Rambles

For the poetry enthusiasts and those who enjoy eccentric thought processes

of friendship and incomplete clovers

Was out in the meadow picking three-leaf clovers, as easily as scheduling friends for Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday. I gathered them in the palm of my hand, abundant overflowing greens, but felt that something was missing, as if a fragile wing had been torn from every clover. I am looking for that last teardrop leaf that seems to be missing in my life; these friends only surround me in good times but abandon me to the winds when from the fun and laughter I stray. The last leaf never grew, the leaf that signified promise and commitment through heavy sobs and wet eyes. There is a yawning gape where your empty promises lie and  and that is what prevents me from the luck and happiness I should have in this life.

dead letters and friendships

It’s funny how some things can make such a turn. Just one year ago we said our goodbyes and spilled our hearts onto pretty paper, long notes, well thought-through, pretty sentences formulated, making each other sound like the best people to have graced the face of the earth. It’s difficult to write notes without at least some degree of flattery; we tend to make people sound their best in ink to make up for our wrongs in action. But that shows we care.

It’s 2014 now and I’m sitting on my bed re-reading old letters the way I always do, thinking about what happened to the promises and the way they simply stained parchment and never came to life. How can someone who used to be so important to you just slip through your fingers like the easy conversation that flowed from your lips? How can someone you spent all your novel-worthy statements on be severed from you by the unrelenting force of life and the way it inevitably pushes people apart?

The people you thought were close to you eventually move away, or maybe you both just didn’t do enough to make each other stay.

It’s easy to blame life, but I think I’d rather blame us.

Confirmation 2014

It’s a wonderful thing to feel renewed in faith.

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expired dreams

big dreams spun in youth

glued to the bottom of office seats

kept warm now for 15 good years

sinking further with every sigh and heave

big dreams buried under

untouched reports gathering dust

treacherous mountain trials marked by yellowing post-its and

coffee stains spilt in delirium

dissuade you from taking on the

aspirations you once believed could move mountains

big dreams never see the light

huge mounds of ashes but the embers

have died

grumbling about ring files given to you like christmas gifts

months in advance

they don’t want you to make it big

it’s been 15 years

but you’ve never run with blind trust

with only dreams in baggage and sallow legs fuelling young belief

maybe it’s time to realise

that you’ve been strangling yourself with

the same tie for 15 years

by your own hand

sharings

hesitantly you tell us

about your history

because sometimes we know people

before we know their past

and i am glad

because if we start in the middle of nowhere i’m afraid

our fragile constructions won’t last

i will remember these words

keep them in tender pockets of my heart

because they are syllables you will never

utter to us again

how they go

They don’t all go like they do in the movies, with a massive explosion in a moment of self-sacrifice. They go quietly, in their little lives of bravery and small selfless acts. They don’t go in front of a weeping crowd, but in the solace of a tight circle of loved ones; in peace. They go inconspicuously, slipping away as seamlessly as taking another breath without knowing it is their last. And they go, with the deepest hope, that their regrets have not outdone the lives they’ve led.

vague

i only remember the silhouettes of mistakes

never her face, never her hands

never the way she lashes at me with her tongue

crushes my bones with her fists

memories of wrongdoings i cannot

conjure

i never remember the tears that stick to my face

the watercolor bruises

the bent minds and broken hearts

literally and figuratively

am i forgiving or forgetful,

kind or an escapist?

departure and arrival

silent crowd waits,

watches tick past midnight

people warm cold seats and

parallel metal rails (what separates us and them)

armed with bouquets and expectations

half glazed eyes and winding earpieces marking the

path to unintentional slumber

flip flops scuff too-smooth mirror floors

between our departure and arrival there was

a sleepy car ride and rumpled home clothes

between their departure and arrival there was

a new head of memories

and chronic unwillingness to return

too often we choose the foreign skies scattered with possibilities over

the warm embrace of home

tea-time break

People in

heels and shoes clad in suits and pencil skirts

flood up-market cafés and central malls

Well-dressed ironies taking tea-time breaks knowing

there never really is any

They savour expensive chocolate cake baked with resentment,

chilled in numb minds,

oozing with rich sweetness, disguised poison triggering frustration

Drink up, brother

Aromatic cups of cappuccino polished with sweat and toil

Take calm, measured sips

steaming with fresh memories of furious nights

slamming on dead keyboards, rushing reports

Inanimate obsessions devouring life

But you can’t put down the fork

Or cut your sips laced with

bitter laughter

At the end of everything your reflections stare back at you

in shining ceramic

lost

days spent like fiercely burning candles, wasting away, wax dripping and legs running and mind whirring and flame steadily glowing. days packed and packeted into neat compartments of monday tuesday wednesday thursday friday but increasingly they repeat and the clean cut boxes are morphing into one huge cycle, lines blurring. all day long i do the same things; all night long i wonder and wander.

the future looms and i do not have it organised and compartmentalised like this routine i have been forcefully shoved into. the future looms and it is a wavering flame, potentially snuffed out by the cold night winds of our humid city. i am trembling with the fire, unsure, unconfident. i don’t have my wax trial planned and charted on world maps like everybody here seems to. all i do is stand here smiling as yet one more person asks me what i intend to do with my life; shrug my shoulders and melt into the ground, runny wax smiles fading away.

the nights without plans drift by like a lazy blaze; maybe when all the routine dissolves away and i have to extricate myself from this natural-feeling clockwork i will find myself lost again, growing up.

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