The Solitary Echo

Alright my dear, dear Mountain,
Shall we talk? At least that which must be,
It takes two to tango, or so they say,
And it isn't just about the dance, you see.


We held the ends of the rainbow,
And our laughter echoed off each other,
Treacherous crags and dried pines didn't hurt,
As the sunshine healed us and caressed us like feather.


And when there were tears, my dear do you remember?
We made rivers from the water run down many a slope,
And as the water made good escape, we laughed,
And the sun rose to wipe the tears off and give us hope.


Today, the echo is now an echo in every sense,
For all I've heard in a while is my own voice,
The rainbow is heavy, and sans hold, it sways wildly,
And I helpless watch as I decay in silence's deafening noise.


The pines drill through me without mercy or care,
And along my dark slope, craggy rocks madly race,
The sun refuses to shine, for it says it needs both,
Will you rise, or will I bleed and whither, and die a disgrace?

Somewhere in a Likeness

Somewhere, somewhere,
In a likeness of our home,
Our likenesses sit together,
And their hands never part.

Somewhere, somewhere,
In that likeness, there is no time,
That brings them together,
And then takes them apart.

Somewhere, somewhere,
In that likeness, there is only love,
That the grasses, trees and moon shine,
They remain without the need to part.

Somewhere, somewhere,
When your likeness withdraws her hands,
Mine shows you and me and our home, here,
How wretched it is to be like us, apart.

Somewhere, somewhere,
In the likeness, they sit and watch,
So they may learn how not to be,
But stay in love, forever, like in a work of art.

How I wish!

There's winter too, as I've come to learn,
And that there is a tributary or more for every confluence,
That the sun sets, that sunflowers wilt,
And that one day, the heart stops beating for-its-ever.

And yet, deep down, like heat from palms rubbed,
Like the fork that still knows the stream as one,
The frozen summer inside reminisces of the times gone by,
Living beyond, like the yellow of the dead sunflower.

Oh! how I wish I were a raft and not the river,
And that I were merely the sunflower and not the sun,
And how I wish I were merely a snowflake and not the winter,
So I can't see the fleeting, and die, not daily, but just once.

Abandoned

I stand here, in a prison of pack-ice of the forbidden North,
The fingers of their ridges molesting my throbbing bosoms,
As untended lustful men would, to a neglected woman of grace,
A bear saunters, looking for the food that the men left,
It stomps angrily before sliding off a ridge on my starboard,
Another with her cubs walks past on the floe,
Perhaps she knows there is nothing more to forage,
And a pack of walruses bask on the adjacent floe,
Laughing heartily at the travesty of my plight.

Then comes the wind that can go South or North at will,
And it asks me, why so forlorn in this divine kingdom?
I smile, at the irony, for I know she can see, yet,
I am no sloop now, merely flotsam, I say, for my men aren't here,
They've have gone South with the dogs on their sleds.

Ah! you wailer, the wind mocks me,
No elephant ever laments that there isn't a river at hand,
It goes in quest, with its herd to stop only when the river is found,
So should you, my dear sloop, leave the ice if you yearn for the blue seas.

I ask the wind then, what is the elephant and the river you speak of?
Is it a seal or a walrus or a auk of a different kind? 
The wind sighs, I'll tell you of men that you understand then, it says,
When I told a man not to lament for there is no river,
He took my word and dug a well to bring the river home.

The same man brought me here, and left me to rot, I tell the wind,
Can't you see the ice is holding me hostage?
Unlike you, I can't choose the sea, a fjord or a promontory,
Or the elephant's home that you told me of.

The wind shakes its head, what more shall I tell you? it asks,
Tell the ice to find another mate, I say.

It swoops down then on the frigid ice,
Now craving to enter me, not merely molest
Ice, the wind calls, why not seek someone that'll stay,
Why not spare the sloop for the sea?

Why not? Why not you then for a mate? the ice asks,
His carnal smile unsettles the uppish till then wind,
It howls, kicks up a storm and leaves in a jiffy,
And then the ice mocks its bravado and turns its eyes towards me.

I am a sloop, an abandoned piece of driftwood, both,
A dead sanctuary, a mother's empty kitchen and dried bosoms,
All of which shall now satiate the cold fetish of ice,
For as long as the crows' nest stands over the surface,
And until the deep water takes me to her eternal kingdom,
Where men or bears or ice, can't lay their despicable arms on me.

Some Moons Leave Their Skies Forever

Some moons leave their skies forever
Skies that merely pride in their being
But don't care two hoots for the yearning moon

They shroud the skies, in a blanket of gloom,
A blanket of darkness, to the sky hitherto unknown
For the moon didn't just stay, but also brightened

And the skies gasp, for they can't see themselves
They weep, yearn, and at last reconcile
That the sun alone shall reveal all, lo! for a price too high

For not only will he show in hues of red, orange and cyan,
But also scorch and scythe all day, the ruthless ball of fire,
And the skies groan and grind, their mood dire

And when he finally disappears behind the mountains
The skies lament and send a message
As howling winds that can be heard far and near

Oh! moon, return to soothe and anoint, the sun does not,
But lo! the moon doesn't, for she knows not the wailing voice,
As that of her sky, one she knew not as forlorn, but merely conceited.

Where to plunge?

Go on, this is only your first obstacle,
Thus glittered the first drop from the first cut,
And as I coasted along, another landed,
Go on, the next drop said, and please, watch your step,
And then as I strode came the third, the fourth and fifth,
Now gashes, not the mere forgettable streaks,
Deeper, longer, redder and bloodier, as I stood,
March on, they said, like their fathers, and march on I did,
And then came the stabs and spears, to merrily greet,
Wrapping me in jewels of flowing red, as I now could only meander,
There's light at the end of this dark tunnel, so march on,
They said, and in fine red cloak, march on, I did,
The tunnel ended, and then stood a mountain, for me to climb,
The petrified rocks beneath, adorned many trinkets,
With their many masterly strokes, slashed my sole and heels,
March on, o'er the mountains, there's a brilliant light to see,
They said, I marched on, leaving behind roads of red lanes,
In the end I got to the top, and saw the sun rise,
The sun rose and with its long arms coldly pierced me
Even as I hoped it would embrace and help me heal,
A ray for every cut, gash and wound it set off to probe,
Through my many wounds, my soul's skin it began to peel,
Alas! is it to suffer this shrouding, scorching pain, I winced,
Did I come this far, is this what I endeavoured to gain?
And in what stream of roaring pristine waters,
Should I plunge into, my soul, of all the grime, to clean?

Should I go inland?

Should I go inland? So thought the stranded explorer,
No boat seems to moor, by the creaky pier that ,
I've forever stood on, boats that pass by,
Spout salt water, on me, an already salty soul,
Should I seek a boat on the pier and bear the taunts,
Should I  bear the taunts on the pier, for a boat that'll never moor?
So thought the stranded explorer, Should I just go inland?
So no boats may ever spout for their sport,
Salt, on an already salty decaying soul,
For they know not, what it is to drink more,
Than what their mate can return using pails to the sea,
Should I go inland and forsake the pier,
Who too has taken the salty spouts of sea water,
For no fault of its own, and needing no boat,
For merely being there and merely standing for me.