Poem #005: Man and Wife.

Proverbs 30: 18-19

“There are four things that are too mysterious for me to understand: an eagle flying in the sky, a snake moving on a rock, a ship finding it’s way over the sea, and a man and a woman falling in love.”

                Man and Wife.

He knows. Despite the inscrutable expression on her face, he knows.

She screams at the mess the children have made, and asks why were they born to her.

He watches her struggle and grapple with raising them. The frustration rises in her body and she fights to keep it from erupting.

He shoos the children off. Mamma is in a bad mood, he says. Scram!

The children are the sweet secret they share. 

She throws him a look of scornful thanks. Small mercy, she says.

He bites his tongue. 

He has loved her since the moment he set eyes on her. He cannot explain how that has been. 

She had appeared to him as the sweet cold rain after a spell of dry weather. 

His lonely bachelor existence ended with her reign.

If she laughed, his heart soared on eagle’s wings. If she wept, he looked away, troubled. 

The condition of her heart was mirrored in his soul.

What is it, he asks. What’s bothering you. No matter how entwined they seem, sometimes they are turned into complete strangers.

She scowls. I wish I knew, she says. 

There is an emptiness she complains of. An emptiness only he knows. The children, the work, friends, and family, nothing satisfies. Even his love falls short. 

She glances at him guiltily. You think I’m ungrateful, she asks. 

No, he says. Many times he has felt the same way too, so he knows what she means. 

The void they have experienced takes up a different shape. 

Suddenly the sorrow lifts from her brow, and she laughs. He feels reassured. 

What if I was a bird, she asks, free to leave when I liked? What would you do?

I would go with you, he says.

She gazes into his eyes and wonders how the thought of being separated from him could even occur to her. 

Slowly she reaches out for his hand. 

It’s not that, she moans, I can’t explain it. Have you never felt like there was more to life than this?

He shakes his head. Every time I think like that, I tell myself that you and the kids are all I have, and I should be content.

She nods assent. But he knows she is still troubled.

Could there be a greater love, a deeper, more stronger attachment? A love which could actually quench their thirst?

He puts his arm around her and draws her near to him. She wipes the few stray tears away from her eyes and wishes the loneliness would flee from her. I’m sorry, she mumbles, I’m sorry. 

He forgives her. In her embrace he knows. He must rescue her every time she falls into this pit. 

I love you, he says, it’s okay I love you. We'll go through this together.

Poem #004: The Crow's Nest

 

THE CROW'S NEST

 

In the young time of the year,

After January and December,

The crow builds her nest.

 

She and her mate,

Ruttish from the wait,

Search for twigs and stems.

 

Together they gather and cull,

With no time to mull,

They're in haste.

 

A location must be found,

Away from traffic sounds,

Amidst a garden or a grove.

 

But in a city or a town,

Where the trees are chopped down,

A utility pole will do.

 

High up in these branches,

Beyond preying chances,

The nursery is built.

 

With talons and beak,

And two wings weak,

They must make do.

 

For neither hands nor feet,

Nor fingers are meet,

To build this tree-top home.

 

Soon it will be,

A homely territory,

For newborn chicks.

 

Adept engineers they,

Foremost craftsmen of the day,

Pupils of the Creator himself.

 

Building to the specifications,

Set by the Master Mason,

They begin.

 

A foundation is laid,

A flimsy framework made,

Yet it withstands a storm.

 

A cornerstone of sticks,

Stitched up with sere sprigs,

Rests in the crotch of a branch.

 

Cemented with wet clay,

Insulated with down and hay,

A soft repository for eggs.

 

Under a ceiling of leaves,

Nestled by a spring breeze,

They will lie.

 

On the nest sits the mother,

A black-feathered power,

Of love.

 

Beneath an airy dome,

This sun-lit tree home,

Is no less a fortress.

 

For with a vigilant eye,

From her eyrie high,

She watches.

 

Behind a curtain of bowers,

And pendant mango showers,

The eggs are warmed.

 

Neighbours and friends,

Nesting on other branch ends,

Come to visit.

 

A fine atmosphere,

Of spring and good cheer,

Parents take turn to sit.

 

Eggs as blue as the sky,

Below which they lie,

Little wisps unborn.

 

Unaware that the world,

Into which they've been birthed,

Is torn.

 

For birds, and beasts,

And fishes, and trees,

The future looks bleak.

 

Poem #003: Cloud Face

 

CLOUD FACE

For weeks the sky has been overcast.

We sit silently as we drive in your car.

 The wheels create a fountain-spray of the puddles when we whizz past.

The traffic lights change; you stop.

I find that even silence is not completely peaceful but a portent of the storm.

I don't know what this is,

I can't tell you that this is love and we should hold on.

Streams of rain blur the lights of the cars ahead of us.

The windscreen looks like an impressionist painting.

The air conditioning is turned on.

Our breath fogs up the window panes,

We are too old to do silly things like scribble hearts and our names on the foggy slate with cold fingers.

Why are we breaking up again?

Remind me.

You will forget me.

I am nothing but a point,

Fixed in time. And space.

You wander.

I can't afford to move.

Because I fear if I do...

You'll return to see a blank where a point used to be.

The policeman waves us through; you drive off coldly.

Listen to the pitter-patter on the metal roof, darling.

Cloud Face, it's okay to roll the windows down and wet the car seats.