If you had a good night’s sleep,
There is nothing welcomer
Than the break of the dawn.
To lie on bed, watching
Eyes half-open, at the darkness
Paling, leaves of the Jack
And further away the Mango
Filtering just enough light
So that your eyes do not hurt.
There are always the birds.
Sweet tweet of the Robin
Sunbirds chirping, peering at flowers
Cuckoos always so flustered,
Plaintive, like mothers in kitchen
Scurrying about in the morning
And the omnipresent caws
A deep sigh escapes my lips, as in the morning
I empty a full bladder, leaning to the coconut palm.
Nothing more pleasurable than to empty oneself
Of urine and from one’s mind, yesterday’s thoughts.
I blush; a Black Drongo on the wires turns
Its head to look at me; a Magpie Robin trills a song.
The Kingfisher, hops down on a branch
Above my head and shakes his, as if in disapproval.
High above, against the darkening sky
The dragonflies swarm and circle
Bracing for the long journey ahead.
When do I, begin mine?
Laboured breath, squeaking knees
Crunching pain in the lower back
Stench of garbage ride up the nose.
Passing by people, sleepy dogs
Newspaper boys whizzing by
Cycling, cycling, cycling
Cycling on a great Sunday morning.
Old men on cycles pedaling by
I could love them, warts and all.
Sticking up my nose at the bikes and cars
Cycling, cycling, cycling
Cycling on a good Sunday morning.
Smells of the sea wafting by
Drone of the jets sweeping by
Caw of the crows flying by
Roar of the waves lashing by
There is a method to starting a bike.
A deliberateness, a pause, before every step.
Keenly detecting flecks of dust, dried droppings
Of crows, of oil leaked and sticking like paste
Mixed, with the finest of grains
Wiping it all clean.
Flipping back the stand, inserting the key
And turning it right, assured of the green light,
You depress the lever; throttle closed,
Carefully pressing your foot down on the kicker
You pause – again, before bringing it down again
Gently, but firmly and swiftly,
Listening to the plug catching a spark.
As the engine sputters to life, you listen to the thuds, even.
With such intimacy, with almost love, you listen
To the throb; your bike is alive.
First and Last:
You are the first I'm not ashamed of
The first where I feel like I can be myself
Can you hear the endless happiness crying?
Just thinking about you is satisfying
You are the first I think about when I wake up
And the last when I go to sleep again
And there's nothing I would want to change
You are the first I truly adored and loved
With heart and soul;
Thus I ask:
Will you also be the last?
I want to stop waking up early everyday
I want to sleep forever
I want to forget
I don't want to suffer anymore
Drunkenness or doing what you're not supposed to
or not doing what you're supposed to.
Short of breath and sweaty.
Dense. A brain like glass nothing sticks
a mind's eye like glass
what I can't figure
the faint breath there
something passing or just passed.
In the morning no cigarette smoke inhaled
over toothpaste.
What full head What empty stomach What spotted hands.
i lie long mornings
and sample the bird roosting in my tangle
called hair
left there by hands
to confuse my awaking
i am reminded of your pillow and the smell
it caught from you
Pick up on grand torque-suitably an
abstract reference. Can-needs must-be
inclusive. Those latent charms, so hard to
get across. Easy-filling the day with
detachable items. Day begins in haze as
trucks begin to move. All around the edges
of the town. The monuments encased in fog.
A line of bicyclists streaming past the
deserted sports palace, the marsh slipping
back in over the faltering road. The contributions
of day-laborers towards colonial
bamboo tower. Each succeeding generation of
monumentality bears its own distinct relation
to air plane, street lights, noise in wind.
The generations crowd each other out, until
no sequence-nothing wiggles in the void.
I went to sleep
thinking I would see
your beautiful smile
that makes my heart go 100 miles
the next morning
everything was fine
I was on time
got my things
thinking I would see you.
A teacher with a glum face
"strange day" I say
going on my way
I take my seat
a little up beat
when I see
a tear or three
I dont pay attention to the
world ending
It has ended many times
And began again in the morning
Come to me in the baby hours of morning . . . when the moon is a full grown woman letting her platinum veil trail from heaven . . . before high hills toss a yellow sun into the sky like a boy with a rubber ball
Let us meet beside a cool tall pine with stars in her hair . . . only a pine . . . the thin green fingers of grass . . . and the small hushed voices of woodfolk
I must sense you as you come to me . . . the warmth of you like a rolling prairie fire . . . scaring flame . . . eating into my mind with sharp hot teeth
Moon slivers, sun parings, a basket of ripened dreams . . . show me these lovely things again . . .