To say neighbour is to say line or fence or wall or mine
and yours. To say neighbour is to succumb to the fear
of loss, to the hubris of possession. A star has no
neighbour. Who can claim to own the night sky? A tree
has no neighbour. Leaves and roots tangle in unspeakable
ways. A traveller has no neighbour, only a fellow passenger
and his shadow. What are we but passers- by, giving light
and life, getting light and life? To say neighbour is to assume
permanence. To say neighbour is presume significance. To
say neighbour is to reduce identity to geography, to physical
contour, to a narrow idea of belonging. Eternity has no
neighbours, only itself. A seeker has no neighbours, only
itinerant ephemera that cross paths from time to time.
Share your shade, pass a cigarette, touch, sing, depart-
the road has no neighbour, only reminders mile after mile.
For the mid-week prompt at Poets United: Neighbour
And the monk sat, like a cloud, at peace, the way you can
unfurl at a safe distance from people, speaking softly, the
way spring rain writes on leaves, about life and illusion and
the journey of souls that leaves us behind, the way a snake
trades one skin for another. I wanted to ask if I could shed
this skin you touched, memories etched on it like scars that
would never heal. I wanted to ask if I could be washed and
anointed in a sunshine unguent, the way a bride is bathed
before her wedding, healing turmeric running down her
face and neck, the way the old sky is made to masquerade
as a new one each morning. But I am just the moulted life
of a writhing soul, holding on for a flutter, the way a name
is carried in the fist of the wind, for a distance. A sunset drips
yellow, the way time passes, faster when nobody is watching.
Image by Sharon McCutcheon (Picture Prompt provided by Visual Verse)
As we start counting down the last three days of November, I want to share another Cherita, a form that is becoming increasingly popular. If you’re just learning about this form, it is a six line poem, broken into three verses. The first verse has 1 line, the second has 2 and the third has 3. Also, the cherita is a story-poem that suggests there is always more to the tale!
Try (another) one or any other form of micropoetry and bring it here using comments or Mister Linky.
maybe I wasn’t thinking
maybe a thought
was passing through
a dandelion’s tryst
with the wet
my poems too are fragile and fleeting
sometimes soft and naked as the rain
but see how you blush cherry blossom-
who will rush outdoors to see grey words
falling from grey skies
The ugly sky was shedding charred skin,
fiery welts were glowing through its punctured flesh,
the night that had concealed the hideous torment was dying,
all that was safe was burning in a pyre of soul-stripping light.
But then a glowing peak rose like the tip of a flame,
searing the air in puffs of aurum dust,
dragging the eye with it to the realm of the unchained spirit,
while fear watched, afraid to breathe, afraid to blink, afraid to care.
Nature in its birthing ritual was releasing another syncretic dawn,
mirroring the heart, an amalgam of black hope and golden despair,
a child of the eternal infinite, ephemeral as the rising sun,
damned like the lover in hades and blessed like a four-winged flower.
25/3/15: Posted on DversePoets