I’ve spent a lot of time on this side of my island,
building my mirror mazes, my mirror boxes
and my mirror tunnels, and it’s just me,
walking into myself, looking at myself,
tripping over myself. It’s just me,
consuming myself in myself, just me,
multiplying myself until I cannot bear myself anymore.
It’s just me, at angles, again and again
and all I can hear there is myself.

I’ve spent a lot of time on those beaches,
lying face down in the sand,
filling myself up to feel something, to fill something,
and then I’ve half choked and washed it away with salt water.
I’ve spent hours trailing my fingers over the erosion.
I’ve spent hours searching for the ******* washed up on the beach.
I’ve spent hours lying back on the scratchy sand,
waiting for nothing to happen.

I’ve spent a lot of time breathing in the grey while
watching the murky ocean storm and spit.
I’ve waded into the waves and let the cold numb me
and I’ve made my home there and it’s not easy then
to get back on the shore. I’ve spent too long in the sea
and now I’m cold through and I want to be colder.
I spend my days crawling back to the mirror maze,
to run into myself and myself and myself, and I know,
I know, I know, it’s bad, but I feel safer here, with
the puddles I’ve made, the mirrors I’ve put up
and the cardboard cut out I’ve got used to.

But maybe, maybe sometimes, I ought to go
to the other side of my island. The side with the promenade
and the sea so clear I can see the rocks beneath it.
Maybe, I ought to go for walks in that end of day calm,
when the purple, orange air  stretches across the waves
and the sky and is so easy to breathe in.
Maybe, I ought to spend more time there, walking until
my chest feels so full that I have to stop and sit.
Maybe, I ought to spend more time sitting and listening
to the gentle sounds of that clear, purple sea,
until I feel happiness on my cheeks, in my ears, in my chest.

And I know, I know I’ll go back to the mirror maze,
I’ll climb back inside the mirror box and go back
to watching the grey stormy sea. I know I can’t make my home
in the purple yet, but maybe, maybe I can try visiting a little more often.

Into all this absurdism
I find myself wondering
Why I´m trying to understand
The non-existence of everything?

Watching some clouds
Empty spaces
By the light of the moon
Writing nonsense words

Mindfuck mind
Wake up and make a peep
Drop words between the lines
Why am I still here?

Strange ideas in my head
Writing my blues
Nice ride above us
Still showing more clues

Taking a walk on my deep side
Enjoying this ride
Psychedelic intercessions
Still open my mind wide

Nothing is enough
I can´t decide
Feelings and lines rough
What I wanna write

Looking for the meaning of nothing
Tasting more wine
Am I losing my senses?
It is Braking my mind

Seeking for a spiritual meaning
Waiting for sign of divine
Seeing my mind shining
Lost and blind

Falling in the middle of words
Deeply vibrant sense
Meaning of nothing
Suspension without suspense

Height intense
Verses are meaningless
Looking for the meaning of nothing
Again it makes a little zero sense

Absence of nothing
Full of everything
Who I supposed to be
While I´m writing here

Absence of pain as a joy
Trading on ambiguity
Absence of a nonentity
Still a proper entity

Absence of darkness as a light
Darkness or absence insight
(Un)consciousness always fight
Nonexistence invites

Absence of existence as a non-existence
Unicorns don't exist
A square circle essence
Dangerous mental twist

Absence of unreality as a reality
Into an absolute nothingness
In any universe timeline
An insane tragedy

Absence of demolition as a building
Existence is not a negation of negatives
Feeling absolutely nothing
Sharing words as a sedative

It's true I think of most men
having life a dream

It's true the life of many men
seems to be a dream

It's true to say few find it
no matter how they scheme

don't aim too high to start with
but keep the dream in sight

Start low and work up to it
a satisfying fight

My friend failed the appointment
and I had this man beside me
with untimely heavy woolen
peering into the condensed haze
of that October evening.

Being alone is scary,
the hoarse voice melted the silence
and being alive sometimes scarier
than not being,

he paused as if
the words had drained him

when you hope it the most
and none turns up
to feel and fill you.

The fog had almost devoured the halogen
leaving me only with the voice.

It's uneasy, I spoke at last,
isn't it weird to be talking
without being seen?

Not in the least,
his laughter rattled the slumberous air
the world long turned away its face
from the face beside you.

...kites, roses and apple pie
(A repost from 2014...edited)


In life, in deeds,
You have been, still are, courageous
In your words, in your creeds,
I say you are all so sweet,
Infectious,
You all are contagious!
Just a single line of your words
Would surely, quickly be re-quoted.
You are exemplary in
Whatever you say or do...

Enlightened are those with furrowed brows
Upon reading your works,
Commendations,
And acclamations
Bothered by ideas and words
So foreign and difficult...
Clarifications,
simple explanations
Readily are provided...
One need not ask...

Like well respected, learned leaders,
Actions, words are emulated.
You are sweet...
You are infectious...
You are contagious!

If you were colorful kites,
Soaring up the blue skies
You would have so many tails
Hanging, trailing behind you...
Here in our world
Your followers  are like ants
Trailing your footsteps...
Never straying, not at all waning,
But multiplying.....

In a bed of roses,
Bees, birds and butterflies
Would never stop fussing
Endlessly buzzing
From up above, and all around you...
Taking all their needs,
Not forgetting themselves to feed,
To recreate, from your seeds
these, they are bound to heed...

Now,  
If you were a plate of fresh,
Yummy and crusty apple pie,
With a scoop of ice cream on top..
Oh me, oh, my....
I may not forget these three men,
But....I am bound to starve...
Pardon me, but...
Surely, I would be oblivious
The first one to be ravenous
To the point of being outrageous
Can't stop...can't wait...
This is my moment:
As long as I have a mug of hot brewed coffee
I shall take my time...
I won't feel choked,
Won't even be thirsty...
Voraciously, I would finish the whole plate off...
Til crust and crumbs fill me with too much stuff...

::::::::::::

For the Triumvirate of Bala, Nat and Pradip...

in alphabetical order, no one comes first or last... for these three are
      all soaring high in their respective styles of poetry...

there are many others worth mentioning, a plethora of names and styles, in fact...
    


Sally

Copyright 2014
rrab