Places of Love: a full moon night

Scoops I bale to fill the
slices that I fragmented of  love,
empty and dull of color.
You smile as I hold
in my palms the moonlight
that filled the terrace.

Advertisements

Slaughterhouse

“Herbs, trees, cattle, birds, and other animals that have been destroyed for sacrifices are reincarnated in higher existences.”
                                                                                        Manusmriti : Chapter V, 40                                                                                               

The silent jangle of disjointed bones is muted in the breeze over the field of salt where on rainless months grasses grow for the cattle to feed.

There is something to a dead wing of a butterfly that tells stories of forests where sunlight dappled on dry leaves in flight: gold coins bobbing on the breath of the foliage where you grazed in silence.

The marigold is the orange warmth of my heart, but the edges are a little frayed, bleached pale as pearly shells, the folds under the flared nose moist and dipping into that eddy of ivoryness.

The day hangs on a bird’s cry, the time between life and death suspended on the hook of a song; you tear with impatience like a coat filled with wind ready to blow away.

The leaf twitches in the breeze, a bird trills away in the drugged heat of day, as the moon fills into the sadness of your eyes.

You knot yourself into the umbra of existence, ball of fear rolls away as the whites of your eyes take the color of the placid blue sky, painless like a mirror emptied of reflections.

I toss a coin into the river for you, I watch the disc fold in the light like your eyes before they closed the final time, when they rested on the grass field outside my window.

Places of Love: where I hold your name

Dearest, what happens to words that drop between us
like dust to build a hill; the curves and loops of letters that
travel to my throat to stifle me into silence, breathlessness.

I emerge from the lake, clear the algae that fall over my eyes,
but find you have turned away. And the sand has wiped my name:
kisses and caresses went to print my name there in you.

I hold the emptiness in my palms, hollow of words take the
shape of pain. I hold your name in my mouth, roll it in my tongue,
let love soak through my bones as I rebuild you breath by breath.

WWP : Epistle Poem can be philosophical, declarations of love, lessons on morality or lists of errands.

Places of Love: the dark sea

I grope in the depth of my boat
for memories of you – texture of skin,
blemish in neck that breathes. In black silt
I fish grains of stars that glint

in the moon lit night, arc of silver
on my hand is a perfect pearl of pain
probed by your hands minute
after minute. The arching of sky

to meet the sea is enabled by storm
you create in my heart. Wearied
I turn back to the shore, open my fist
and watch star dust sink to the sea bed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photo credit: Jill Kraft

Places of Love: almond blossoms

your eyes turn grey brown
take the colour of the distant hills
rolling away from me in a blue haze,
the smell of almond blossoms soft
wraps me into its milky presence;
a shard of moon I pin to my blouse
and walk my path alone carrying
dust from your feet as my prayer
and travel mate in my journey


 

 

 

 

 

 

Blossoming Almond Branches by Vincent Van Gogh

Places of Love: dusk

In the path dull light mists as a snail’s breath;
I see no further, dig my feet in the warmth

of your love, the slant of your  gaze  on me
wrapping me in quietness of  embrace. Just then

as though hundred heavens have opened
sky is washed  red with sinking sun, garnet

beads of tears prick my eyes as you touch
my silent darkness rimmed in amber light.