Latest items:
Ailill, 22 october 2014
Both Ways
Child,
denied your rights at the family
dinner table of Horatio Algers
rags to riches fable,
heard your anger the other night
in the sounds of her cries,
the banging on the walls
coursing through apartment halls.
Spotted the fear in her eyes,
tears she could not hide
as she ran by my opened door.
Shocked to the core, powerless,
didn’t know what to do
to break up this family dispute,
knowing all you been through.
What? With my hands stained red
by the blood that you shed
when you were beaten for being different?
If I called the police,
how would it haunt me?
For you knew my hidden wounds.
You knew I’ve been hurt too.
It was a secret we kept between us,
dared not speak of.
Betrayal, blackmail, cuts both ways.
Within this play, each of us, shades of grey
clouding the way. Imprisoned by chains
holding us together, fault lies
on both of our shoulders.
Looking out from this prison cell
I find myself in, the irony of it sinks in.
The ways I’ve sheltered myself from you,
how you’ve hidden from me too.
Hold up a mirror and you will see
your own reflection within me.
Divided by religions,
Superficial competitions, other isms,
victimhood - oppression cuts both ways.
Wounded, brother against brother,
in denial of our shared trials.
This fear and mistrust between us,
goes both ways.
Forgotten son,
Is this the way to succeed?
Change history?
Defeat the oppressor within ourselves.
Don’t take it out on someone else.
Have we walked in their shoes?
Seen what they’ve been through?
Break the cycle of victimization,
create a transformation of consciousness
within us. Change this tragedy
into a comedy of survival.
There is no other way to see
our original face
the one we had before
the day we were born.
Ailill, 13 june 2014
Reflections
Clear as a mirror
at dawn reflecting
a rising sun.
Early morning breeze
ripples across being
awakening to storm clouds
gathering upon the horizon.
Wind picks up speed
whipping white caps
swirling to motion.
Rhythms increase with the fever
of a tabla drummer
throbbing to rhapsodic rapture
sending waves clashing,
trespassing different
modes of manifestation.
Sky darkens
pensive moods
shift tones
to murky blue.
Internal restlessness increases
with the surging of the tempest.
Long sighs melt to
raspy grasping breaths.
In frustration
the blistering brew
of bubbling blood
flares forth the froth
of frenzied flame.
Steaming sizzle.
Sky cracks
echoed by the blast
of thunder claps.
Cathartic release.
Teardrops stream
from heavens above
wind whisks
the storm clouds on.
Arisen
the turbulence is gone
yet restlessness
lingers on,
drifting to
ripples.
Silence stills
to a shimmer
of clouds strolling by.
Again
being becomes
an image of the sun.
Ailill, 31 december 2013
Wind Echoes
Dreamed of a mourning dove's
call, 'who are you? Who? Who?'
Wind echoes through the trees.
Ailill, 18 december 2013
Feasting Eyes
Through an open window
these eyes behold
pinches of wisdom
sprinkled on a poem.
Rewinding the road
separating work from home,
it's settings betwixt and between.
Rehearsing for the stage,
I turned into a dream,
reflecting:
'an image is not easy to create,
but once made, difficult to break,
effecting our roles, what to uphold,
what we let go.'
Coming home,
thoughts of being alone,
turned off the radio, t.v.
and the telephone.
No expectations,
trials or tribulations,
Just me on me,
Deprogramming.
Like a saxophone player who missed his cues,
turning jazz into the blues,
yesterday,
the rain clouds were overburdened,
little cause for celebration.
Teardrops
invoked shockwave echoes
rolling out of the singing bowl
of the cosmos:
'Our thoughts create a spell,
sending our minds spiraling
on a journey to either
heaven or hell.'
Waking up on the other side of the rainbow,
like Chuang Tsu's butterfly, I no longer knew,
was I the midwife? The leavening of the bread?
The coffee roll down at the local Greasy Spoon?
Or Deja Vu, am I you?
These feasting eyes peering through
an open window,
forgetting again
what they once knew.
Ailill, 18 december 2013
Transformation
Transformation is in the air,
celebrated everywhere,
written in human history,
in every mythology
an ancient theme that we all share,
In this season, as we prepare
For a day that has been declared
A holiday, remember the key:
Transformation
Spirituality when compared
promotes this common prayer,
contemplating the Christmas tree
a mystery, its meaning holy,
this time, let us be aware, it bears:
transformation
Ailill, 7 december 2012
Daddy's Diamond Girl
Problema
A priceless pearl, she was daddy’s girl,
until she was lured away from home
by the temptations of the world.
Her dad, a retired policeman, was loyal
to the law, and dutiful to his girl
up to that fateful, stormy night
when he caught her in his sight,
forcing him to make a choice, choosing
between love and his ideals of right;
trading love for the law and its duties.
She had hidden her habit for a while
behind white lies and an innocent smile,
but ruled by the dictates of desire
an endless, unquenchable fire,
each day, its flames growing higher,
she couldn’t keep herself from her games,
and in life everything has it’s price,
to pay the tag for her using ways
she would have to make a sacrifice,
betraying her dad for the pusher man.
She had planned on the sly with cash stashed
but with the loss of each nickel and dime
she ran herself further into a jamb,
until her bank account was bone dry,
savings drained away by king cocaine.
Costs mounting, she didn’t know what to do
except to break into her father’s safe
and make off with his cache of jewels,
one at a time, sure he wouldn’t miss them!
Excusing herself into his bedroom
when he was napping or in the basement,
fooling around with his machines and tools.
She had gotten by, but with the tick of time
nothing can hide, it all comes to light.
Maybe it was the storm brewing that night,
but dad, he forgot something upstairs
and that’s when he found her standing there,
his clown’s hand caught by the cookie jar,
breaking her dad’s heart, lives torn apart.
He called down to the station, turned her in.
Cuffing her, they hauled her off to the pen.
Shame doubled by another tragedy,
in jail, she learned dad had lost his sanity.
The absurdity made him lose faith in life.
For love, he committed suicide,
breaking in pain, his life lived in vain,
for upholding the rules of it’s games.
Daddy is now out of the picture,
but not his girl, held in jail,
her life hell, she is left to suffer.
She sits in torment over her sin,
betrayal of herself as daddy’s girl.
For her, will healing ever begin?
Or will she burn slow in the heat of her woes?
Reflection
While reading Kierkegard’s ‘Fear and Trembling’
and writing my memoirs, I fell to reflecting,
mind meandering into a rambling
incoherent state, I became stuck between
law, faith, life and all that it dictates.
Life is like trying to snare a fox,
full of absurdity and paradox.
Since the opening of Pandora’s box,
only hope leads us on, but the law
sees our flaws, and life is a poem,
with no easy solutions. We come and go
like the rain’s ceaseless cycle,
and the catch is loving these passing shapes,
while realizing they are but charades.
This life that we all participate in
has held us imprisoned since
our beginning, through our suffering
we hope to gain a piece of heaven,
paying lip service to codes, regulations,
maintaining the illusion of control,
afraid to break the mold, secrets untold.
But is the law our salvation?
Maybe dying before death is the key,
but how, when it’s this life tempting me?
Upon living, reflection
is easier than participation.
I for one, feel unworthy
of the task as it is given.
Now that I have spoken,
old crow laughs at the joke.
Ailill, 10 july 2012
summer haiku
Yesterday’s rain drops
bloom butterfly wings breathing
dandelion sparks.
Cherry moon in flight,
chickadee's shrill notes echo
bullfrogs’ rumbling drums.
Cloaking shadow white
blossoms picked by the moonlight
word play in the way.
Being becoming
moths gracing a lilac bush
during a full moon.
A break in the storm,
April’s hickory leaves splashed
against morning sun.
Ailill, 6 june 2012
Bounded By
Greystone highways,
scenic byways.
Caught between William Blake’s
Songs of Innocence,
and Sun Ra’s
Sounds of Dissonance.
The hills are gold tonight,
under the blood
of setting sun,
as curtains draw
upon Phaeton’s
fallen star.
Imagination?
Car hums,
world spins.
Tired eyes
see signs
of
Applebees,
Holiday inn.
Glimpses of what is,
what could be.
No resolution,
just other horizons.
Latest comments:
1 june 2024
jeśli tylko
zaklęty świat..
1 june 2024
violetta
Piękna kropla i Róża:)
1 june 2024
Wyspa księżycowa, a gdzie coś takiego jest
1 june 2024
Weronika
Ta łza, co jak ogień pali.
1 june 2024
Jaga
Tak. Dziękuję Violetto :)
1 june 2024
Wyspa Księżycowa ;) Hej Jeślinko, wracaj
1 june 2024
W fantazji tulimy się, spełniając obietnice,
1 june 2024
Z jakiejś podróży, fajne, piękne czarno-białe.
1 june 2024
A gdzie to? ;)
1 june 2024
spadnie z nieba i weźmie z powrotem :)))
31 may 2024
sam53
skądś się wzięło powiedzenie... spadłaś
31 may 2024
Dobrze mieć jest miejsce na co dzień, gdzie
1 june 2024
Jaga
30 may 2024
Satish Verma
28 may 2024
Satish Verma
27 may 2024
Jaga
27 may 2024
Satish Verma
26 may 2024
Satish Verma
25 may 2024
Satish Verma
24 may 2024
Satish Verma
23 may 2024
Satish Verma
22 may 2024
Jaga