Waiting for the New Year

The clouds whisk across an inky sky
The crickets sing soprano in minor keys
The moon’s silver orb lights up the sky
And countless creatures of the night
Are bathed in her beautiful silver light
As they scamper ahead of the dawn
The stars hang on the indigo canopy
Like tiny lanterns flickering in the wind
Some falling earthwards in flames
Protesting they tumble from the sky
Tinkling voices light as tiny wind chimes
Stirring in the warm summer night
A lone, mournful cry, then the owl takes flight
Whisper-soft wings brush the air and then
The owl again repeats her soft, sad refrain
Gently calling those whose time has come
They will not live to see the morning sun
Whom did she call, whose was the name?
Which of us will live to pass this way again?
The prayer flags sigh and flutter in the air
Restless in the night, waiting for New Year.

The Sea that We See

It always seems to me that there is cold comfort
In the far distant Northern Seas
The greys and greens have a hard-hearted feel
Not for them the playful twinkling shadows
The turquoise blues with silver overlay
The cobalt deep sea waiting for whales to play,
Dolphins leaping in the waves in joy
Brightly coloured sea shells spilling on the shore,
Laughter in the Tropics or in Southern seas,
These are what resonate within me.

Twittering or Dalliance

I was checking the Net to see
If the part of a sociable weaver was what I wanted to be
Backtracking through other's acquaintances and friends
Looking to find the key
As to why the world would want to tweet
And what there might be there to gain
Was it an exciting way to meet?
Or would following just bring pain?
I came across a name
I thought I'd seen before
Opened up the pages, tried to read the score
I wondered exactly what it was that she said
And I wondered who had done what to her
That made her think of herself as worthless
To build a wall that high around her heart
To vanquish hope and fear in forgetfulness
And claim imperviousness as her tool.
Continents and hemispheres apart
It's impossible to get inside another's skin
One cannot interpret someone else's heart
All that we see is only ourselves seen from within
How sad to think that culture might be that cruel
To put duty before a girl's chance of happiness
Looking at her sad, resolute, determined face
I wondered when an ordinary life became tragedy
What brought her standing staring to this place
What was it for which she really reached
Comfort gained in yet another's online tryst?
Hope and heartache gathered all too recklessly
What satisfaction can one gain
From being just another name
On someone else's list.
But desperation reaches across the divide
And something in her reached out and cried
For laughter, recognition, individuality, respect
All those things we in the West expect
How can one relegate self respect and joy
To the dominions of the past
And accept that misery must last?
I wished I take her to my heart
Comfort her and lead her to see
That only we ourselves can set ourselves free
Grab the present tense, learn to part
With all that damages and causes pain
Honour oneself, and, if need be, start over again.
Happiness is a mindset that can be learned
Although the soul's true freedom must be earned
Rejoice in life: this moment is the best there is
The Past is just the refrain of memory
The Future imaginings of what is to be
Be present, be joyous, be merciful, of good heart
Be emotional, irrational, unpredictable and sad
Unchain the fetters, be unconventional and glad
Celebrate yourself, let the Divine create your joy
And let no person ever designate you as their toy.
Uncanny how the labels we give ourselves in jest
Are oft those that describe us the best.

Pointsettias for a Prince

Blood red poinsettias slash the landscape dripping
History in mute testimony to a more violent past
The centuries old buildings dream in Delhi’s winter,
Mist-shrouded they protect and house the dead
Now gone so long ago, honoured in their passing
By an Emperor whose memories were built to withstand time
Tumultuous sounds echo faintly, stirring memory
With a heady mix of cruelty, gold and glory
Here, with the hundred honoured dead, now rests at last
A Mughal Emperor in exotic Persian splendour
The beauty of the aged buildings rising to the sky
Seems so peaceful, bringing succour to the soul
The delicate palms stretch their branches out in supplication
Pleading for mercy from the Divine on high
As the stark, decorative poinsettia sheds blood below
Delicate, ethereal and strangely feminine this citadel
Giving shelter to so many valiant men who gave their
Last breath in defence of Humayan’s empire
Now laid to waste by progress; now just a memory their fear
Lives taken in anger; their blood colours the poinsettia
Exquisite architecture an exchange for so many lives
The silent gardens, red-splashed, now rest in peace

The Lover of Gaia

As the dark sky closes in, the lover of Gaia
Caresses her soft shores with whispered words
And a touch so light she faints at the embrace.
Swiftly the night engulfs them both and
The Lapis Lazuli vault mirrors the indigo depths
Of the jewel flecked, tender, sensual Sea
As they join in dangerous, urgent, deceptive union.

The steady hiss and rush as the tide turns,
Claiming a greater stake in the compliant Earth,
As she capitulates, releasing herself to his embrace
The deceptively gentle lover claims his sacrifice.
Sweeping tiny living things protesting from her shore
He feeds his life-lust, and satiated, spits the detritus
Out upon the damp sea sand of her sorrowing water’s edge.

As suddenly as his heady blandishments drew her in,
The Sea turns and, hastily fleeing Gaia’s anxious grasp,
Retreats into his safe haven, leaving the slow tendrils
Of the withdrawing tide as a memory of love past.
In the Sea’s deepest soul he hears the echo of the siren cry,
Gaia calling for a lover lost, a Cyclops eye pierces the night;
His mother’s son seeking in the darkness at her behest.

Fishing Boats in Goa

The sun shines bright on the white fishing boats,
Bobbing half-asleep at anchor in the shallows
Fishermen ply to and fro in their dark outriggers
Seagulls fall out of the sky clamouring for food
The fleet is in and the men

Time at last rest allows.

Holidaymakers walk along the seashore
Imprinting memories on the sand,
Finding romance and fascination in
This tiny part of India, still redolent of
The Portuguese, exotic now in this great land.

Not for the fisher folk the dreamy Shangri La
Like the castaways from the Western Hippy era,
They have to pay daily homage to the Sea.
Out before dawn, running against the wind
Cast the nets, reel in the daily catch.

Race before the wind for home and loved ones
Eager for the day’s end, danger left behind
Only those who never venture out to sea
Are fooled by the shy waves slapping softly
At the shore in turquoise tranquillity.

The fishermen and their anxious folk
Know too well the Sea’s dark face
The storms that toss the boats on the waves
High crests before the plunge into the trough
Wondering with dread will they sink or surface.

But to the onlooker, oblivious of the Sea’s
Appetite for sacrifice to calm her ire,
The fishing boats strung white like a
Bracelet of moonstones on the turquoise Sea,
Make peace and harmony appear as her desire.

The City of Light

The Wise Men say it is the world's oldest city, standing
Proud on the banks of the Mother Ganga as she flows
Down the heart of the World on her quest for the
Absolution of the Sea God, and once taken by him
Gives birth to the life-giving Rain.
The city stands witness to the ever-changing River,
The ebb and flow, monsoon and drought timeless
In their seasonal march across history
The imposing palaces soaring high above
The gentle journey of the Ganga in April,
The temples commanding worship and fervour
Fill the scene coloured in reds and ochre.
Stained with the tide marks of the monsoons
The ghats stretch up from her banks, stairways to the sky.

In the city's narrow alleys, the smell of urine
The warm, overpowering reek of dung assail
The senses and the high-pitched cries of the monkeys
Leaping overhead, scolding us as they turn
Watching us with the ancient eyes of Hanuman.
Accompanied by a Brahmin, fending off beggars
Like flies, secure in the majesty of his caste,
He strides through the Old City oblivious
Of the mange-ridden dogs and abandoned bulls.
The electric wires criss-crossing overhead
Act as trapeze wires for Hanuman's troupe
Swarming overhead in increasing numbers
“Foreigners, Foreigners” they shriek.

The old man in the alley sitting patiently
In his tea stall, surrounded by chai drinkers
Drinking warm ambrosia, paying no attention
To the dirty anxious little boy drawing water
Or the roar of the motorcycle careering down
The narrow sludge-filled cobble alleys
Custodians to centuries of mud, and mire
And broken dreams cast into the Ganga at last.
The piles of broken clay cups try to catch my feet
As I pick my way through humanity and history.
The stench of cruelty assails my senses
The sorrow of the underdog, the misshapen and
Malformed clutch at my conscience
Misery in the millions is too much to bear.

The Seers say the ancient city Benares – Varanasi now,
In times gone by was the hub of the spiritual world
Still the great religions hold her in their thrall.
Memorials to wives burnt alive on the husband's pyre
Catch my eye, small, almost unnoticed, vermilion now faded
The Ganga has claimed the memory of those fires.
The bells ring an urgent cacophony, calling us to prayer
The thought, heavy in my head, of all those lives
Lost in the fires of centuries, beats on the edges of my skull
Desperate cries, death wails wrap around me like swaddling clothes.
Sunset and sunrise over the Holy City, too much to bear.
I join the faithful, the songs of praise and ritual
Enacted day and night since time began
My heart broken by countless years of suffering
Long to escape from this city, the cradle of spiritual man.

Just yesterday I looked at the photographs taken years ago
Each and every one is filled with an incandescent light,
Luminous beauty spilling richly off the page
The buildings, the urchins, the beggars all shine
In the wonderful pure Light of the Divine.
…..................Om Shanti........................

Turquoise and Viridian

Turquoise and Viridian, limpid water sleeping in the shallows
Myriads of tiny life-forms, multicoloured, trace mosaics on the stones
Seaweed softly drifts with the ebb and flow, like a young girl’s hair
The sunlight catches the ripples, sending swathes of gold
To catch the eye; bounty from Neptune’s treasure chest
Warm and languorous the gentle-whispered, soft young voice
Of the sea’s shallows, a singing-siren melody lures the innocent.
The giant rocks like sentinels rise above the lazy, contented sea
Stirring drowsily to and fro under the endless azure skies
The soft breeze dances a slow waltz over the surface
Kissing little wavelets as they play in the laughing shallows
Nothing spoils the perfection of the moment and I
Awestruck by such beauty hardly heed the warning cries
Of seagulls swirling overhead denouncing deception
The soft sea will hold me in her gentle warm embrace And I shall be her lover for this moment, in this place

Running the High Seas

Out on the high Seas, once all too eager to leave the shore,
He looks back, wondering where he left and what he came here for
The waves of life can crush one even out at Sea
Often what looked so inviting turns out not to be
The Sea is a wicked mistress and will exact her price
The lover, one dark, wrathful night will be her sacrifice.
Alone in the vortex, dark waves constantly crashing around
He navigates the water and the waves by faith alone
But close behind the Sea’s long fingers try make him her own
He feels her cold demanding caress, helpless, he hears a sound
Bringing hope to his waterlogged soul and salvation to his eyes
The eerie haunting, keening wail that has burdened countless lives
Deep and lingering, telling of numbing sorrows and deep seated fears
The Sea writhes and wreaks havoc with her dark cold waves
The echo of the siren - how often that mournful cry saves;
The razor light penetrates the black and violent night
Intermittently comes the flashing, caring, rescue-light
He shakes the dank tendrils of the Sea’s tight embrace
From his shoulder and, full of hope, starts the race
Shore-wards he swiftly sails, guided by the light
Skirts the lee shore, now safety is within his sight
He is embraced by the familiar and well-worn and then,
All too soon he forgets, and the Sea draws him back again.

The Girl Who Lived In The Fire

The Girl who lived in the fire lived a life often mirrored in fairy tales,
But for her neither Fairy Godmother nor Prince Charming was ever seen.
Aged three she learned how to play with matches given to her as toys
She must have been a quick learner and more co-ordinated than the boys
The match was struck, engulfed in fire the charlady heard her screams
Rushed to put out the blaze, leaving her alive, but very badly burned
The once attractive little girl now just a memory in her mother’s dreams
For the girl the charlady was both saviour and an object of guilt learned
Who lost her fingers in the fire and with that her job, and her livelihood.
The years went by and as life went on the girl from the fire would
Look out from her window and watch as people came and went
Banished to her room she would sit and wonder why she was sent
On her own to watch and wait until the coast was clear,
The guests were gone, and her mother need no longer fear
The shock, the horror, the pity – or the blame and censure
The best she could stand accused of was bad judgement.
But the scars and pain from the fire left the girl undeterred
She snatched a life; her school days were filled with fun
At home she swam long distance, canoed, and learned to shoot a gun
Gained National colours with her marksmanship and prowess,
She would settle for nothing less than to be always the first and the best.

Those years must have been strange indeed – locked away from public gaze
But still a cherished daughter, beloved by family – living out isolated days
Her wonderful jet black hair, curling across the partially ravaged face
The laughing dark green eyes always looking slightly out of place
Taunted by her mother and elder sister for her scars and lack of grace
But the bond between her and her father ran strong and very deep
His unfaltering love and unconditional support
Encouraged the tomboy, taught her to excel at sport
Praised her school record and nurtured her brain
Convinced her to enter the world, learn to live again
Carve a career, break convention’s borders, a leader in her field
The war came and she soon signed up for active service
With the horrors of the burnt airmen came an ironic bonus
Plastic surgery made great advances because of special need
At last some treatment was at hand – countless operations later
The horror was diminished – a sad comment on what had been.
Wrapped in bandages which tied on her head like bunny ears
She celebrated freedom and self respect, fought for and gained.
Towards the end of her life she showed me photos of those years
She didn’t even see the bandages were there to show how she was maimed
Her pleasure in recalling the new found “normal” brought me close to tears.

A man came her way, she married and for reasons I was never to know,
From my earliest recollections, her hate for him just continued to grow.
Two children came, first a girl, and then two years later came a boy.
Her bandages now just a daily chore to put around her neck,
Holding the scar tissue from tearing loose around her face
We grew up with her and to us the ritual was commonplace.
Her husband loved her dearly and taught us tolerance and respect;
That the outer appearance was not how to judge, but to look
For the beautiful and the pure that resides in each of us within,
And we never noticed the scars the ravages of fire had left on her skin
She lived a new life through me and I though tried to bring her joy
Aware of the burden from my early years of her hopes and dreams
I always realised I was not destined to succeed, or so it seems
Never quite pretty enough, not adept at maths, no singing voice,
Always the ugly duckling, the loner and maverick from choice
Beset with guilt and always aware that I was causing pain
Unsure how to balance living in my present and living in her past
I tried too hard to please and tried in vain to make her pleasure last
But in the end we all live our lives and a life can’t be lived again
A child, try as she might, will never be able with an adult’s voice to speak
I did what I could, tried to be someone else and always knew the reason why
It was beyond my ken to heal the wounds that ran deep in her soul
Dress the part, learn the talk – I tried what I could to make her whole.
After her shuttered childhood, labelled carelessly as a sequestered freak,
Bearing taunts and ridicule from her mother and sister that made her cry
What she needed and what I could give, were too diverse for me to envisage
But through our roller coaster ride, I admired her tremendous incandescent courage
To live as she did, face up to the world, and make a life in the public eye
And now, when I with soul-searching pain think of all that she went through,
I look back on the life of the girl who lived in the fire, now ended at last,
It’s with a smile I look at the two of us and how we finally learnt to face the past
All the joy, all the heartache, the laughter and the tears, taught me something new
That there was not one girl who lived in the fire, but there were really two,
And the one standing in the shadows, trying not to cry, was I.