F & B

Rain, mists and clouds
Beauty and her beloved
Walking down a narrow path
Treacherous but safe,
In the hands of her lover- Faith

Home...

What is it about home?
You travel all around the world,
yet long for home, the one place
you feel rested, at peace,
is it a place or just a feeling
that warms your heart?
Is it her smile of welcome,
when I trudge back,
weary and she opens the door?
Is it the cosy familiarity of my couch
in which I sit and ponder?
Is it the smell of onions frying
in the kitchen as she prepares dinner?
Is it the shadow of the tree
that falls across my window?

Or is it just me, belonging here?

LIFE ON HER TERMS... (a story or is it?)

She sifted through her table drawers once again; didn’t want to leave any memory, untouched before she left and of course destroying damning evidence, if any. She smiled, thinking to herself that she had actually never done anything which needed to be hidden or destroyed. She had lived her life, with dignity and her head held high. “An open book”, Opal” that’s how one dear friend had described her. Ah well, better to be open than closed; makes it easy to deal with people and be free, truthful. After all, an open book wouldn’t have any pages hidden, now would it?

Of course, in her life’s journey, her idealism had mellowed and now she knew that she could only be responsible for her thoughts and that s it. If anyone needs change, it has to come from within, and no matter how much you love a person, you are still not that person’s thinking. You can pray, ache, agonize for them but you cannot realize for them. Yup, that was not possible. She didn’t mind the pain that had come her way; there were plenty of good times to remember not just the losses, she knew that. But she also knew that to be able to GO ON, one must receive, and give and receive in return, This is the eternal scheme of things; the symbol of zero; full circle, the serpent eating its own tail, however one put it… this was how things were meant to be, how mankind was meant to be; not standing with their hands crossed their chest but each one holding another’s hand. She grinned, God! May that day come when we all hold each other, carry each other and hold out our hand to the man with the lonely eyes. OMG! That was a line from a Supertramp song. She laughed out aloud, thinking of how much she loved music and how even now it was seeped within her sub conscious, even now, when…

There was nothing in the drawers. She turned her attention to the little packet she had made. It had his handkerchief, watch, a picture of the two of them and a letter she had written while he had been away. Was she being Egyptian, she grinned, how does it matter, doing this is giving me peace now and that’s what counts. After all, wasn’t it time she looked out for herself? Her peace? Her space? Her life?

Her eyes grew moist as she thought again of how cruelly pages from her book of life had been ripped out. My dear friend, don’t you realize the jagged edges remain and that they cause pain which never goes away. Yet, how silly to expect compassion from someone who was brutal enough to tear her life apart in the first place.

She walked around her house, touching things here and there, smiling. Oh, before she forgot, she lit up incense in each room, because the fragrance was calming and while she was calm, she knew that when that front door opened, whoever entered would be anything but calm.

She entered her bedroom drew the curtains, stripped and went for a shower, cool water running down her body. She sighed with pure pleasure and scrubbed herself well. Taking the towel from the rack, she draped herself in it drying, her hair, her hair was long, thick and almost till her waist, that took forever to dry. She tossed the dryer aside. The weather was balmy; they would dry on their own. What should she wear? She stood in front of her closet, wondering at the perennial “what should I wear” feminine dilemma.

First things first, she put on a new pair of undies, and a bra which fit her very well. Then she took her favorite long skirt and pulled it over her head, reached out for an orange t-shirt. She grinned at her choice of clothes; she was always one for comfort, not fashion. But her one weakness, perfumes, esp. layering, you know when one bathes with a soap or a shower gel and uses a body lotion and then sprays on the perfume (all the same brand)… She had chosen Paris by YSL. No particular reason, she just liked it. She went and sat down on her bed, put the packet she had made on the side table, turning her head this way and that to make sure her bedroom was in order.

Then she lay down on her bed, took out the razor blade and slit her wrists.

Alone...all one, all alone

A small note of music echoes in my heart...

Or is it your laughter that I hear from beyond time itself?

... echoing down the centuries to finally reach me?

A smile plays at my lips as I reach out... to you

only to grasp nothing and as you fade away into the mists of time...

I wake up to the harsh reality of being alone.

A Rolling Stone...

I am new to blogger.com.
I have been blogging on msn spaces for over a year. But I deleted that blog by mistake (or was it??)... So, I decided to use a different "medium"?? What should be the word here? Channel, Website or well whatever... thoughts are from the same soil... A stone may roll, but will always remain what it is. Wow, heavy stuff!! Why doesn't that surprise me?

You see, I was born with a white beard and on my cheek was a solitary tear, as I knew even then the truth of life would be hard to bear.

You got that right. I am a poet (or I like to think I am).