, all you saw

It never occurred to you that the stream of water

Was my monumental achievement, my bare soul

You called it ordinary, You called it mediocre

I don’t know what you meant when you said it

What emotions flowed between your lines

But I enslaved myself to your words

I stopped making art. I stopped committing the crime

Of being ordinary. Of being mediocre.

No longer want to be a criminal

No longer can stnad being one. So I gave up.

Quietly. Disgruntlingly. Insidiously. Invisibly.

*

As underteen girls, me and my sisters,

used to climb the garden swing.

And with all the force of our young bodies,

And coordination of our young minds

Pushed it up to the maximum heights

The swing could reach with us aboard.

And then, we would shriek at the top of our voices

‘It’s my life

And it’s now or never

I ain’t gonna live forever

I just wanna live while I am alive

Coz It’s my life

My heart is like an open highway

Like Frankie said I did it my way

I just wanna live while I am alive

Coz It’s. My. Life.’

*

Jon Bon Jovi was the original

But we were the artists in that moment

We were the channels of the spirit that flowed

Through that inspired piece of poetry.

We were the loud speakers that delivered

Those words of wisdom for the world to listen

Even if that world consisted of

The rainy end of summer clouds

The dried tree across the boundary wall

A black crow perched on top of its highest branch

And the endless ether suspended between us

And the whole universe.

We were Gods in those moments.

We were wild and free streams

We were art. We were creating art.

We were living art. We were being art.

*

I now know it is a crime to think

Those girls were not artists in that moment

I know it is a crime to strangle their impulses

To imagine, to imbibe and to regurgitate their beloved art

In the name of practicality and sensibility

And you know what I think is the real crime?

To fear creation, to fear flowing along side my muses

Out of fear of offending you, of living a life below your standards?

It’s My Life and this is me taking my Life back.

 

~MondayMornings~

Posted in Originals, Poetry, Reflections

Your Grey Memories 

D’you see the grey ring, my love 

It’s how I cherish your memory

A grey circle of your voice 

Conjuring on my screen 

With every word you utter 

Just’s my heart skips a beat

Listening to your bleeding heart

Fr’m behind your 70ft walls

Booze attendin’ to your demons

And freein’ your soul for me

The grey circle is your soul

Reachin’ out for its love

And it’s me, oh it’s me indeed 

The one yo’r heart rushes to

No matt’r how, no matt’r what

.

.

New stories monday thursday 

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Posted in Artists, Originals, Poetry, Reflections

i want to celebrate this mourning | back to black | amy winehouse

I want to celebrate this mourning.

I want to do something for the fallen ruins that my life has become.

I want to dance around in its broken halls.

Feel the stone reverberating with the rhythm of my beat.

I want to bleed on its dusty floors.

Remember all the mistakes I made during my stay here.

One last time.

I want to celebrate this mourning.

I want to stand on the hill top staring down the dying Sun.

I want to go blind in the fierce flames as it reaches its end.

Feel the heat in the air seep into my lungs.

Then empty my lungs in a beautiful whirlwind against the twilight.

One last time.

I want to celebrate this mourning.

I want take a last cycle ride around the broken walls.

I want to exhaust my dying heart and test theri capacity to the full.

Allowing it to collapse in style and a motherfuckitude.

I want to sweat my wrinkled skin to the point it chokes in the saltwater

Remembering the old lesson that life is death and death is life.

One last time.

~

New stories – Monday Thursday

I promise to keep up this time

Posted in Poetry, Reflections

i began writing to capture

i began writing to capture.

to capture thoughts of other worlds

that showed themselves to me in quietude

to capture emotions wrapped in my skin

trapped between layers of cells released in tears

to capture uncontrollable waters gushing out

from the folds of my bones as experienced eternity

to capture dripping blood that fell uninterrupted

drop by drop, from wounds unseen in my soul

to capture the demon of fear that lurked 

beneath a sheet with a hole in it, abiding its time to attack

to capture everything that the world told me 

was absolutely full of shit and of no use to it

for the world has learnt its ways of moving on

from heartbreaks and bleeding and crushed dreams

it does not need the comfortable quilt of signs and lines

to become words to become emotions to become its tears

it goes on. it moves on. it lives on. 

and i am left behind with a choice

with the world or without the world.

~

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Posted in Originals, Poetry, Reflections, Travel Stories

man is such an ambitious heart!

man is such an ambitious heart

a wild dreamer and then 

a wilder hustler

we could be getting it in inheritance

across millions of years creative labour

handed down across all fields

sex is not the right word for 

the most primal human nature

creation is, the will to pass on

to carry forward, to take the baton ahead

continue the journey whose 

beginning we never saw

nor end would we see

all we have is a baton and

the thrill of running ahead with it

to next level to next generation to next mountain

~

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Posted in Originals, Poetry, Reflections, Travel Stories

to the brave wanderer

out in the open waters where you tasted freedom cast ephemeral shadows under the sun painted your own paintings with the hue

you also lost some of your own colour in the nights of the journey and the bumps of rough waves 

when it was time to return to the shore you looked back in despair for having achieved nothing but loss on this journey 

loss of dreams because it never turns out as you plan 

loss of love because you know you will leave the waters behind

loss of freedom because rest is also necessary 

and finally loss of those paintings you made with your shadows beneath the sun 

after all they were paintings on water what were you expecting | go on row ahead row back to solid grounds and saltless waters 

lie down after a hearty meal to look up at the stars 

fall asleep to counting them and dream dream dream again of these waters 

dream again of my vast uncertain chaos 

dream again of chartering another course down my dark waters 

dream again of a new adventure a new treasure a new love 

dream again of me

~

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