In youth she was a lioness—
strength and speed her only assets,
Her young—a hefty function
she has not once forsaken.
In age she is but a symbol
of dedication, of soul,
Of many decades of hard work,
of sacrifice and resolve.
In life she is a giver,
who grants her all and her best.
For each of my endeavours
in me the power she vests.
As well she is a taker
of burden in my penance.
And when a storm is begotten,
she too comes and tames the torrent.
To me she gives her acceptance,
a gift for keeps and for guidance;
Every step thereafter I make,
by my side, a place she'd take.
From her the courage I find
to face the snags of mankind;
For as much grit as I can rally,
I'd be lost without her light.

Under the sweltering sun,
An old man toiled away
At a mighty oak trunk
That was years old and decayed.
After so many a moon,
He still laboured without
All for one single boon
Made to his love long before now—
Long before her worsened state,
Long before her passing:
I shall make, one of these days,
A garden bench for your reading.

Even when she was no longer,
The old man continued his quest.
When asked for what purpose it served
To still grind away – he said:
For while I failed her then,
I intend not to fail again.
And so his senile frame he lumbered
On every wintry morning,
Hauled up and down his cleaver
To keep these words he'd given:
I shall make, one of these days,
A garden bench for your reading.

Back on the road to the town, at dusk,
Sombre and bright, and gleaming.
Sun on descent, twins of amber tusks,
Darkness and light a-fusing.

Home by home, from the east to the west,
Coppery squares soon alight.
Tyres, a-turning, bring us close to rest,
As day surrenders to night.

The sea is to poets a melody,
to authors, a tempestuous journey.
To me, she's a crude harbour of secrets,
reveals herself but as Death’s prophet,
whom I met a morning, scores of years ago.
The temptress in blue lured me from the cove.
Her skin shone like ice, or crystals, in light;
with her cool embrace, she drew me in tight.
Thence her waves of might she shattered on me,
devoured my cry, excised my sanity.
Out of sight the shore drifted.
I blindly groped for a promise
of survival, 'till all hopes I severed,
and all that was left in me soon after.
She seized my throat, and flooded my senses
with fear, though not of chest tight with clutches
but of depths loaded with fetters that bound,
dragged me to a place where evil may sprout;
Fear of gushing through life's warm fingertip,
Discovered but by those that scavenged the deep.

The deity whom we crave;
Bestow on her the right to wave
Upon you, me, and upon all,
The lance of power to enthral.

Must her words be final judgments?
Must we take them as a given?
Or should we be afforded our say?
Would her slant be forever unswayed?

Must her head be the only,
And the wisest among we?
Or is she not unlike her servers–
Of Earth's boarders she's but another?

Must her compass always decree
The direction in which we follow?
Or should the hardened hands of her workers
Take too the oars that steer the morrow?

She's a leader worthy of a mural
Who yields not her duty to mortals.
For as long as humans still live,
To none her power she'll give.

I was born into rags and tatters,
Hand-me-downs and meagre price tags,
Into the arms of a single mother
Whose devotion has not once wavered.

I was raised by countrywomen,
By aunts and uncles, and friends,
And by scores of jolly cousins,
Who now raise their own children.

I was housed among rough dwellings
That shared the same wall and courtyard,
The same walk to a store for trading—
Frequented by all
for just about anything.

I was sent away at twenty
For higher learning, better potential,
For a brush with the first society;
Yet for good my root remains
in a quaint community.

Mud on our faces,
Reeds in our hands,
Uphill, down traces,
Freely we ran.

Sticks were for fighting
In make-believe cove—
Far from horizon—
For our treasure trove.

Crowned by aged paper,
A kingdom we ruled.
Like mighty emperors,
We banished all fools.

Laughter we gathered,
Walking in the woods.
Played we forever,
Such was a childhood.

As he laid asleep that night,
The Reaper tendered for his breath;
Thus beneath the starry sky,
Out for high heaven he set.

What luxury it must have been
To pass on softly in sleep!
None so humble and serene—
A death for which the price was steep.

Peculiar how love blossoms
For loyalty, or for mere trust!
Bound by moral obligation,
Grows a love kind unequalled by lust.

One minds not perpetual absence—
Needs only sprinkles of kind words;
Nor does it mind the indifference,
When gallantry is at times proffered.

Odd is the way in which love grows—
Not when near, but when stars apart,
Not from abundance, but from dearth.
It's true; distance deepens the heart.

And to deprive one is to have
One pining endlessly for more.
Then, even a speck of presence
Would make one feel wholly adored.

Yet, one does well to remember;
Exciting though is this fervour,
Should it stay unreturned for good,
Its keeper’s destined to wither.

Across the room, a human wishes
For the power of moving objects,
So as to place a long hidden rose
In the hair of the one he worships.
And so the prophet goes:
"Calm your heart and close your eyes,
Will your mind till roses fly,
But remember that some moves
Are more worthy coming from you."

Fatuous is the human mind,
Not enough, that for which it pines,
More fortune more fame,
then more of the same;
That much is known of humankind.

The swelter brews a kind of slumber
That feeds off terrors,
Off dark dreams, off screams and torment;
And it feeds for hours.

Strange is the language of love,
Which is violent in nature;
As though to be tender and warm
Would so refute one's ardour.