Scraps..here and there..everywhere

Scrap 1

hear?
hear that voice call out my name,
from those edges.

see?
see that albatross
flapping wings in the firmament

see?
see that skylight
and cobwebs
sticking around

messed up
patched and thatched
poetic existence
that brewed from
coffee, window and conversation
nicotine too
and
reeling under the pressure
of tomorrows

if only there weren’t any today.

that rickshaw puller there
has a today implanted
in every tomorrow of sanity

the tiny wildflower bending
its neck under the autumn sun
has a today too
full of scrutiny
and surveillance of the garden
and the endless blue above.
and tomorrow it may think of
butterflies and mossy bricks
which make her home

history will decay
as I observe
revolutions and reformations

and the rickshaw puller
and the wildflower
in the crannied wall
will never be there
in the history of kings.

let them be here
buried in love, labour,
curiosity meshed with
midsummer’s madness
in the abundance of geography;
let them be here
used up, recycled and then
reused again,
in my self contained
self made eternity!

Scrap 2

Leaves.
Summer leaves.
Green, yellow, flaming red
Like the lava flowing,
Crisscrossing its way
Like the endless stream of history
Oft repeating oft silent
And full of dark remorse.

Season of blue.
Leaves turn greener.
Soaking pieces of summer’s strength
In madness of rainclouds
In the periphery of blue mountains.

And in autumn redder still.
Radiant and crimson
Blushing in the austerity of age.

Winter and whiteness.
Pale morbid listless
Lifeless.
Bits of losses strewn in blank verse.
Nothing.
Nothing remains.

And the cycle then. The sea gives back what it takes.

Come back green and yellow and red
In flaming red.

Burn me out. As you had burnt death.
Growth, water and decay.