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Warbles


Painting by Daniel Garber

 

Winter X
I love how you can’t contain a winter in one calendar.
Its drift of spilling over into the next year
like coffee beans in half-a-cough of dreamy
froth decking semester ends in cotton-snow
on miniature trees which wedded to the festive spirit,
lose their names.

I love how the numbness slips from between fingers
in an explosion of fireworks and the chiming of
the clock blankets you in mindless
resolutions only to be broken like Santa’s promises
as you age. I love the striking off of
the last two digits atop new diary entries
which cling to the déjà vu of a not-letting-go
while you overwrite a Winter’s Tale on
faded scarves serving as gags to silence
decade-old voices.

I love the crumbs of last year’s cup-cakes
sticking stubbornly to the teeth and inciting your tongue to
taste them twice-thrice before they are cast-away like
the drowsiness of a week-of-late-nighters
which curls-up with the basking cat on the wall
to nap the first afternoons away.
 

Painting by Henri Edmond Cross

 

Summerstorm

 

Blow-out

Heavy breathing through the gaps between

closed panes and cracked glass-

the exhaustion of a marathon of seasons

sighing into a sweaty catharsis of

saltiness which blew-out your hunger.

 

 

Parching your ink into a sourness

till nib-scratches only produced sharp impressions

on blank pages, and voices sickened into a

clicking of tongues to substitute

the toothy clutter of lukewarm tropic-winters.
Freckles on the nose reddening

to a crack of lightning,

and the smells of storms-

Smell of storms to blow-in the thirst

of a rain of quickened impulses.
Blow-in

The rain of quickened impulses

washes away our calligraphy of idiosyncrasies

from the glass panes,

to blow-in a waft that interrupts musings and sprinkle senses

with the elixir of melancholy-dipped romances,

inadequacies are punctuated by the waves of oblivion,

the batting of moistened eyelids

usher the uncrowned heroes

of cloudless days, the soaked pile of bricks

unleash maroon fluids into the stream,

your dreams look like watercolour landscapes.

And you are cured of sleep to be robed in insomnia.

 

 

Painting by Debra Hurd

Colour Tunes
Colours made Naima high,

like the swirls of Starry, Starry Night.
21 Guns of Coldplay’s shooting Yellow and

Green Days blending in her

soul into the Blues.

The Red Red Wine of oblivion

deepening into a Purple Haze

of anaesthesia, the petals of

her Black Dahlia floating on

the Pink Moon

of a No-Mans Land.

 

And when the Blue Train whistled off,

the Brown Girl in the Ring

drooped her Silver Dagger,

swerved and tapped as

her Rusts whirled as Diamonds.
Colours made Naima high

like the swirls of Starry, Starry Night.

 

 

(Inserted paintings were requested by the poet)

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