An incomplete poem

I waited for you,
in the eerie midnight -
Stretching my arms
Unto the ephemeral dreams.

I waited for you
In the seconds,
of sickness and intensity
and i sweat to the freezing winds.

I waited for you
In my damaged poem,
Where words stammered
for uneven breaths.

I waited for you
Beside the moon,
with other lone stars.
But
it outflowed me
cimmerian light and then left.

I waited, and prayed for you
to come and look at me
the clock stopped,
phone yawned.

But still,
I waited for you
With my yearning eyes
that cease to gleam.

I waited for you
Standing by the alphabets.
Making secret anagrams.

I waited for you
While my poem turned to wine,
vains to icy coils and
night to frozen coffee.

I waited for dreams,
and for you.
an Azan answered my
both questions.

I waited for you,
your words and chuckles.
but
the foggy morning
and sleepy eyes
asked me to hear
the ending lines of my poem.
But still,

I am waiting for you
In the midst of
these saffron and sandalwood trees,
in my weird dream.
listening to this bird
singing gazals of tranquility.

and I keep waiting
only for you.

Paper wings

There are times when
I think it would be best
To fold away these paper wings
To abandon the words
I used to give so easily So freely,like the smile of a child
There are times when
my feathers fall like dirty snow
Marred by my thoughts and tears and tainted blood
Torn by my failures
shortcomings Plucked away and stolen by hurtful, petty things
There are times when
I do not see beauty
My eyes close, and I,
ignorant and selfish
Forget to feel joy
at the miracle of sunlight on
my skin cease to exult
in the glory of my tiny existence.
There are times when
I think it would be best
To fold away these paper wings But I always spread them wide
again, remembering with love
The sweet freedom of my flight.

Estranged dreams

Sometimes you're just there,
waiting.
Sometimes you're not.
But searching for you
makes me realise
how often the latter is the case.

You hold the key to my failings,
the source of my creation, and
guard it zealously.

Inspired, I scrawl a note,
ecstatic.
Only to lose it.
Finding it months later,
giving me the impetus to begin gain, to try once more,
Your fleeting visit marked
only by a keen few,
trolling the tubes,
abed in a storm.

Then, you leave for good.
Only to be replaced.
Your double,
however antipodious,
my Muse ,
the Vandrich corporeal.
Pouring into me
with that which you bring so infrequently, so irregularly.

Then, all too soon, she leaves. Bounding away forever.
A thousand pieces lay unfinished in my storage box of a mind.
The pitiful excuse for an artist, what I'd like to be,
but could never achieve.
I watch some come and go.
And I wish they were you.
But I should know you better, since you stayed with me
for so many lives.
Only to desert me
when I finally realised it was you I'd been searching for.
If that takes some
chloroform or a handgun,
what am I to do?
It may be uncreative,
but how else can I be
without you?

Day

each day
is a dare
fluid descent to solid
base
perpetual horizon
unattainable
unavoidable
balance of hope and sustenance.

Summer Snapshots

i can't stop
stepping into pictures
other sentences of abridgment,
captured moving serenity,
passing on,
passing along an answer.
birth. honest life.
passion, renewal.
one true grade
on the scale of green- grey-
late-summer- blue
and hints thrown in
childlike tautologies
what is a corner i can squirm to:
disbelief?
suspension of intelligence? thievery?
Or sarcastic imagery ?
or simply thriving
in fashion capitalism
and backyard alliances.
entire rolling infinity
glitter, bound & away
to bonding snapshot surfaces
again & again,
like order or breath. .

For the Sonneteer

to celebrate a poet is an invitation into imagination introspection, reinvention changed/charged perception to celebrate a poet is to light a beacon for the demonstrator or downtrodden to find and be led to places where that small voice declaring ones calling can be answered 'yes, i am coming' and 'with confidence' to celebrate a poet, says to a weary world 'rest, read, reach into the vast reserves of the universe. find, if only for a moment, the peace of letting go, of looking through another's eyes, of knowing from the poet's pen and, the reader's voice something new is created'.

Transfigurations

one climbing uphill
may notice
transformation of water.
from liquid to lace,
lace to blanket.
blanket to base,
where oxygen
in small simple steps
seeks a shadow connection,
chases history
high onto memory's plain of constant combustion.

one climbing uphill
may consider floating-
perspective of earth
passing to exact placement
for pursuer.

Understanding Magnitude and Intensity

I watch
the lightbulb pop
imagine the darkness darker,
the furniture still waiting for me
to move amongst the moment.
the silhouetted image
burned in memory
slowly fades.
I navigate to the bed
by rote strip naked,
lay down,
think of the world
before the light went out.
The world before intensity
and darkness called me to wait alone.
for the morning to reveal
inaccuracy of my dreams.