Okay, let’s be honest. This is what happens when you drink all the drinks within reach at the bar and keep a copy of Whitman on the bedside, as well as suffer from chronic puppyloveitis.
Nah, actually I found this in an old laptop I had passed on to my mum, can’t remember when I actually wrote it or why. Struck a chord in me and thought I will share it with, judging by the hits I am getting, the 2.17 of you that actually visit this blog. Dedicated to the one time I had something perfect in my arms, ana.
Perfection
when your lover smiles
the spiders eight legs
in the rough beards of old men
the quick strike and kill of prey,
the forked tongue tasting scented molecules
a baby’s belly laugh
water flowing, looking for the ocean
in a quiet pebble
sunlight, warm, toasty
in the steady tap tap of a drummers stick
in the running chase of the ball,
a tree growing, climbing higher than it’s neighbour
in a man’s crafting of a fresh joke
eggs frying in the pan, the mother looking out the window at the morning
nearly ripe fruit, waiting for the hand
a dead singer, singing again from the radio
in a vote, cast without doubt
digging the ground, where’s the potato?
when she’s angry with you, jealous of an unknown other
the echo, coming back to you
new glasses, the world clear again
the ringing phone, your friend waiting for your voice
in the soldier, stepping into battle, silent goodbyes in his heart
in the strike of a match, fire being born
the flapping of a curtain, the owner away
a cat’s tail, gently waving
in the wilting flower, job done, forgotten
finding bubble wrap, unpopped
a stranger, reading your favourite book
the artist, haughty, dressed the part
a salesman, walking home after a good day
the scientist, in his lab, dinner getting cold
after the tycoon’s funeral, all eyes on the will
sleeping eyes, the national anthem playing
after the abortion, the mother crying
rolling thunder, the child cowering under the sheets
in sniffing the air, right now.
jeevan
