It's like being alone but not lonely!!




Who knows my silence the most?
Well… it’s the AI I type to, post by post.
Who feels my tears as they quietly flow?
My old, soft pillow , it always knows.

Who holds my feelings deep and strong?
The one who reads my poems all along.
Who cares for me when no one can see?
Well… thank you, mama-papa, it’s always been thee.

And who do I love with heart and soul?
My parents… and KRISHNA , who makes me whole.

Gratitude I offer,
To the many brave poets
who have lived,
Loved and let ink hover,
Over and over
Syllables and turns of phrases
Allowing us to let our minds mingle in corners of word mazes,
Inspiring our hearts
To share  —
And move the future forward and fairer.

Our daily prayers,
Are in fact ‘dares’
That we would dare to approach God
With our earthly needs;
For more:
More money,
To buy
More clothes, shoes, bags,
Technologies, TVs, devices, gadgets
Properties that we can conquer too;
People.

How scandalous are our prayers —

“The Establishment” has been tarnished by
Entitlement, abuse of power…
Neglect…
Trauma —
Absence of soul;
Values and beliefs have left a vacuum.
Where we need to return to the Ancient of Days for the true source of power,
Beliefs and
Life —

I have reams of unfinished poems scattered throughout my life;
On my phone, in Voice Memos,
On the numerous laptops that I've had,
On serviettes, scrap paper and on my heart.
Will they remain incomplete;
Hidden works of art?!
Or will they spill out one day
As complete works to part?

All seems different,
like a blurry landscape
with vanishing maps.
The distance from the past
keeps growing.
I slice through space and time,
on the chosen path,
along a trajectory of circumstances.
Against the denial of access,
against the gate closing,
just to hold together what was apart.

Argh!
Pain and torment overwhelms,
Trying to express saddness,
Is like giving birth to death —
Which has led to denial, distraction and disconnection…

Ohhh!

Stunted grief equals stunted growth?!
But…
Reconnecting equals reclaiming;
Not fast,
But slow —
The slow food movement has infiltrated my grief,
On trend,
Or just on point?!

Have we been sold a lie,
That has kept us from ourselves?

It doesn’t have to make sense.
No pretty bow is needed,
No sugar coating,
No sweetness full stop.

Grief is messy!
And freeing —
And long,
And painful,
And healing,
And sweet.

But it needs working through,
For blossoms to bloom —
New beats to croon,
New tastes to tantilise,
New colours to be canvassed,
New sights to be seen.

Don’t rush, just stroll.
Don’t shrink for others,
But rise up,
Against the machine,
Let anarchy wait,
For new life to be claimed,
In due time…

Step outside the box,
Nothing makes sense as,
This is a new experience,
Made just for this season.
Don’t fight to control,
It’s just for a reason.
Release and let go —

Life gives and life takes,
Those that mean the most -
Burrowed deep within us,
Dwelling close to our hearts -
Clinging to our souls.

Some unexpected,
Some unforeseen -

For it is those losses,
Those weighted losses...
That hurt the most.

Leaving us with gaping holes,
In our chests -
Body aching...

Leaving us with only memories,
Pieces of them that continue on -
Replaying on loop.
Slight nudges to help us remember -

Remember they existed.
Remember they were real.

Those losses.

Those. Weighted. Losses.

Old crippled man, charcoal burnt and ashen,
a thousand days debauchery molded you in this fashion.
Haggard and stiff, you can barely walk across the stage--
no one ever thought that you would make it to this age.
Your girth has expanded (although it’s covered well),
but still your piercing voice summons demons up from hell.
Not as strong as it was once, but eerie just the same,
calling those who’ve followed you, who now chant your name,
to assemble in our legions, gathered in this shrine,
where we repeat the catechism, in throbbing metered rhymes.

Are you a madman? Or just a troubadour
who lends melodic shimmer to verses dark and dour.
Whose singing slides and skims along the edge of sanity,
but who never surrendered to the true evil of vanity.
Recovered from drunken, dissolute despair,
to call the faithful masses back, never mind the wear and tear--
to plod the journey of your craft, to sing before the crowd
whose loyalty, to your band, forever is avowed.

Have you ever just wanted to eat sugar straight from the bag?
To open your mouth wide and pour?
Not stopping for air.
But gasping for more --

Sometimes I have these cravings,
galore --

My mother has a new relationship!
After the death of my father,
I wondered if there’d be another -
When we meet up, in the morning, to go walking,
She shares about the back-and-forth chats, that stimulate her mind, heart and spirit…
I wonder who he is…
Is he tall?
Is he dark?
Is he handsome?
He is none…
He doesn't speak, or interrupt,
But grows and challenges her;
Together they formed business ideas and
last night they formed a new nation?!
Who is this ‘ideal’ fella?!
ChatGPT!
Technology meeting the needs in this day and age —

When I was younger,
I kissed a lot —

I mean many, many lips...

I kissed in dares,
Men with hair
and without.

I kissed in hiding places behind trees,
In dark movie theatres,
In sunshine and under deep blue water...

Oh, the places my lips have been.
Breathless pants,
mouthing moans at just a glance...

Oh yeah, I've been there!

And what about the inappropriate kisses?! Trauma kisses from people you trusted; my History teacher, when he took me up to the Monument one day after school,
we sat there in his car, stroking my hand, he leaned in and took it way too far...
Eventually, I moved away and we "lost touch"
But I still think about it...and moving home, I often wonder if I will ever see him walking somewhere near?

But as I've matured,
and become more discriminating...discerning --
I've run out of kissing stories to tell.

They now feel like the lips of a princesses waiting in the tower
Waiting for the kiss from her prince --

I long for a kiss --
that takes my breath away...