The Bridge

Everything is in free fall. There you are — standing on the bridge between life and death, between being something and becoming something else, between anticipation and foreboding, between then and thereafter, between what you were meant to be and what you will be when it is over.

And every word, every breath, every thought, leaves you to flutter downwards into the snaking continuum, not belonging to you before it was yours, not yours after it has belonged to you for that one moment — passing through your presence, changing you, changing itself, drifting rushing, reaching into the ever-moving. Still you wait with hopes and dreams in your sad eyes as if the tumult of the shuddering universe has taught you nothing.

sky or sea or wind –
who owns
this first monsoon cloud?

 

 

Water to Water, my first poetry collection, is now available on Amazon – US, UK and India

 

30 thoughts on “The Bridge

  1. So hurtful, so sad when ‘they’ leave, never to return. Except in memory where they’ve burned a place in ours. Three have a prominent place in mine, one was my first grade love.
    Love your write, so very poignant also, will this be the day for these that Sanaa’s find had invoked?
    ..

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  2. We seem to be poised on the brink, unsure whether to expect disaster or relief!

    I want to congratulate you on the publication of your poetry book!

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  3. Humankind gererally has given itself airs of how important they. As long as they do this they will never fit well on Earth. Who does own the monsoon? Nobody but you can use it if you dare!

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  4. I loved the change from anticipation to foreboding. The feeling of excitement shifts. It made me think about taking a vacation, and being really excited to go someplace new and then the subtle fear of being somewhere unknown for the first time.

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  5. Very wonderful work! Honest expression shared openly. I am having an existential crisis tonight. I invite you to come visit me, cross my bridge of dreams, and listen to Joni sing like an angel!

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  6. Wow! I get the sense of being a point in time and space, almost having no substance but what is in motion from somewhere and going elsewhere. How like a monsoon cloud! What do we own? Maybe just the dance itself …..

    Like

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