Of Sights and Seasons

Of Sights and Seasons_

You tend not to notice until
you find some
places changed… some people missing..
that the skies remain just
as beautiful and whimsical, the clouds
gather and disperse
in astounding formations,
the twilit streets
are still illumined
by more and brighter lights,
the vagrant winds continue
to wander, and trees and branches
show their sway, their leaves
collect their dew
or dance to droplets of sudden rain,
as the city roars to perennial festivities.

 

The tides continue
to turn magnificently, to our
cold comfort,
as petals wither
and children grow to skeletons.

Gates of Maya

Sounds of Rummage

When it comes to making music, I am a beginner, nowhere close to being a professional. The sounds you may find here, have been created with mostly free programs and software available online, since September, 2019, my first month of coming into contact with a musical instrument. To the best of my ability for now, these sounds are meant to convey tales, messages, and distortions from my mind. They’ll definitely not be to the liking of many, and I’m sure many will not even consider these arrangements to be music. Nevertheless, I feel this is the beginning of a journey, and one which I hope to share. As I continue to learn, I will continue to make more music to better express myself with, while sharing my journey with you, if you would like to keep me company along the way.

 

Click here to listen on YouTube.

Echoes of Disquiet

I’m glad that one old man
remembers to take his medicine.
He tends
to speak very little
these days
and the few words that surface,
are sometimes, a solemn source
of sad comfort.
The other day, we happened
to discover
a mutual guilt…
in possibilities of
a few things
we might have done different… to thus,
have deferred the routes
to two abrupt terminals.. of a kindred loss – in
our divergent histories, that
since then… cannot matter.

 

But it is
at times ..unnerving
to know that one is the last
of a particular kind of blood,
and has failed irrevocably..! to protect those
who had always protected him.

 

Therefore,
it remains
to gaze upon reflection
and search for traces
of faces bygone, where one might
imagine reflexively.. for
the dwindling remainder
of the cherished few… as much as for the self:
how the face, the lowered eyelids,
low breathing, tired arms,
restive legs,
the twitching.. in all,
would be rendered
– when devoid
of the animus of consciousness – of the spark of life..
then
left alone for days, to rot..!!

and
in these forsaken hours
of insomnious nightmare..
can one glimpse.. the ruthless truth
of the nature and eventuality of this raw flesh..
can see right through seductive illusions
of presence… and mistakes
of love and hope.

 

 

From Book IV

A Reunion

Pessoa said
that to write
is to forget, and
I didn’t believe him, until
it started to soothe
the burning
of times bygone… which
were now meant for revisiting, at
times in rain, and
among other opiates, words, as tunnels
or doors
to inhumed realities; and
it somehow
was more pleasant
to remember the loved absent…
at the best
of what they were…
until.. a long-lost photograph
of a long-dead, old man,
retrieved the lifeless face
of your father – my friend, our guardian
left almost as in weeping.. from
what I know
was so much left unfinished… but
what now.. impossibly feels.. from
a sorrow grasped
before the living: when
once again, I’m cut wide open.. as

   

you turn
to the mingling of your sources, and
whelmed within their realm of nonbeing,
you appear now, to me, betwixt
the living and motionless figures
of your two grand guardians… poised,
in my mind,
before and diminishing a great darkness!

    

with they,
as now you,
at the most beautiful
of what remains in memory…
with me? left here – behind and alone to envision you all
and suffer
on my own;
never
to say
goodbye.

 

 

From Book IV

Suicidal Deities

grunge

As most
of the Gods of Grunge
keep killing themselves, it’s apparent
that the burdens
of regret and should-have-beens
weigh too heavy on hearts that carry them.
Yet, it doesn’t change
the feeling
that there’s nothing worth keeping
more than the weight of these chains
of being and remaining unchangeably
oneself.

Antisocial Diaries /2/

pexels-photo-220444
It hasn't
been too long
since a time I lived
out of hiding... yet
now witness all wit
slipping surely
and slowly beyond
the reach of my expression, when
I find that I can't be honest, which
stems from an abiding threat
of dire repercussion, were I
to freely speak the mind. This
world, to a great extent, is
built on bloated egocentricities
that hunger most
for further aggrandizement; and 
for a life of liability
and quite limited means, it becomes
a stage
where malcontent
must! be sterilized
by constant inward rehearsals, until
the paranoid self
may deem it safe for permitted discourse.
But it isn't quick, is 
never easy and rarely works out
the way one imagines, and more often
I find it too late
to come back with a
*socially acceptable* retort, as
the violence of my aborted voice
is smothered beneath an agonized reticence.

Antisocial Diaries /3/

pexels-photo-220444

These lights
are rather bright, the
floor carpeted, clean;
the people mostly
young, spry, kempt; the
windows clear, scenery usual,
this white ceiling tiled
and uniformly lit, the air
mild. There
should be no cause
for discomfort. I’m acquainted
with some. They slip in and out
of sight. We speak at times, of
urgent or unnecessary things.
At times, I rise and
wander in unintended search
for something I can’t identify, but find
missing. I push
myself to wonder. I try
and
evaporate in memory. I discern
the inside of
a familiar room,
with all its
known furnishings:
the decked and mirrored
dresser, two towering steel
wardrobes, a high table behind me,
laden bookshelves, the shine from
a floor with hypnotic, fibonacci spirals
etched on each square plate of mosaic,
the red, parted curtains along the many
open windows, and a huge double bed with
enough crawlway for trunks to be stowed
while tiny children played; beside it,
a narrow thoroughfare to a balcony,
where sits
the strong-willed matriarch in her fifties,
soaking the early-morning sun
and sieving grains of rice, while
her husband, a fragile man of care,
kindness, and lighthearted banter, smiles
as he sees me there, when
in the adjacent hall, my
causal pair engage each other
in hearty conversation, and nothing
is or could go
awry. It
must’ve been minutes
of walking without a sense
of time, place, or presence,
until I stopped to gaze about
this bustling metropolis,
with its resplendent sights and glowing people
that never were essential;
…where is that room?
…where are those people?
…are they here somewhere?
…within the walls I now call home?
NO!!
that home
exists no longer!
my people.. breathe too less.
Around me, in this moment,
is no one
and nothing
real.