April is the Cruellest Month

April is the cruellest month,
So said the Fool.
When old feelings start unraveling
From a long forgotten spool.

With parched lips I bid goodbye
To every illusion held dear.
My voice was gone, I had no voice
My eyes were dry. No tears.

I remember that April day
In that room that’s up the stairs
Where we made so many promises
That were broken without fanfare.

I remember the kisses
As you bruised my lips
And I in turn had drank you
In those oh-so-sinful sips.

That fateful April night I found
My kingdom in your bed.
But when I looked into your eyes
I found something else instead.

Waves of heat washed over me
As I tossed and turned in sweat
My mind a blur of could-have-beens
A pocketful of regrets.

Well, now you’re gone,
And here I must remain.
I no longer look for you
In my wreaths of daisy chains.

I tried my hand at needlework
Stitching broken bits of my heart
A button here, a pattern there
A patchwork piece of art.

And a bit of you I kept with me
Packed with infinite care
In a wooden box of memories
Sealed with a little prayer.


Is it only autumn when the leaves brown?
Being broken bit by bit
Withering away ever so gently
By the time it’s winter.
A silent farewell midst a riot of
Oranges, yellows and browns.
Picture book pretty even as they die.
So delicate, so fragile
Crumbling at the slightest touch.
Do they never get bruised
In the lushness of spring?

Space Caravan


Maybe we come from nowhere. Nowhere people, crawling at a steady pace through inter-stellar dimensions. Stalling at starlit junctions for a moment or two and then moving on. Gathering meteor dust on our star-kissed bodies, that emerge from and eventually get immersed in the vastness that is the space-time continuum.


Maybe we are meant to forever swim through the nebulous sea. Inhaling the mists, looking wide eyed…intergalactic voyagers in motion. Steadily moving towards the unknown. In the distance there are endless valleys, rolling. Crags and snow veiled mountain peaks. Ravines and waterfalls, moving soft, moving slow. And we speculate, and we reach no conclusion.

A nowhere universe. A turquoise tapestry.
The known pattern of the vast macrocosm that engulf and spits us out.

Consumation. A flaming spark in that aqueous ether.
Conception, birth, consumation.
Followed by death.
A predictable chronology of an expected life. With unexpected turns.

Nevertheless, we keep crawling at a steady pace through inter-stellar dimensions.


God is just a shout in the street

“What if God was one of us?
Just a slob like one of us?
Just a stranger on the bus
Trying to make His way home?”

Maybe not a slob, but just an every day bloke like you and me. Reluctantly waking up to face another day. Pass another judgment. Get another cup of coffee and just try to come to terms…with life? What if he was just weary and looking for inspiration? Making ends meet. Making mistakes. Trapped in a self sustaining quagmire. Cogitating over decisions taken and decisions not taken. Someone with a conscience, but  one that’s carefully and sparsely used.

What if God, indeed, was just a slob like one of us? Dumped with responsibilities that he does not really want or care about? Like Lucifer, the wanton child. Would God ever cry for all the Lucifers around? All his children who rebelled against his paternal care, got stifled, escaped, died, faded, got crippled, vindicated, forgotten. Is his grief quantifiable? Is it tangible or as esoteric as he is? Does he grudge us our mortality?

Is God as lonely as we are? Maybe not. Maybe he chuckles at our little victories, our crushing defeats, our mundane, self-containedness and complacency. Does he smoke a pipe as he pull the strings of his infernally stupid and smug creations? Is he, too, eternally damned?

Maybe God’s just a shout in the street.  Maybe we are all damned and happy about it.