Tchaikovsky’s outrageous cannons

Bring forth a stir as groundbreaking

as Tchaikovsky’s outrageous cannons

this straight line needs a curve - or sharp turn

few birds in flight keep it that way for long

for fear is a stranger and daring is life

bring forth a stirring, I say

it's no use being lifeless while living

the eye casts upon the familiar no more

and the spirit yearns for a twist.

Picture credit: Freestockphotos.biz

You Wouldn't Listen to a Madman

You wouldn’t listen to a madman

With a shrill outburst, powerful

And sudden, like a flurry of crow wings

And voice just as loud, burying

The silence of rummage, escaping

The grime of earth, and seized

In a solitary moment.

What do you know about truth?

Nay, let us speak of friendship

And the portly mother hen,

Poking mother earth, finding truth,

And lie, truth, and lie. How, my friend,

Would you know, when we sit

And laugh and cheer without end?

What if, in mindless merry’s midst, I say

You will ignore a call, forget a text,

And look away from me, one day?

Look at the madman’s finger, jabbing

At a shattered promise, like a mournful

Crow’s beak, splitting the pretentious air;

Listen, for something troubles him.

Picture credit: wbur.org

Why am I awake?

Something moved outside. He felt rather than heard it.

Couldn’t be the pre-dawn chill—it’s mostly hot in Garissa—

but he felt cold. He peered through the windowpane,

at dry and dusty terrain. Could it be the Muslims,

up early for the Morning Prayer?

He caught the moon full with a sleepy eye.

Why am I awake? Good Friday service starts in four hours.

It’s the long weekend—plenty of time to study.

A bed creaked, hostel night silence broken—

someone turning in slumber. Why am I awake?

He didn’t know.

I should have gone home, came back Monday. Seen family.

Why am I cold? He pulled the covers.

He had called his girl before he slept. Always a warm feeling—

He wished he could call her now.

Her voice alone would keep him warm.

A muffled shout, a sharp rattle, a dull thud.

What was that?

Shock pushed him into forward, jerky starts.

Moving in his halo of cold, he bumped into his starting mates,

eyes wide, bewildered, afraid.

Why am I cold? Screams made his halo colder.

It’s freezing in here. Rattles again, and shouts—louder this time.

A name of God.

Windowpanes shattered. The air outside was forbidding,

hugging his halo, thin over his bare skin,

his boxer shorts a light flutter in portending breeze.

In an eon moment, he understood. But, why?

He froze at the horror of death,

twistedly coming in the name of God.

In the Midst of Early Spring

In the midst of early spring,
Of less rain and more sun,
And bright beams of new fun,
Fervently he hopes it's not a fling,
Short as summer's gay and joy,
With its blushes and smiles coy.

He relishes the fresh gush of spring air
Rushing down his eager chest
Heaved high up to catch it best,
The relief almost too sweet to bear:
Perhaps the wait is over now,
And no more can he wipe his brow?

The promise of summer is nigh,
But summer comes and goes,
And maybe this will too, who knows?
Yet from his depths escapes a sigh:
May the summer she brings be long
And full of coy and blush and sweet song.

For he sees the summer in her eyes and smile -
Bright and sweet as the spring bloom of flower -
That bring upon him many a fine hour
And a deeply ponderous sigh once in a while;
He sees it in her spirit pure and free
That inspires his upon God to make a new plea.

He now sings the song in his heart
That a promise and a poignant hope come true,
Of a lifelong happy summer for two,
To make the journey and never part:
This he sings as a smitten songbird would sing
In the midst of early spring.

Picture credit: sdakotabirds.com

He wants to tell someone

He wants to tell someone. Instead, he’s distracted

by yellow weaverbirds delighting him in his front yard

singing sweet, soothing songs. A speck falls on

a page of a book in hand. He notices not

which world he gets lost in—shifting between a timeless

one to another—wistful and alone. He catches the detail

of a falling leaf, wafting, weightless; the sway of the breeze,

rustling, whistling; the yellow of the sun, shining, reflecting.

He feels odd. Perhaps it’s a character on the page,

or a twist in the plot—maybe in his life too. A swelling feeling,

a stirring within, and goose bumps on skin: such

is the beauty he sees, of a weaverbird nibbling at bread, and

of deep green grass, suggesting a depth—he imagines

of his feeling. A sigh. He sees more than he would like—

a disquiet in the quiet, an unsettling simplicity, a flashback

and a longing for a life past: a reassuring comfort,

a knowing, now taken away;

a large presence, a has been and an always will be,

a father, but now not here.

Picture Credit: Down a dusty lane

Waiting

Patience conspires with time—

A ponderous constant, a found-here

To-be-left-here, unseen but felt—

And forces upon us a lifetime of waiting:

For a lunch order, the train, the bus, a flight;

Or a service—a document from Home Affairs,

A love to be returned, a pain to ease,

A wound to heal; perhaps for the sun to set

To relish its delight, or the dawn to rise

To hearken upon a birdsong; we wait

For the summer to revel in gaiety,

Or for the winter to create different memories;

For a war to end, an answered prayer,

Perhaps for times to change—

A hope to be realized, an ambition fulfilled,

Or a penny to drop in the bowl—we wait

In haste, banal bore, or suspense;

In anguish, or palpitating excitement

With a fuss, or not a care at all

In stark awareness, or sweet oblivion;

Gazing upon stars and blue horizons

Pondering over vast spaces, wondering why:

We wait upon life itself.

Picture credit: Etsy.com