i. I should have returned to you this morning, instead of boarding that well lit early morning city bus. How zombie-like with gaunt faces, sleep still heavy in our bones, we made our way to give ourselves to the moil of soulless work.
ii. I should have returned to you this morning, feet echoing through the dank, dark Philadelphia air, where fools and early morning runners seek to stave off dying.
iii. I should have returned to you this morning, raced through the familiar welcoming foyer, the cramped apartment anxious with future days, passed the mire of unpaid bills and sleeping shadows, to where I’d crawl back into the oasis of our bed.
Your skin succulent with the water of roses, the pure mist of innocent mountains, the life giving trees of
iv. Into your arms warm yet fresh with the joys of living to deliver myself…to be twisted into the gentle shapes of madness - all over again.”
I need to find A Turbulent peace. I long to be Away from The machine, Myopic visions, The…smallness of screens. I long to be Outside in the quick pageant of days, Where pink sunsets - Unfiltered & raw, and Trees, Like majestic paupers, now Go a begging.
She was a melange of cigarettes and perfume and illicit men and late nights squeezing life out of intoxicating substances and long morning reckoning showers and how those nights add years though somewhere still in there was a heart like the sun that would slowly creep up on you.
Alone, I am the softly strummed guitar in this pinkest of dusks. There’s poetry in solitude. Beautifully adrift, I taste the wine of the lonesome leaves, the quivering dreams, and set my eyes to dine on the thin sliver of the elegant moon. And ‘fore this darkness bigger than me, I await the pending doom. The night will again make me new.
On this moist morning, when the robust sun is yet to fully open his eyes, the hues of dreams still saturate everything: crocuses, hostas, and ferns; irises, lilacs and marigolds; Yonder bridges graffitied with defiance and love. From this oasis in this hard city you will hear: squealing brakes around the corner. Maybe it’s your bellowing ship; you’re not quite sure…Though How soft and warm and just the right shape to fit in your hands. But Life gifts you what it wants and never ever exactly what you will.
For the past few months I have been constantly harassed across my Twitter, Tumblr, and Wordpress accounts by an obviously delusional person who pops up under various guises that have included ghettoangel, skoobygirl, poemntears, raineygirl99, and now thebitch765.
I do not know this person. However, she contends through a daily barrage of comments to my Wordpress posts that I am somehow the reincarnation of someone with whom she was once involved.
I have blocked her from following my accounts and have reported her to Tumblr and Wordpress for harassment. Other than that I have largely ignored her.
However, she has taken to attacking several people here on Tumblr whom I can only assume she imagines to be involved with me, whether this is from my reblogging or hearting of their posts I do not know.
I apologise to all those whom I may have unwittingly caused the stress of interacting with this person.
Furthermore, I would encourage those attacked by her to block her, promptly report her to Tumblr for harassment, and minimize all interactions with her. Also, I would suggest that should anyone here know her that he/she encourage her to seek psychiatric treatment.
Each key pressed, each note now
Messes with my heart rate so
Blurry visions of home
Of a lush green Neem tree
A white-washed house
And rows and rows of marigold
How we must capture eternity
In a small confined compartment
But make ourselves larger than the whole
Still, so very still, my heart beats now
Shrinking me slowly into
The bulbul in the guava tree
The rain-drops and the honey bee
The undulating waves of the sea
The faded picture of you and me.
I came Upon a hidden pond, where naked my Arches fit perfectly the roundness of the land. The Grass was still wet with the night. From the water, memories and Ghostly mist would rise. Another time. Still the Smoke from harvested canefields drifted all the way there to my eyes.
It was a barely perceptible nod, but in it I saw peace and love to you and yours. I was ashamed, for I wish my own eyes were hands holding unto him flowers or doves or at least the kindness of a mirror.