By Jeewan Ramlugun FRSA
What is the worry ?
Brown is the norm,
green no more,
no more dark or grey
but blue, blazing azure
enduring, here to stay;
for heliophiles it is a boon
for certain,
for farmers nightmares;
despite it all
we are not on Mars,
well, not yet;
in time to come,hell
may greet our planet,
but blessed earth still
may overcome it all.
River way
Days are turning out to be rainless,
with shrubs almost moistureless,
as the meandering Longford river
plenteous water does not deliver,
a source most dependable,
the streams with less gurgle
flowing strugglingly in places,
the pith of my poetic passion
close to desperate dryness,the weirs
of joy tumbling in slower motion;
the birds singing still ,but in strain
less fulsome ,as if commiserating
with creatures on plenitude depending,
the effortful sinuous walks never in vain.
Word weaving
Aim to emulate the best
or modest,in forms manifold;
in the ideal Ardabil
transiently luxuriate
( Pazyryk forgetting),
sensing the glory of the wool,
the sensual silk, the verbal velvets,
taking stock of the deep motifs
in all complexities of meaning,
of geometric gem in pattern,
altogether superbly symmetrical;
in the wool warps
attempt to produce a skein
of lyrical intricacies,
the hallmark rudiments
in the rigours of exactitude
vibrantly evident, such that
no extent of dilettantism or sciolism
can equate to great artworks,
merely dabbling to a moderate extent,
wallowing in the shallowness
of the craft,in the lowly shoals,
not bringing one gloriously close
to the wonders ofTabriz,
the province of dream weavers,
never attaining Ars poetica,
even if roaming,freely, adventurously
on the open white pages,the schema
not followed through adequately.
Too late ?
Is it actually too late
to make amends,
too late love
to show and express,
for turning bitterness
of the imperfect past
into a present positive?
feelings still raw,
hurts remaining sore,
it is understandable
all may not be quite well ,
with sadness on both sides;
in the end, a resolution
is desired,for unison,
before it is too late,alas.
Content again
Divinely melodic black bird,
you have been missing
for some days,
our sojourning in this woodland
in delight found wanting;
then out of nowhere,in the bushes
regal kingfisher, in your azure blue
orange glory you make a showing
ever so rare ,your vivid hue
commanding rapt attention ,
all yearnings to see you rewarded,
the waiting not in vain;
fleetingly though you stayed in view,
it was an eternity of celebration.
Precious pristineness
Memories of many moons ago
may wane more than wax;
recalls may come, but go
more often, yet moments
pure and entirely dear,
whatever the distracting
diversions of this world, endure,
spirits untainted by inauthenticity,
sentiments rooted unshakably
in down to earth simplicity,
beyond temporal vagaries,
surviving in quintessential nuances,
like remembrance’s embers
staying alight,albeit lambently.
