A Surreal Night!

Or was it the dawn?

An hour before

the Moon came,

white, resplendent,

and the sky went dark

all of a sudden.

The only thing that shone

was a narrow passage of time.

Two hands emerged in a surreal sky,

and made a shadow over the path.

The hand of God,

and the hand of Man.

Half asleep, I walk the path,

and behind me is the shadow of God.

Sushama Karnik.

 Gentle, tender, evocative, calm.

A dream spins around.

In and out breathes the feeling.

There are as many streams of life

as there are tresses in the heavy braids.

The cat brings the art of

dreaming to a perfection.

The fat blankets of winter gone,

I can roll in the bed spring made.

the colours of madness sweep over the sky,

and bring the season of insanity.

My cat comes out and blinks at the sun

and the whole day seeks some place to bask in the light.

Frozen, broken, calm

 The zone of silence, the comfort of withdrawal;

that was how 

I spent  the night of the soul.

The dawn was serene.

the distance was scary.

I dipped the brush with resolve

into the colors. 

Splashed'm on the palette,

my demons slept. That was the day I turned to the canvas.

The first wash was a bath in grey.

The sea was raging within.

The horizon stunned,

randomly.

And next was the wave of a reckless fury.

I was the river, the sea, the challenge to resist

the ocean, the unbending storm and the rain.

The sea was all around me

Memory picked up the sandstorms,

and the breakers came to crash on rocks.

I let the brush slide on its own

until a wave surged, spinning with the wave

my brush took on the 

the drastic change.

I was pushed aside,

and the brush made errors

feverishly.

Bewildered, fatigued, I stopped. In the withdrawn silence 

of the pause.

I saw what I had failed to see. 

Before my eyes a happy error had transformed the turbulent sea.

I was in the presence of a wave, surging, frozen, 

broken, calm.

I left the canvas and went back to sleep.

 I ran down the slopes of the sand dunes

slipping into arms of Time.

Time, the jealous lover who neither lets live nor die.

The red robes of passion ill fitting , made by an inept tailor,

can no longer give the warmth. The seven horses

needed to go down the slope

into the valley of sleep.

Time holds me green and dying,

some day to wake up again

on the fern tree frozen

atop the hill.

Long shadows speak

of the sun

riding behind

chasing the sunset hill.

The seven horses are impatient. The chariot

looks smaller as the horizon widens

to take the sun in.

There something beyond

the words can speak

Ignorance spreads around like a quilt.

Time, the jealous lover,

unrelenting till the end

will suddenly stop and

pull me close and

I will sleep, a dreamless sleep.

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 I ran down the slopes of the sand dunes 

slipping into arms of Time.

Time, the jealous lover who neither lets live nor die.

The red robes of passion ill fitting , made by an inept tailor,

can no longer give the warmthThe seven horses

needed to go down the slope

into the valley of sleep.

Time holds me green and dying,

some day to wake up again

on the fern tree frozen 

atop the hill.

Long shadows speak

of  the sun 

riding behind

chasing the sunset hill.

The seven horses are impatient. The chariot 

looks smaller as the horizon widens 

to take the sun in.

There something beyond 

the words can speak

Ignorance spreads around like a quilt.

Time, the jealous lover,

unrelenting till the end

will suddenly stop and 

pull me close and

I will sleep, a dreamless sleep.

  Like the dark shadow of a white flower

the full moon follows the lover.

Like the dark swan in a dark river

the maiden seeks her shadow.

Mirror images, anxious, dark,

will supersede the one out there.

I put out my hand to reach the sky

while caught in the flux of the river,

I dip my fingers in the fleeting clouds

to stop the moon, the stars and the time.

I wish the moon, the flower and the swan

were all here with me solve the riddle of Time.

Sushama Karnik.

Rita Puddu by Henri Cartier-BressonInspired

 Mallarme, Valery, Verlaine, Baudelaire, Rimbaud, Rilke

You, the rainmaker and the rainer,

and I the one who feels the wind on my face;

treacherous, aggressive.

Halfway up the top,

the road did not stop.

But I stopped. The rain drops

falling on my face

intensely,

and I

did not want them to stop. And I stopped

to catch up with those gone far ahead.