London Poem: Day 242

16 April

The day was soft with
The light growing steadily,
Green and spacious,
But who forgot the lines
Earth draws as seasons
Decide to change at random?
Little speckles of life
Falling over our eyes,
Splices the crass, ugly
Contours of the world at large.
We are stranded,
No way out,
But warm weather seem to
Help is forget that fact.

London Poem: Day 241

15 April

My ship is a tall beast
With all the bells and
Whistles, watching waters
Part ways for such a
Shining marvel.
Tallest on the block,
They say –
All sun and shine,
Glistening in open waters.
I become the sun, the blank,
Glaring face to wait for
My time to become dirt.

London Poem: Day 240

14 April

Give me the words to
Sound the sound, and then
You’ll find me in the clear.
The sun cuts through,
Little by little,
Growing in rapid bursts
To light the way
To open space.
I know the words, but
Forgot the shape.
The shape is the same
As it’s always been,
But I’m feeble,
Struggling to keep
It all straight.

London Poem: Day 239

13 April

The garden is on fire!
The colours all blend into
One lifeless lump,
Waiting to be renewed.
Fanning life into the lifeless
Is a hopeful gleam of action
That, in the end, the world
At large knows nothing will come from.
The earth weakens and brings
Two ends together without
The words to do it again.

London Poem: Day 238

12 April

When the grass is green,
We call it sand,
Unhappy with the consistency.
There is this, and that
Curling softly so that
We become dissatisfied
Before it is ever seen,
Because that is our nature.
But, ah, nature!
That gracious creature,
What can we say to you,
When at last, we are satisfied.

London Poem: Day 237

11 April

Waiting countless hours
To give our life away.
Not in finality, but
The comfort we had grown
Accustomed to.
Your eyes,
Bright and brim with worry,
Not the slightest bit
Blind to the struggle
Of the oncoming days.
For now, we wait in
The same tawny space
Between what you want,
And what is letting go
Of the certainty of this, that –
It is all just the hopeful
Wish for safety.

London Poem: Day 236

10 April

Last night,
The world falling, fleeting,
They said: No thanks! No good.
The busy pen, crafting large
Swooping symbols, stopping short,
Leaves meaning behind,
Saying, This is not what we’re looking for.
If I could answer back,
How much good would it do
To tell them, Me neither, but
It’s the best that I’ve got
;
Yet, still I wander along,
Words coming, as they do, like events
And action in our lives –
There is no control in these matters.
Because, rarely can I see that
It is happening at all.