Friday, November 20, 2020

Short Story #011: Sol 2.0

 

Sol

That summer I drove down to Villa Rosa in Tuscany with the determined attitude of a Roman general on his way to war. I was going to meet Lizzie.

She had moved to that grand house in Italy to live with her new vineyard-owner boyfriend, and it was imperative that I see her before she married him.

There was another reason to make the trip. I needed to get her signature on a couple of documents which would release the house in New York to me. The work ought to have been done by my lawyer, but I accosted the tiny man and told him I needed some legitimate excuse to see my ex-wife again, and reluctantly, he agreed.

I arrived in Florence on a Friday.

Going to a car hire place, I picked out a convertible because I wanted to arrive at the precious Villa Rosa in style. I bundled the one bag I had brought from New York into the backseat of the convertible and settled in for the long drive to the country. I had given Lizzie warning of my coming, but I failed to mention to her the exact date. I wanted to catch her and the new man in her life unawares.

The house is New York ought to have been mine. It had belonged to my late father. When Lizzie and I married, my father, sick and bed-ridden, took a great liking to her. “You’re just the woman to tame him, and make a man out of Sol,” he said while I grinned sheepishly in a corner. Lizzie, wild and free, shot me a look of murder. She did not believe in taming anybody, any more than I did, but my father saw something in my wild wife, and deciding that we would be married forever, left the house in his will to her.

When three years into the marriage, we divorced, the old man, both shocked and deeply wounded, passed away without correcting the will. My first instinct was to let Lizzie have the house—an offer which she declined. So the place remained unoccupied.

After the divorce, Lizzie moved to Tuscany to teach music at a school there and I roamed the world with the gusto of a stallion that has been released into the wild. She had wanted us to be friends but I was indignant and rebuffed her.

The magazine sent me to cover a reclusive tribe in the Amazon, I went. They sent me to the Pyrennes, I went. They sent me to Cape Cod, Andalusia, and Venice, I went. I put all thoughts of Lizzie out of my mind. I was angry at her, and I knew she was angry at me. We had failed at the fundamental task of marriage—the task of taming each other.

In those three years of wandering, I began to pine for Lizzie. I missed her wide smile, her lovely long legs, and the sound of her laughter. Many times I had to stop myself from jumping on a plane to go to her. Now I regret that I didn’t give in to my impulse. She was on the verge of marrying another man.

When I returned to New York after another long stay abroad, a couple of mutual friends at a Thanksgiving party mentioned that Lizzie was living with a new man. They said she was engaged and planning to get married next year.

I felt a panic rise in my stomach the likes of which I had never felt before. I couldn’t rush off immediately because I had another assignment set for the winter. Once that was over and the time seemed right, I booked a flight to Florence.

I wanted Lizzie back, and I was going to go to any lengths to get her.

*

The drive to Villa Rosa was lovely. The weather was warm, sunny. I was in my element. Determined to shock and impress I’d chosen my best attire of blue jeans and white t-shirt. I admired myself in the rear-view mirror and was satisfied that I appeared like an old Hollywood star of great renown—Montgomery Clift. Lizzie was mad about him.

Cypress trees lined the curving road I was driving on and the fine dust raised from the wheels of my convertible danced in the sunlight. The murmuring within me grew strong. Lizzie was mine. I loved her. She would see that she belonged to me once I presented myself to her. I knew her romantic spirit would consider the notion at least once.

We had first met when Lizzie was eighteen and I was twenty four. She was working as a model in Milan and I was apprenticing under a renowned master photographer. She was all legs and bosom. That’s what had attracted me to her at first. Years later, Lizzie said she had loathed me at first and thought I was a pervert because I was wouldn’t stop staring at her chest!

After the shoot, a bunch of us went out to eat, and Lizzie took a seat next to mine. Later, she told me that she had planned to teach me a lesson for ogling her the whole day. But we got talking and I discovered that she was impetuous, wilder than me, spontaneous and bright, she had some rules she lived by and she wasn’t going to compromise on them. In the tidal wave of her personality I was washed away. 

I was going to remind her of those times. The times when my fire caught her fire and the whole forest came burning down.

I was driving up the gentle slope of a hill when I caught sight of the valley down below. The scene was arrestingly beautiful and I stopped the car and got out. The sun blazed down on us. The valley responded in joyous chorus at the roaring attention. I could feel the spirit of the land dance in one accord with my soul.

There was a great house on the crest of the next hill and I wondered if it was not the Villa Rosa. A few farm men were resting in the shade of a tall cypress tree and I asked them, “Is that the Villa Rosa?” “Yes,” they said. I took out my camera and took a few shots.

I wanted to capture the house in that golden light. The place was bathed in soothing shades of buttery yellow. Rolling hills surrounded the vineyard and the grape vine grew with mighty vigour over its support. I clicked a few more shots then I pulled out a cigarette and began to smoke.

All of a sudden I felt a little faint from the heat of the day. I went to the farm men who were sitting under the shade of a cypress and asked them if they had some something to drink. One of them had a bottle of limoncello, which he offered me and I took a deep swig.

“Rest,” they said, “it will take you only a few minutes to reach the Villa, you look like you desperately need to sleep.”

It hadn’t been a good idea to drive with the top of the convertible open, I thought as I lay back to rest against the knapsack of one of the men. In my attempt to appear as the dazzling jewel of the past to Lizzie I had almost suffered a sun stroke.

In a matter of minutes I was asleep. I slept fitfully. Was it because of the heat of the day or my own heightened sensations, I do not know, but I had a strange dream. I would prefer to call it a vision, for I was as alive in it as the light of day. 

I dreamt of a beautiful palace on top of a hill, something like the Villa Rosa, in construction, only grander and statelier. The room I entered wasn’t heavily decorated. White linen curtains hung from the arched doorways and were swaying in a gentle breeze. At the end of the room, was a throne, a magnificent golden one, full of intricate and exquisite work. On the throne sat a king. He was handsome, dark-haired, tall, and broad-shouldered. I knew his name even before the vision could introduce me to him.

His name was Solomon—the wisest king in the world, the offspring of a torrid affair, the man who had saved a suckling babe from death and restored him to its rightful mother.

We shared the same name, but more importantly, we shared the same outlook.

In Solomon, I found a kindred spirit, and as I saw him now, he appeared in tense and deep thought. His head was in his hands, and a heavy golden crown lay balanced on his forehead. He rubbed his forehead and looked straight at me. Together, we whispered—‘Meaningless! Meaningless! All is meaningless!’

Then Solomon got up from his throne and walked along the long avenue which led from the throne room to the pool.  At the end of the colonnade there were steps.

His feet went in first. Legs, torso, shoulders, chin, and eyes followed, until the very crown of his head was submerged. When he came up for air I heard him whisper, “All is vanity…”

Then I, Sol echoed him. “Meaningless meaningless…”

*

A friend had introduced me to this book, Ecclesiastes. It was a part of the Bible, a book which I later read from cover to cover. He said it contained more or less the same philosophical tone I had clung to throughout college. I believed life was meaningless and had no inherent value, Solomon observed the same, and he said all there was to do was to fear God and honour his commandments.

Except for the part about God, we more or less agreed that trying to find meaning in life was a colossal waste of time. I took the book from my friend and in a day had read it twice, cover to cover.

In those days I was a bitter cynic. I think I still am.

What kept me going was the pictures of the beautiful things I captured on my camera. People, places, objects, I snapped everything with character. I was afraid to lose the last trace of meaning I’d found in any of them.

Photographs sealed in time for me moments which I found too authentic to lose. A look, a grin, a laugh, a grimace, these things exposed what it meant to be a human being and like a mad fool I hoarded the examples just to make sense of the world.

In most of the photographs I took, people sought to cover the true nature of their personalities. I hated them for it. They smiled innocently though I knew them to be great posers. I could see through their facades. I always despaired that none of them had anything authentic to offer, that is, until I met Lizzie. She redefined what authenticity meant. She was a novice at concealing her heart and her face was the canvass of her soul.

Lizzie never had that ancient troubling of mine, the act of questioning what is, what was, and what shall be. She simply was. And I couldn’t understand how she lived from moment to moment without questioning how she had gotten there; knowing any moment could be her last, and that death had sealed her fate since her birth.

I woke up with a start. Lizzie was waiting for me at the Villa Rosa I remembered.

It’s nice to know that hope makes the world go around.

*

I got into the convertible, put the roof up, and made the rest of the trip along a winding path to the doorstep of Villa Rosa. As I drove up the drive way, I saw Lizzie. Dressed in a black and white polka dot cotton dress she was carrying a basket into which she was cutting and placing red roses. I honked to get her attention and without opening the door jumped out. Let her see how agile I still was.

“Sol!” cried Lizzie and came walking towards me, “It’s you! When did you get here?”

She gave me a quick hug, without lingering, without much contact, and smiled her smile for old acquaintances that haven’t broken her heart. A couple of dogs barked in frenzy at my presence.

“What a pleasant surprise! You should’ve told me you were coming today, I would have made you lunch. When did you get here?”

“Today,” I said and daringly kissed her on the cheek. She neither flinched nor pushed me away. I stepped back and scrutinised her face pointedly. I wanted to note the differences, but they were few. The same fire blazed in her eyes. On her mouth danced the full force of life. She looked exactly as the Lizzie of my past, only this time the fire was wild no longer, it burned with a quiet contentment.

I could guess at the cause behind it, and my soul broke to know that she had allowed another man to tend the furnace and quieten it down to fit a hearth.

“Would you like something to eat?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said, suddenly embarrassed to be there on another man’s patch, “I’m starving. Put out Italy’s finest for me, Lizzie.”

She laughed, “No, I can’t. Bread and cheese are all I have, and a little stew left over from lunch. If that will suffice, come in doors. I’m glad to see you. How many years has it been?”

Without bothering to calculate the number of years it had been, I meekly followed her indoors.

Where was he? Where was the man I was up against? Sooner or later one of us would have to bring up the fian…

“My fiancĂ©e isn’t home. He’s gone to Florence to visit the bank,” she said laying a place for me at the kitchen table.

I smiled a wicked smile the meaning which she caught, but fought off with the edge of the dining knife. “None of that anymore, this time it is real and it’s for keeps,” she said, with quiet force that if I overstepped my boundary it would be the end of the friendship.

“All right,” I agreed and begin to attack the small repast she had laid in front of me.

“Where are the papers?” she asked.

“In the car,” I said, “Why the hurry, I was hoping you would show me around this property of yours.”

Lizzie looked at me to check if I was serious then said, “I’m sorry your father died, Sol.”

“Don’t be,” I replied, “Everyone’s got to go at some point. Life’s quite certain in that respect.”

She nodded and then began questioning me about my work. I told her about the Amazon, the Pyrenes, Andalusia, Cape Cod and Montenegro, and when I got to Venice she stopped me and said, “Sol, you should have visited me when you came to Venice.”

No, I thought to myself, in those days I was still sore, upset at having lost her, upset that she seemed happy after the split. For some ego-boosting reason I had wanted Lizzie to feel miserable without me, but from whatever news I got of her, she was still the same high-spirited Lizzie, colouring life with all the colours of the rainbow.

After my father passed away I felt more lost and alienated from the world. I didn’t have a home to return to, and that made me wander the planet like a madman.

Lizzie sensed some of my angst and not wanting to be to cruel said, “Eat up! I’ll go get the papers.”

She left me alone in that large kitchen, and I understood that there was something about me Lizzie did not want to put up with anymore.

I was afraid I looked like a lost puppy, asking to be taken back into her arms, having walked out in the first place. She was treating me kindly because I was now an orphan. I bent my head and ate my food quietly and like a scolded dog, put my tail between my legs and gave up.

*

But the feeling of submission didn’t last long. I wasn’t going back without a fight. I wanted to know why she had allowed this new man to tend a furnace that usually burned to a conflagration within her. Why hadn’t she done the same for me?

Lizzie returned with my bag and under my directions extracted the papers for the house. “Where do I sign?” she asked. And I told her. In a couple of minutes she was done. She’s in a rush to get me out of here, I thought.

“I’m all finished,” she announced.

“Lizzie,” I said suddenly, “I had a strange dream on the way here, and I want your opinion on it.”

“Yes?” she asked doubtfully, as though wondering if I had fallen asleep behind the wheel.

“I dreamt of Solomon.”

Lizzie gave me a look. A look which I interpreted to mean that she was tired of all talk of Solomon.

When we had been married I used to pick her brain a lot with my questions. At first, she had been patient with me and helped me understand her way of seeing the world.

Didn’t she think Death was a nasty cheat to walk in at the very end of a grand party and announce that he was making away with all the living? No, she said, she believed in an afterlife, and Death wasn’t terrible news to her. In the afterlife she would be in heaven, with a God who loved her and who was her Father. I could either believe this or else live in despair. We usually ended the argument with a full-blown fight.

I found her beliefs preposterous and chose to live in despair, or rather, as I said to myself, I chose to live still looking for answers.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I pleaded, “I’ve got to understand this before I leave here, Lizzie. There’s a storm inside me.”

“Understand what, Sol?” she cried in irritation, “Do you really believe the world to have no meaning? How can that be? Yet, we live, struggle, strive, plan, fall in love, marry and have kids. We bring new life into this world, Sol! Why do we bring new life into this world if it was so meaningless?”

“I don’t know,” I shot back, “we shouldn’t! We shouldn’t bring children in to this world to share in its inherent meaninglessness.”

This was turning into a scene on a page right out of our marriage.

“That’s because I don’t believe the world to be meaningless! Why have you never read Solomon’s other book, Sol? The Song of Songs?”

I know this book. It describes the deep love Solomon and a Shulamite woman share. What is Lizzie trying to tell me?

“I never read the book either until recently. And when I did, I wanted to tell you that I’d found the answer to your stupid question! But you disappeared out of my life and I couldn’t get a hold of you! Lovers don’t ask for meaning, Sol,” Lizzie yelled, “They are the meaning. What meaning can they find except in simply being?

*

I was silenced by this seemingly innocuous statement.

But more than that, I was crushed to know that she had wanted to find me and I had disappeared out of her life.

When we were younger and I used to get burdened by my thoughts, Lizzie was the one I used to go see to find some relief. As soon as my eyes clapped on her, all my questions evaporated as quickly as they had come. Lizzie was the light. Her face, her laugh, her thoughts, her look of welcome, they were enough to dispel the gloom which inevitably came over me. Being with her made so much sense, I forgot to question it.

But then even Lizzie’s love let me down.

“How come it never worked out for us, Lizzie?”

She sighed and shrugged. “We were unlucky. That doesn’t mean that kind of love doesn’t exist. It probably exists for you with someone else, just as it exists for me with someone else.”

“You can’t disbelieve the power of Love just because you haven’t found it,” she mumbled, and I could tell that Lizzie too had felt let down by the hope ‘true love’ offers this world.

“Lizzie,” I ask, “why can’t we get back together?”

“Sol,” she said and paused, “I’m sorry. You came too late.”

I looked in those lovely eyes for a while. The whole of spring and summer shone through them. How could someone so beautiful and tender strike a blow so crushing?

“I know that,” I said truthfully.

Lizzie is the kind of soul who loathes causing hurt but when the disagreeable thing needs to be said, she doesn’t shy away from it.

“What am I supposed to do Lizzie? You offer me the solution yet you won’t be part of the answer.”

“It isn’t love if it breaks up. We haven’t got that between us, the love of Solomon and his Shulamite, ours is a broken down fence, a tower that has crumbled. Why do you want to go about rebuilding it when the foundation can’t hold it up?”

“I’m lonely without you Lizzie. And I’m afraid of being lonely much longer.”

She looked at me and said bitterly, “Your father was right about you. You’re most selfish man on the planet.”

*

I left sooner than I expected to leave. Lizzie said goodbye to me civilly enough. I could tell she was angry and trying hard to forgive me.

On the drive back home I pondered over my ex-wife’s words. Her words cut to the very depth of my soul. Was I selfish to want Lizzie simply to cover up this gaping hole of loneliness?

Yes, I admit I was.

I think back to the joy Solomon and the Shulamite woman experienced in each other. They were united by bonds of mutual love, a love so beautiful it made redundant all the questions of the world. And that is what is at the foundation of the world—the love of a man for a woman and the reciprocal love of a woman for a man.

The setting sun lit up for a moment the sky in shades of pink. I watched silently as I drove back the way I came. Tomorrow, I would board a flight back home and visit the house in New York. It was time to put the past in its place and begin afresh.

Saturday, November 14, 2020

Poem #010: Time out

 

Time out

May I lean against you until I feel better?

I promise not to take up too much of your time.

I just want to hear your heartbeat thunder,

Because it tells me we're going to be fine.

 

I know I'm being selfish by keeping you out,

I've never told you where these scars come from,

But please let me stay next to you until I'm warm,

Before the sun comes up I've got to get down to the war.

 

You're the person I come to in a time out,

I am safest when I'm close to you,

But I can't let you battle the world on my behalf,

I've got to vanquish it and come through.

 

I can take my armor off at your door,

I don't have to be strong, because I'm not,

You own the blueprints to my soul,

So you know when I'm falling apart.

 

Let me lay my head to rest on your shoulder.

Let us watch the stars silently go down.

We're both battle weary and aching within,

This is just a momentary respite from the storm.

Saturday, November 7, 2020

Poem #009: Love Poem

Love Poem

I tried very hard to describe,
What love is, was, and ought to be. 
I could think of no definition, monkey,
except your name.

I wanted to find a place where,
I could always be free.
No place came to mind, Baboo,
Except your embrace.

I tried to find love in other places,
And each time I wandered away,
You drew me back with a tender  voice,
And restored me to you again.

Monday, November 2, 2020

Poem #008: Cloud Face 2

 

Cloud Face 2

 

Old friend is talking to new friend,

Says—"Now we're just friends,

It was so long ago."

All pretend to believe that.

 

New friend smiles stoically,

But secretly wants to hurt.

Old friend is way prettier than her.

Old friend is ecstatic at creating this jealousy.

 

"Do you still love her?"

Asks new friend when,

Old friend has flounced off.

The future depends on this answer.

 

Yes. And I always will.

I want to point out that,

I will extend to her the same courtesy.

Instead, I say, " I don't know."

 

New friend scowls at me.

This could get ugly.

Wish old friend would disappear,

As only old friend knows how to.

 

"Why did she leave you?"

We were never on the same page.

I was cruising along but she,

Said I was dragging her down.

 

Why are you feeling so vulnerable?

I love you.

Just ask CloudFace-

What it feels like to be stuck in the past.

 

I promised to love not hate.

Don't want to stop just because,

I don't see her every day.

Only CloudFace weeps for what he can't change.

Thursday, October 22, 2020

Poem #007: Horizon and View

 

Horizon and View

 

Horizon dragged View by her hair,

And went off to kill Nowhere,

Because he’d cheated on her.

The people cried after her—"Stop!"

But she wouldn't stop walking.

 

The Sky and the Earth laughed,

"Horizon, forget the lout!"

But she madly strove on,

Dragging View behind her,

Weeping for the pain caused.

 

The Sun watched this scene sadly,

Nowhere fleeing before Horizon,

And View trailing after,

"Horizon! Stop! You will go round and round!

Forgive him, love, and come to me."

 

"I know where you lie  at night,

In the home of the Sea,

So the love you  offer is not for me!"

So she keeps chasing after Nowhere,

Dragging View behind her.

 

 

Saturday, October 10, 2020

Poem #006: Serengeti

 

SERENGETI


Lion cub sleeps after his noontime meal,

Lioness climbs up their kopje home,

In the acacia tree Leopard hides his veal,

While Cheetah cat the vast plain roams.

 

Serval springs up on birds in flight,

While Wild Dogs rip a Springbok apart,

Vulture swoops down from a towering height,

But old Hyena has made off with the heart.

 

The Clown of the Plains prances around,

Agile Gazelle stots in Cheetah's face,

Nervous Impala flees in leaps and bounds,

Only Enkai knows who will survive the race.

 

Okavango Water Buck wins the chase,

For Lioness won’t wet her feet,

He’s safest in the green swampy place,

Because Crocodile won’t him eat.

 

Ox-pecker keeps Giraffe’s coat neat,

Skulking Leopard is wary of Zebra’s kick.

Hippo in a pool, cools off from the heat,

If threatened, Porcupine curls up double quick!

 

Mighty Elephant trumpets like a usurper king,

Two horned Rhino scatters his dung,

Foolish Ostrich ran and lost the use of her wings,

While Tsetse Fly's song of death has been sung.

 

When the rainclouds leave, the Wildebeest will follow,

The herds in their migration to the north,

Drought, death, and starvation, bring sorrow,

But the worst will befall them at Grumeti's froth.

 

Grumeti Crocodiles lie in wait underwater,

For one Gnu calf to come a-drinking,

Then up they jump from their hiding place in the water,

And in one gulp finish off the suckling.

 

The dust rises from the grasslands of the savannah,

Kilimanjaro watches between half-closed eyes,

The hunters will always go for the jugular,

And the hunted shall scatter like brushed-off flies.

Sunday, September 20, 2020

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.

Saturday, September 12, 2020

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.

 

Sunday, September 6, 2020

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.