Saturday, September 1, 2012


Where do poems come from?
From azure blue skies
and candyfloss clouds,
Rolling green fields,
And soothing sonatas?
From a candlelight dinner,
Or a walk in the woods,
From being content,
Ensconced in love?

Do they drop like dew at night,
Like iridescent rain drops from leaf tips?
Do they waft in like the aroma
of freshly brewed coffee,
Gently, like a sleeping baby's breath;
From the velvet feel of the perfect bliss
of perfect moments in an imperfect life?
Or do they bound in with glee,
Like laughing children or feisty kittens?

Occasionally, they do come like that,
From all of that.

But much more often, they come
from fearful stormy nights,
When you're all alone and the power is out,
and you clutch a pillow,
your jagged breath louder than thunder.

They come from a terrible loneliness
that chokes you as you make your way
through a festive throng,
From pain that swamps you
as you stand in a crowded bus,
Among a hundred oblivious faces.

They come from standing at the crossroads
on a chilly evening while darkness rolls in,
Not knowing which road to take
to reach home, before you remember
You don't have a home.

Yes, the most powerful ones,
They mostly spring from stifled screams
and tattered dreams:
They emerge from squalor and despair,
And carry the stench of death.

They come when you dare to mute
the vibrant hues around,
Step aside and look at the greys,
the frayed ends, at the risk of being
Sucked into the black.