Friday, 23 December 2016

thieving grey wind

the broken factory
the lake with jagged waves
the sad greyhound stadium
the empty studios
everywhere is without
the diner, cemex,
the railway tracks
the grey city
everything is without
the wind took is all
the great winds
they swept it all away
the jagged waves
the bopping swans
the enormous lake,
up and down up and down
everything was without

it will one day come (inshAllah)

will i ever change
will I ever change
     will I always wander
will i always be blamed
for falling short
will I always resort 
to writing
will I always write 
in spite 
          of what it takes away from me
will i ever seek comfort
                            in a lasting eternity 
in more than just
those everyday miracles
that evoke spiritual 


ever healing
never feeling
but always believing
it will one day come

will I ever change
will I ever change 
will i always wander
will I never remain
    <in one place> 
in one time/ in cosmic space

will I always withdraw
will I always ensure
that no one gets too close
will I always close 
the door behind me
will I always choose to be free
instead of loved wholly
is it a choice 
is it either or and
will i ever, will i ever, will i ever
will I ever stand 
                      on solid ground
or will I just float on
until I'm gone
from this world

<<<<<<<Ya Allah, please find me again.

Sunday, 11 December 2016

a day well spent (hometown reveries)

life unfurls in tooting
        all is noise
in tooting
all is noise,
             I tried muting
        out the whole world 
save the sound of the wind
and the cry of the sun 
                          save the sum
of the elements 
inside and out 
 a series of encounters
        removed all doubt
                      that life is unmoving 
that history is reducing 
us to mere cogs, sequences
             so I found myself
in spaces the living (and non living) traverse
the denstists
 the cemetery
the light streams
the ancient trees
whisper secrets 
to one another
the wind carried them away
the sun had nothing to say
<an elemental cry>
the hospital
the sky is pink
the prayer room occupied
and that small chapel 
an old man on a trolley bed
that painting on the wall
<of a lone figure by the sea>
and the primary school at twilight
there it was still
there it was, that deformed snail creature
molded from my child hands
the last stop: the college 
everything is darkness
/////cutting the glass
soldering the broken pieces
watching them pass by
lives on short leases
moments that make up
a brief eternity
to live eternally

in a single day, in tooting
////// hometown reveries

old school wanders II

the gates were open
I went in this time
it didn't feel like my school
nothing was dilapidated
grey was now saturated
everything was shiny
everything is new
the security guard saw me
and opened the window
I know I know I know
I pointed ahead smiling
as though
I knew where I was supposed to go
he just smiled and nodded
and I continued
towards the hall
in it there were a hundred strangers
strangers at twilight
in my old new school
real life
doesn't exist
and so I stood outside the door
I looked to the ceiling and the floor
she stared, a woman at the desk
and on the stage ahead
old men were playing violins
and other instruments
nah, i never went in
I walked out
for it was time to begin
again again again

Sunday, 31 July 2016

mystic night

         they board the bus
the old men from trinidad
wearing top hats and smiles
smiles that break out into chuckles
chuckles that subside
                                         into a glorified


                    ////life is for the living

a young woman
sits quietly, with earphones in her ears
behind a young man, 
into cosmic space he stares
delving deeper and deeper into the thoroughfares
of a reality (untold)

she disembarks
her face half hidden,
behind swathes of wild hair
dressed in an attire she may never wear
in the cold light of morning

                                                   <someplace in between>

the bus zips through
the city roads
bypassing the 3am congregation
of drunkards and dreamers
wanderers and dealers

nowhere folk
squatting on nowhere curbs
eating spiced kebabs
exchanging no words

no words
to speak 
sets in
(the undying kind)

some are running, still running
still stumbling and falling
                                                     still coming
to terms with          a slow death
for each and every breathe
                                        is excruciating

////death is for the dying

the bus zips across the bridge 
over the river

it alights
                  the mystic
for he delights 
in not only seeing
but delivering
------- kindness (in no small measure)
to those most in need

so he treads a path, guided by burning lights
 through tunnels, where the smell of urine divides
men sleeping rough
from those who have enough
----------------to not endure the worst of it

and he leaves each sleeping soul a gift
an immaterial gift, to lift

that fragile human spirit
(the eternal moment, when you lived in the light)
the light the light the light

Sunday, 3 July 2016


where did you find it; the missing piece

somewhere on the outskirts of reality
somewhere in the suburbs of reason

where did you find it; the missing piece 

hidden behind the overgrowth
hidden in a place that no one knows

in a place                     
       no one goes
                     but i suppose

you knew that
where did you found it; the missing piece
                                    was it            by a secret creek
on that antique
of yours

where did you find it; the missing piece 

bumblebees, prehistoric rubbish
butterflies, a pair of medieval crutches
somewhere in that broken scene

by the creek

and you shall find it

you found it; the missing piece
                         covered in leaves

37 degrees 
                       south of many winds