The Great Observers

Sometimes you have to take the observers
With a pinch of Sodium.

As their self-indulgent eloquence
licks the end of every word and their egos
Nurture the thoughts that precede them.

They can only take one step
In which direction
To say their own opinions.

They snort, they scoff and push
Until their sore insecurities
Have become a bully of their own making.

They’ve learnt to stare with
The steam of Smaug
Drifting from their nostrils.

Of course,
Their talk causes concern,
But not as much as our silence
Causes them.

Perspective

It is strange
How with so few
Different variations,
The whole Earth
Can shift around
And face you from
Yet one more direction.

As, when the sun is on your skin
You remember the cold as only thought
As if it had never really happened in any reality
But your own.

I have taken the same walk
- Step for step -
Three months apart,
And the only similarity was me.
And even I was only just.

It is a journey we are on; these lives of ours,
Each step along the paved and wild ways
Are more than enough proof
For any man, woman
Or child (who is older than their years).

Busi-ness

It is easy when you look at me to see a busy man
But the truth lies in between the constant flow
Of a non-stop calendar.
As a man distracted does not feel the pitfalls over which he stumbles.
As it is you who helps me find my feet
And let the circulation flow again
I can breathe and sigh and love
As we match each other’s steps
In the soft white sands of time.

You make me the man I am

I am not half the man
I am
Without you by my side.

Every moment’s echo is thrice-trebled
With the resounding knowledge
That when we bask in the warmth
Of each other’s loving presence
Every single passing second
Is a second shared
And a second cherished.

It has been a while since my aching heart
Has held your head in my hands;
Stroked your hair
And felt the gaze of your almond eyes,
But it is tonight we reunite
And I become Thrice-trebled the man I am right now once more.

A thing of beauty

Originally posted on Sense: A Collection of Short Stories:

In the city there is an island
Where life rustles beneath the surface
Of a green exterior.

A growing heart and hearth
Telling of a time once disappeared
And now only hinted at
And cultivated.

If you were to remove your shoes
And socks filled with the grief of hard days
You would feel and sense the grass beneath your feet.

If you were to inhale,
You would sense soul and Nature
Connecting once again.

The city is kept out and caged away
Few intruders from it’s depths can touch you here.

Just close your eyes
Take a breath
You are where you’re meant to be.

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Melody on Repeat

It is the rhythm of my feet
That I hear as the rubber cracks on the pavement
Breaths hit the second note
Of the 4/3 beat.

The train throws in a high pitch squeak
As the commuters listen for the time to their beat
Clack their shoes to the low bass tone
Of the conductor hanging on the microphone

As each wheel then hits the ground
The sound of snoring adds to the sound
The percussion of the rushing right off the train
And the sound of people’s shoes go just the same
As they step out the station into the light
Over the bridge and out of sight.

The buses then purr to the ring of the bikes
The men then grunt as they shield their eyes
From the smog and the soot of the drivers-by.

The keyboards tap, the phones ring
The people stir, the salesmen sing.
The beat doesn’t stop as the cup of teas chink
The brains whir while the strategists think.

After work drinks while people rest,
Now time for home where they face the biggest test.
Nighttime falls, dinner eaten,
Arguments had and chairs to fall asleep in.

Time for bed while feeling defeated
Reset the alarm for the beat to be repeated.

A place to call our own

It has been a year since we set foot
In our humble abode
And we were brave enough to call a place
Our own.

And it is our place
For us to know and love.
Our first apartment
To revisit on some future date
When my wrinkles have
Been set, and moulded.

We’ve done our chores
And made our bed,
Watched countless episodes
And always come back to a loving home.

Yes, the shower goes cold after several minutes
And the washing machine door sometimes doesn’t open,
But not a day goes by when
I am not grateful to our younger selves
For finding a place
To call our own.