Taste - NaPoWriMo5

Camden Market is torture on an empty stomach and empties pockets.



I'm starving
To taste
This city.
You can always
Smell a city
Before
You see it.
And this one
Smells divine.
Today I saw how
Sushi was made
With deceptive ease.
This is a sizzle
In the air
That whispers 'Kebabs'
Vision of succulent
Juicy heaven.
Nurdan says
I ought to try
Jerk chicken
But my attention
Is caught
By a fry up
Of noodles
And schezuan chicken.
I think there
Are burgers
Sitting fat
And content
At the corner
Of my eye.
Chips too,
But those
Are better
Up North.
This city
Is shameless
In its excesses-
I approve.
I'm starving
To taste
Each one.

Dreary- NaPoWriMo-4

Written for the longest bus ride ever taken.



This is how it goes-
In a bus,
Half asleeep
An age on the road
An age to go.
This is how it goes-
Darkish skies,
Layered clouds,
Dreary towns
Leading to
Nothing, nothing.
This is how it goes-
A distant land
A dreary day
Why is dreariness
So damn universal?
This is how it goes-
Aching legs
Soreish eyes
Reluctant smiles
London town
Is far, far, far.
This is how it goes-
Pass the time,
Pass the smile,
Unconsciously, 
This is always how it goes.

Inkpot Monkey - NaPoWriMo 3

I had a rather unfortunate incident at Starbucks. :D



Legends tell
The dread tale
Of a monkey
Living inside
Inkpots.
They rather fancy
The taste of ink.
I don't own
An inkpot
(Why ever not?)
But I suspect
The Inkpot Monkey
Of sucking dry
My pens.
Ink on my skin
Ink on my face
Ink of my scarf
Ink on the poor man
Who sat beside me
In Starbucks today
A pen run dry
And no paper to blame.
Nothing to write,
Nothing to say,
Just a pen run dry
And no paper to blame.
Only an inkpot monkey
Up to his antics again.

Green - NaPoWriMo 2

Directly inspired by my eternal muse- she's been slacking off on the job lately.


I never think about
The color Green
All that much.
I'm more of a
Blues, Blacks, Reds
Kind of person.
But often,
Unobtrusive as you please,
Green sinuously
Seeps,
Bleeds,
Into my vision;
And I remember
Verdant trees
Lush with leaves,
Green.
Nurdan's scarf,
A deepish warmth
Home and love and,
Green.
Comfort and coffee
Stories and Starbucks,
Green.
Rosie's trousers,
Unsual, bright, calming,
Green.
For secrets
And whispers
Spring and Summer,
Green.
Connemara Hills,
Scottish Lochs,
Green.
Your eyes,
Brightly, acidly, joyfully,
Green. 

Country Roads - NaPoWriMo 1

We are hurtling
In a tin can
A tin, tin can
Down a country road.
It's a dark, dark road
And if you slid
Your eyes half mast
We could pretend
We were flying.
If we hit something
On these country roads
It wouldn't end well
And death lingers on corners
That darkly press closer.
But we are alive,
More than ever.
Country roads
Are winding
Dark distances
To infinity.
Your loosely clasped hand
In mine,
I'm flying
On these
Country roads.
I'm praying
For never ending 
Country roads
And I'm flying
With your hand in mine.

Winter Edges

This winter
Has been a rather
Drugged affair,
Honey slow
Molasses thick
And snagging edges,
Catching and cutting.
This winter
I learnt
To flick Kohl
To create wing tips
Honed to razor edges.
This winter
I learnt
About the armories 
Of sharp eyebrows
And the defiant shield
Of jutting Kohl.
This winter
I broke myself
But left my heart in tact.
This winter
I picked up pieces
Of a girl
With hairline cracks
 She denied
All her life
And I broke her
To prove a point.
Then I remade her
With the perenniality
Of sardonic smiles
And perfect Kohl flicks
And recklessness.
This winter
I learnt
To love the winter
In more than just
A blurry, watercoloured way
I loved the winter
In harshness, bitterness
And cruel ice edges.
This winter,
I said, 'Devil may fucking care'
And I meant it.  

Acts of Creation

At first,
There was nothing.
And then came,
Light.
Not unlike
A blank page
Bruised by ink.
We all build worlds
But we all don't live them.
We are too
Authored into being
By the big Author
In the sky.
The one, the only
The Supreme.
This is a whirling dervish
Of existence
And doubts trail
Lives, worlds, universes.
I recreate images
Of the Author.
The one, the only.
I create,
Therefore, I am.
So I am become
An author
With a small 'a'.
Of a small universe
Worshiped, Loved, Adored.
Saved?
Authors need saving too.
Careful preservation
Between the wrinkles
Of a crumbling multiverse
The Author,
Imagined us out of comets
And starshine
So I am exploding
At the pull
Of a blackhole.
I am authoring
Safety valves
To catch my pieces.
Wait a while
To witness the final act.
In the end
(The Beginning?)

It comes down to
Creation
Salvation
Shanti.