Dreams are but a temporary refuge
For they evaporate upon waking
Like the steam from a teacup
When you walk outside
In the middle of January
Fortunately you can always
Make more tea…
All my creative pursuits.
Dreams are but a temporary refuge
For they evaporate upon waking
Like the steam from a teacup
When you walk outside
In the middle of January
Fortunately you can always
Make more tea…
From early in 2016: one of my favorite rhyming poems…
Every night I drift to sleep
As darkness makes me blind
And yet my vision attenuates
With my sharply focused mind
I travel over a thousand miles
To a hostile, forbidding land
The witching hours drag so slowly
Moon lights the evil plan
The hungry mouths, the feral eyes
So dreadful is their gaze
Circle round with deadly purpose
Muscles tighten and I brace
They are confident that I am caught
But I’ve yet to meet my end
With guile and cunning, I make my move
On this my life depends
When I have dodged and feinted
I smell their fetid breath
As I flee into the forest
I escape those jaws of death
It’s only upon awakening
Chilled, yet dripping wet
That I realize the nightmare beasts
Haven’t killed me yet
Time softens all the jagged edges
The lens is hazy, out of focus
Lay the gauze across my recollections
When I remember what became of us…
Promises whispered, drunk on wine
I’d believe your whitewashed lies
And dull deceptions polish to a shine
Trace my lips with your fingers, smile
Make me slave to your obsessions
A naive girl at your mercy
Just another trinket for your collection
Love, a lie, sweetness and agony
Then depart without a warning
Despise myself, knowing I’d forgive you
Empty hours of constant yearning
To start again like something new
When you’d return with total assurance
That I was helpless to resist you
Confident of my acquiescence
You’d break my heart anew
And yet those days, those heady days
Of books and wine and conversation
The nights in your tender arms I’d lay
Then wake in solitude once again…
So I choose the pieces that I want
Tiny fragments, bring me joy
And cast aside those that haunt
When I was your plaything, wicked boy
Image courtesy Indian Express