I create a home, everyday

This print is perfect!
Do you remember, this was purchased from that place?
Livens the mood with beautiful shades; this vase will go beautifully
near the fireplace.
 

This is a beautiful painting!
Who wrote that poem?
This rug ties the room together.
Isn’t the pattern unique? Yes, it’s Samoan.
 

You have such a beautiful house!
You have a great aesthetic sense!
You keep a clean house!
I have a lot of help, in my defence.
 

It’s a museum, full of memories.
A memoir of visits, relics of those days.
Emotionally valuable, beautiful days.
Movements of my thoughts, display of their ways.
 

A studio would be better.
I would rather create; a minimized collection.
Only a display of my tools, my space.
my finished works; ideas in motion.
 

Experiences guiding those tools.
The process of creation guides an incident.
Entirely new, new to me.
Why cerebration, what sentiment?

This is the home I wish to create.
No place for collections of the past.
Present in present will be a present,
No hope, no regret; each day recast.

Self absorbed much

I, me, mine.
Just me, only I.
I fell, I cried.
I fell on you, and you wiped
your tears. I only saw mine.

Always me, I,
That’s it. Only my
anger, fear, dried tears. I said
I understand your pain.
I tried to see the glass I broke
but felt only the shards. I lied.

You? What about mine?
Only me. Am I
Ouroboros actualized? It’s funny
that I glorify. I am spineless.
I raze myself, self-sabotage. Snake personified.

I am the snake who
convinced them of the apple. I
want to blame someone else
but it’s only me. I am
snake, Adam, and Eve, all tied.

I am the snake that
is under no control. Shiva
had the snake wrapped
around his neck but mine
strangles me, spitting venom. I am
the snake which bites itself, I cry.

I, me, mine.
A venomous snake that injects
me with my venom. My
tail in my mouth. Needless Ouroboros,
I don’t want to bite.

Arrayed disorder

Buzzing and wiggling in the calm,
Nothing coming to a rest.
Chaos reigns the present.
Movement is riotous; replete with
unrest

There is no direction,
Growth is nonlineal, non-linear.
Inherent primal genius born.
Created has an order, with afterbirth in
cinder

Chaos breeds creation
Order pushes created
Evolving within chaos; expanding with order
Creation pushing created; Chaos and order
mated

Don’t excite myself

Sounds resound in emptiness,
My sound in me; your sounds in me.
Lights light up in darkness,
My light in me; your light in me.
Touch touches off in placidness,
My touch to me; your touch on me.
Aroma aromatizes in still winds,
My aroma in me; your aroma in me.
Flavours flavour self in the bland palette,
My flavours of me; your flavours in me.

Don’t excite me, self;
experience me in me; everything in me.

Mountains

Winds blow through the lands of the past,
Stabbing through the coats of the present.
Lands erupt with the fertility within them,
Erupted lands bare their whiteness on them present.

Brimming of greens with flecks of rainbow shades,
The same turns yellow, brown, gray, auburn.
Multishade of gray spreads when the weather refuses
to paint with the brightness of the sun.

Lives live with forever change
Minds adjust to live with the lives.
Eyes flicker with beauties that lay
Openly bare, overflow to thrive.

Mountains shed their clothes, their coat designs changing.
Fashion seasons of summer, spring, autumn and winter.
Sometimes picasso, almost leonardo,
monet, gogh, keffe, tagore, rousseau.

Painter or a poet personalizes a mountain
Modify reality suiting their imagination.
Mountain stands there austere and serene,
Naked, clothed, whatever maybe weather’s fascination.

Ask a mountain what it is,
You will get no answers.
No stories to tell of who climbed, who fell,
no heroism, no bells.

Only people make stories
to make mountains interesting.
As if being there isn’t enough
to pacify our dull senses seeking glory.

Mountains don’t seek glory, not waiting to be climbed
Not wanting to be called difficult or challenging.
Standing there quietly, letting weather play,
showcasing events impassively, peaceful or foreboding.

Ask mountains what they are,
You will get no answers.
The weather continues to play.
Play with our questions and answers.

Peak

Calming my breath to bring focus
at each step in front of me.
Not on the peak, not on the person ahead of me.
Just the next step is where my focus would be.

I look up and my head swims,
fear creeps up inside.
No amount of preparation seems enough
when the goal is in sight.

Fear starts to swell,
growing and it expands.
Legs shiver, feet tremble,
thoughts arrive in my mind.

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Comfortable Jeep, Enfield so royal
Leather-fur coats and jackets.
Seeing far-off, difficult to reach places,
Mountains have never been so cordial.
“How beautiful! Trees boreal!
The waters are sparkling clear!
Colours green and blue.
I’ve never felt so surreal!”
Sunrise is celestial, sunsets are classic,
All colours feel real.
New perceptions arising due to
a break from the habitual.

When I am my age

“When I was your age
I had to live a certain way,
do certain things,
behave a certain way.”
“When I was your age,
I was already there,
doing certain things,
Following a certain way,
Struggling and trying,
This way or that way.”

Now, I am my age,
I try differently,
No interest in history.

Context is good-to-know,
Helps acceptance grow.
Knowledge of ways is good-for-info,
Great intellectual limbo.

Monotonous Tints

Hues and tints
Yellow, orange, red
Each round I make
The palette condenses.

Mix of purple
Orange, reds, pinks
As minutes pass
The palette deepens

Unable to contain
Comes burst of colours
Boundaries being stretched
The palette is broken

Skies

The skies are not afraid
when birds soar high.
When sun spreads yellow,
when clouds cry,
the sky remains mundane,
prosaic and dry.

Sky has never demurred
of the birds puttering around.
Never once complained
of the elements
spotting it’s vastness,
drawing patterns across.
Sky never screams in agony
when the thunder rips it apart,
It remains unambigious
letting the cloud do it’s part.