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Meet 'e'

(a piece under work, hopefully to take the form of a visual story and a larger setting called "Becoming No-one", it is for another day I leave to expand further on that idea. Until then I would simply say, come, meet 'e' )

‘e’ is neither he nor she
not young nor old
not white, brown, black or gold
(not god, nor devil)
not man, nor beast
‘e’ is alive and loves a feast.

‘e’ is both good and bad
both happy and sad.
‘e’ is brave and kind
even at times jealous and mad.

‘e’ learnt how to love and trust
to live on,
‘e’ knew ‘e’ must.

‘e’ was once young and male
and then a woman and frail.
‘e’ was then a goat shy,
and soon a falcon wry;
then a tiger both fierce and tame
finally ‘e’ burnt out the flame.

‘e’ travelled to paris and milan,
the new york, london and even the barn.
‘e’ went to the mountains and
then to the plains and the sea.
looking for more places and people to be.

‘e’ was once told to be a doctor
                                           a writer
                                           a lawyer
                                           a pea!
eventually ‘e’ chose to simple be.

‘e’ was mocked
     and bullied
     and pushed
     and shunned.
‘e’ complained but to no one.

‘e’ wondered and wandered
‘e’ clambered and pondered
‘e’ forgot and retained
and finally
‘e’ took a leap in great pain.

The free fall halted,
‘e’ was now beyond gravity
‘e’ floated around
for what felt like a century.
Now so high above
‘e’ was starting to freeze,
yet, ‘e’ enjoyed the breeze!

Soon ‘e’ began to float low
and saw a strange land below.
‘e’ took a deep breath and released
now floating down with ease.
as ‘e’ touched the shore
‘e’ was grateful for a new land to explore.

Breakfast in Red

Worth it?

Can worth be measured in the people we meet?
The people we touch and the people we feed?
Can worth be measured in the people we love?
The people we treasure and the people we trust?
Can worth be measured in the days of past?
The people we flatten and finally eat?
Can worth be measured in pounds of flesh?
In trash cleared and smeared on in with the mess?
Can worth be measured in days gone and to come?
Can it be tethered with the idea of justice and fun?
Can worth be equated to having tried?
Having cried and played by the rules, abide?
Can with be written in plain text, gain and pain?
Can it be defined by relentless love and game?
Can it be written not to be erased?
Was it just a phase?
Or can worth be published only with what you achieve?
For you neither have a penchant nor do you admit defeat.

Last published
is not necessarily last met.
I could meet people over pages,
and files, and messages.
Over virtual coffee and biscuits.
Over a pizza and brunch.
Over politics and then lunch.
I could meet people
over all the food and drink.
I could see them
within every blink.
I could make friends in two's
over texts and our blues.
We talk about all that is gone
Happening now and now torn.
We crib, direct and maim,
We talk of all the pain.
Much has come and gone,
we are still singing our song.

If everything could tremble
we could have done it.
If there was a rumble,
we would have done it.
If we were born in a jungle,
we should have done it.

Last met
is not necessarily last seen.
I could see you in pictures.
On turfs unsold and plains.
On beautiful canoes and trains.
In parties and in games.
Through soil and refrain.
I could see you in pain.
In sharing and in gain.
We met through a window,
we met in self contain.
Much has wilted and waned,
we are still not to blame.

If a fist could crush concrete,
we are the saint.
If they fell with a tumble,
we left out the paint.
If a dream capsized,
we didn't dream to dream again.

Last seen,
is not for sure the last has-been.

The Mask

The rebuttal,
the return
Bringing the colours
of the old and new.
Decision among fruits.

Inhale!
Being still.
a thought
a rebuke,
Exhale!

Language,
a trick in words,
a meaning behind the turf.
The layer removed,
unearthed,
reworked.
A peel
ripped,
gathered,
shed.

Inhale!
go back to
Being still.
a thought
another rebuke.
Exhale!

If love was but a parady,
Of a life lived and stolen.
Of moments uneven and gallant.
Of kisses bought and sold,
Of metres ran untold.
Of eggs broken and rigged.
Of hearths fired and lit.
Of homes built on quicksand.
Of walls built in glass stands.
Of a face admonished in brass.
Of people walking on grass
and of kindness but a task.
What if love was that tragedy
Of those stories untold,
and the many books yet unsold.
Of pieces of paper ridged underneath
That heavy squalor and burnt sheets.
What if, like from those years ago
Love was still that haze in blue.
The squints from eyes two.
As blue as the far off mountains
As blue as the everyday rain.
As blue as the unvisited ocean
and yet as blue as all that pain.
As blue as the bird in flight,
and bluer still after a fight.
For blue is as warm as can be
As true as the unheard melody.
As tall as the heights unscaled.
As wide as the girth of ancient trees.
For blue is as strong as can be,
To digest this reverence in parody.