Purple Stranger

It was the way day turned to night, like the flicking
of a switch, shadows scrambling to unpin themselves

from the snow, the moon hastily draping a cloud over
her naked bosom, stars still, not ready to twinkle, the

glare of not knowing transforming into dark realization
in an instant, as if something had been revealed, as if

something had been hidden, forever. Except today, when
an odd twilight slipped into the silence, like a stranger in

a purple coat walking slowly over the slopes, holding the
eye, stretching distance, stark against the emptiness,

carrying not to the inky gloom that was to come, but the
light that could brighten a heart for just a little longer.


First published on Visual Verse (Vol 05, Chapter 04)
Check the link to see their picture prompt

Micropoetry Month: Nov 2017: #28

Micropoetry MonthAs 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
twilight wind


Purple Twilight

I’m collecting broken pieces,
sharp edges scattered on the floor,
the strange shards, the impossible dust,
no, even that sounds clichéd,
like a wounded wail silenced before its end;
who cries into nothingness?
how do you pick up mangled parts
and build yourself again,
without hands, without eyes?
I’m growing a new soul in a petri dish,

(not that I think much of souls)
but who can tell what was there, what is missing,
there’s that three legged cur
that scrounges for scraps by the temple wall,
does he realise
what those looks mean,
bemused, mocking,

the fleeting pity
before the devout rush in to find their god?
how does he pray for a leg
no one told him he must have?
I’m watching as that soul grows,
a purple stain like spreading twilight,
it has a voice now,
talking, talking all the time,
there, it says, there, you forgot that pasty bit,
without it, what will you be,
black resin, like melting night,
the darkness that was inside you,
put it back, glue it in,
without it, what can you be,
without it, how will you know the light?

I’m debating with a laboratory soul,
without a mouth, without lies,
scrounging for darkness in purple twilight,
with it, what should I be?

Be Me

for just an hour,
while twilight titillates the wolves
and dusk drops the last of her clothes
to bare her blackened soul,
for just an hour,
step inside my mind,
and tell me what you see,
why I am what I am,
why I cannot be me;

does a hot wind blow
over desert dunes,
that my thoughts come to me
coarse, gravelly,
peppered with bitter sand,
is there a red eyed moon,
floating in the embossed darkness,
one that sighs quietly,
between beats of the goatskin drum;

are the days arranged like books,
from ceiling to floor,
with unlit spaces where
they were never returned,
ripped pages
with your name on them,
in bundles, gathering dust
by the lonely archways;

for just an hour,
wander through the back roads,
where I cannot go,
you know, I once sneaked out
through a green-tongued tunnel,
through time screaming
in timeless purgatory,
to a lake in the middle of a willow glade,
the colour of a sky in prayer,
the taste of ice in sin;

go and bathe in those waters,
slip your hand over its open lips,
the waters that healed my hope,
tell me in an hour,
as dusk pirouettes to dawn,
as the doors shut out the khamsin,
and rustling pages begin to
erase the calligraphed pain,
word by word by word,

tell me what I cannot know,
tell me what it does not show,
tell me are the tears wet,
tell me what I should feel,
tell me is it all real?

Wordless Dusk

then I remembered
how the twilight
curls around your fragile wrist


everything is bearable
except this silence
that swallows your name


all my journeys
all my poems
awash in this wordless dusk

Linked to Carpe Diem Haiku Kai, where Basho’s journey to the Deep North (Oku no Hosomichi) continues. From Fukui, Basho travels with the poet Tosai to see the full moon over Tsuruga harbour. Passing the Uguisu barrier with the first wild geese of Autumn, he is struck by the moonlight on the sand at the Kehi Shrine. Waiting for a clear day through the variable Northern weather, he takes a boat trip to the island of Iro-no-Hama, where glass of warm Sake in his hand, he feels the desperate isolation of the beach at dusk.
Previous posts in this series are HERE


sitting by the window,
making dark deals with the shallow twilight,
venomous promises,
that sear purple welts upon my naked arms;
while the half-light rustles Rumi’s clove scented words;
I will the wind to open a page,
a random vial of bitter antidote,
his robes whirl white against the glowing slate,
drunk on the wine of an ingrown truth;

but mystic water cannot drown
the endless thirst of a ripped out throat;
so he pours it into fifteen bronze bowls,
his feet skimming their tones,
a jal-tarang of buoyant rapture;
I stare at his wing tipped soles,
waiting for the bruises
where his toes turn over the silent waves;

he can’t negotiate with a dim hour
that is devouring the last of the sun,
cueing the ungracious night,
that lacerates those wounds
with its purple tongue,
its five-edged crystal teeth,
drawing chimeras
with granite eyes and blue poisoned veins
and scaly pink legs
dangling in circular swamps of wine;

perhaps only the new day can heal,
grinding its jaundiced sunshine
into a turmeric poultice,
scratching into my burning eyes,
the camouflaged mediocrity
of an unreal morning;
filling shapeless bags of shade
with secret talismans-
the sigh of a poem,
the lilt of a wave,
the arch of a spotless foot;
venomous deals
to haggle with
yet another toxic night.

Linked to Poets United

Sleepless Light

In this town, where light fears to sleep,
worn sun beams weep,
outside prism doors,
on mottled floors.

The black night with the sickle eye,
knocks on the sky,
the lone monk whirls
where twilight curls.

Star silhouettes against the white,
blink out of sight,
as cobwebbed dreams,
swallow their screams.

Minute Poem – 12 lines of 60 syllables- in 3 stanzas of 8-4-4-4 syllables each- with aabb/ ccdd/ eeff/ rhyme scheme. One I wrote earlier is here.
Linked to Imaginary Garden

One by One

Twilight drips
into the hollow of my palm,
curling under my nails,
charring my hands,
obsidian marbles,
strung on a ray of soft sunlight,
running down my fingers,
one by one,
counting my prayers;

beyond that swaying belt of trees,
a row of crows,
a silent vigil,
perhaps just empty silhouettes
pasted on the cardboard air,
the birds long gone;
my frozen feet hurry,
one by one,
chasing my prayers.

the lid of the night
closes over the
open sores of the earth,
the seeping pus gleams
in the last red thread of sunset,
then from its muddy throat
come the screams,
one by one,
taunting my prayers.

Cow Dust

‘Cow dust’ or “Godhuli” is the shimmering dust haze created during sunset by cattle columns returning home after grazing all day. A magical time that evokes the epic story of Radha’s love for Krishna, the charming, flute-playing cowherd.

Cowbells sing of times gone by,
as cattle march in the evening light,
and golden clouds rise in the sky.

She follows him, the maiden, shy,
his flute beckons the waiting night,
cowbells sing of times gone by.

Hearts and cows and haystacks sigh,
hooves set enchanting dust in flight,
and golden clouds rise in the sky.

He turns, he smiles, catches her eye,
plays their song of love’s sweet plight,
cowbells sing of times gone by.

Through glittering haze, ravens fly,
wood fires bubble in soft twilight,
and golden clouds rise in the sky.

Incense floats from the temple high,
souls dance with angels, out of sight,
cowbells sing of times gone by,
and golden clouds rise in the sky.

Linked to Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie Villanelle Challenge.


She came to him
on a twilight zephyr
with the scent of
crushed marigold
and chanting of
wind chimes.
So young, so cruel,
the sadistic night.

Poetweet: Exactly 140 characters long including spaces and punctuation.