The winter in my bones has left
the ship has sailed for warmer shores
and scattered far aloft the foams
are stories dear and whispers soft
My city has a lot of different faces
but some say only two-strong seasons’ graces.
we paint glass, wood, steel, ebony facades
and toy so with quartets of visages
I remember why the august said so then
sweet August harks gruff spectres wreathed o’er snow
that what you see may not be what you get
and what you hear can further not be trusted
How do you ascertain whilst you entertain that
song makes you strong – when harmonies are built from the bass and
voices can only wax (not wane)!
How shall I explain how
(do frosts of ages past speak so of fossils?)
music lives within me
when times pass strained an aural invasion – the
March of Tchaikovsky’s Fourth fills rapt perception
or when quietest of days-filled moments brings
the sudden sunbreak of Nessun Dorma
when drizzily petrichor raindrops jazz beats high hat psst clomp
the mind thinks it knows more but it does not what comes of it is
improvisation~ unreachable consciously light-years
away, pretending, one can only hope of the quiet of 4′ 33”
or is that the soundtrack of most, not he [who] is
How do you prove the
eternal undying random jukebox exists now that a child’s
handheld device contains greater volumes oozing aural delights,
decadence – do we,
do I have something left to prove?
The Sky – a shade of sickly grey
the (Crescent) sliver crimson,
the nose of peat and breath of ley
from Mother Earth arisen
Her day-old hatchlings drawn to sea,
Her silver moths to slaughter; flame
consumes Her Primaries angrily –
our silent sinking Grand Old Dame
She screams a crackling frequency
but soft, so i remember
last time in April, May, or June,
this time, (damn me), September
and what lies dank beneath the burnt,
repeated, carbon, chemistry,
and what, indeed, has mankind learnt
from this rekindling history?
A decade and a half, a younger me,
One so naive and silly,
Thought hard of voting for my chairman
from a candidate pool of one
chosen by my instructor-in-charge –
I thought it was great fun.
A decade, a teenager me,
finding my place in JC
Told to vote for my chairman
by my deskmate, (a desk has two)
One year hence another asked (the air)
“why did I vote for you?”
Then half a decade hence, and I
remember May nights chocolate skies
Torn between the exams of the day
and sentiments of night.
Why did I have to decide
against something that was my right?
Now there lays just half a day
till, for Parliament, I’ll have a say
Taken to task for choosing fair
for jobs, for roads, for covered walkways new.
Do I have the answer now,
to my forebears, fellows – to my heirs?