Tough times ahead

Tough times ahead

Be ready to face tough times ahead,

Figure it out like jam with butter and bread,

Tough times that test your mettle, make it hard enough to survive the scare,

And grab any opportunity that come its way, cache it in as rays rising from glare.

 

Make every moment count, every drop that falls,

From your sweat, like water on dry walls,

Paint a picture crimsoned in brightness on canvass,

Never build in your story of success in a short frame.

 

Don’t stay stuck up or stranded,

Without any motive to survive or push forward to,

For when there is a shower from God, Almighty,

Things could anyway and for sure would sway to and fro.

 

There are advices from people all around,

Accept them as lessons from the crown,

For when there is a need to out throw,

Intense pressure is surmounted upon innocent soul.

 

Every moment is crucial, every second is justifiable,

But the mettle gives in to clutches of the will,

Will is quite powerful to steer in towards way,

Sometimes above and sometimes droops down under the bay.

Tough times are typical to face,

They shatter the head and shake the base,

Of a stable person’s attitude and gravity,

And befools him time and again creating depravity.

 

Chillness is felt in nerves, so do they tremble,

Under irresistible thunder of motionless thoughts,

Thoughts preoccupying and boggling the mind,

Trying to escape yet getting bind.

 

Soul ventures out to find peace somewhere,

Yet longing for it drift away the only boat,

That seems going the right path or way,

And steers away towards an unknown darkness.

 

This tests your patience levels,

Checks into your blood pressure levels,

Asks in for your magnanimity,

And creates freakiness and anonymity.

 

Times that surge into your dream,

Of reaching the pinnacle and zenith;

Make you remember each moment struck at,

By clock of testing times, of turpitude that playeth.

 

Convert all negative emotions to assertiveness,

And chisel away the friction and roughness,

Process the difficulties as and when your perceive,

Testing times grind the moment you do receive.

 

There are blows felt directly on head,

Take the “bull by its horns” or be ready to be led,

By a stronger person having an affinity for success,

Or get drawn into an ocean of mess.

 

This mess does extrapolate a weird silence,

That piles into more burden of tests,

Times don’t test, they just echo the feeling,

Of the illogical beast to end your tireless reeling.

 

Do peel away your fears and let brightness sparkle,

From dull voice let the lion roar,

For times do giggle and juggle,

Around the person and embellish him to struggle.

 

There’s always a stop to every count,

Always a motive to every pound,

Always a desire to rise and unleash the myth,

Always a fire to win with all grit.

 

Always times may not be tough,

For toughness is hidden in impact,

An impact plunges in more effort,

That drives into superior personal wit.

 

Where’s a way to live in peace,

When there’s all by an large a losing spree,

Of disappointments, disagreements, disproportions, disadvantages,

That do deteriorate and admonish a person to give up.

 

Hence trusted times are waiting ahead,

‘Trust’ being synonymous to tough test lying ahead,

That ends up the fear after building a bed,

A cot that comforts a dying pledge,

A pledge to rise and uphold the task,

Of winning and filling with success the flask,

A flask of sweetness and taste of victory,

That is beheld by tough times covered graciously and beautifully…..

 

 

————-        BY JASJIT SINGH SODHI

 

harm

there’s no blood & the faint scar’s from years

gone

I’m not

home anymore not high not

stoned but                   away I’m

not

 

fit to hold your

stare say nothing         This

 

is the best I have been

long term

the least disturbed

In dreams my

 

cut’s     not so

deep as to leave anything

more than

worn skin

Purse Kept Gems

To search outwards defines strength,

To wander in the fields of black roses and purple orchids,

Dance around and around under the late summer sun,

Tumblers of pink lemonade, gin and chock full of ice cubes,

Straws and a slice of lime to accommodate,

Gather yourself and meet us there,

We can watch the sun cast it’s light across the evening setting sky.

This art does hurt.

The fusion of good words,

Entwine the threads of conversations,

Little purse kept gems,

Cropping up matters of hope,

Decadent the poison is to be removed,

A vortex of whims dragged below the lavender flower beds,

The chopped heads of flowers will fall to the earth,

Dusty and devout throughout the late afternoon,

Struggling for breath in between,

Drowned in a river of mothers weep and pink lemonade.

to an elderly magpie

to an elderly magpie

at your age,
sir, you’ve
scooted zoomed
across a plethora
of skies
pulled finest
worms from
thickest lawn
raised families
scattered them
to the four winds
in handfuls of
black and white
fished the
sky for clouds
flown circles
round the
daylight
moon
the day
you feel your
wings turned stiff
at the shoulder
errant awkward
trembling at
the stretch
no will to
scoot and
zoom the sky
an endless thing
you never saw
the edge of
will you
throw it all
into one last
flight to
crash and burn
or just stay
on the branch
let the wind
ruffle you away
ruffle you away
either way
free as
a bird of
birds the
soul at last.

1 May 2013
ohuiarangi

Oamaru

Is:

 

The sea reaching for the breakwater;

 

A wooden boat tipping in the swell;

 

The sweep of a waitress’s skirt;

 

A teacup’s rattle on Tees Street, where they have cinnamon water in a white room with a high ceiling, and the conversation rises and rebounds;

 

A man in a collarless shirt working a drawknife in a red shed where you smell salt and walk past a red geranium;

 

The bookseller with Janet Frame (on special), her ample wooden desk, the pantry where she ran as a child;

 

The bookseller with sagging couches and creaking floors and who binds a sale with twine;

 

The bookbinder with little round glasses;

 

The worn-down step of Lane’s Emulsion and the swing doors of the pub on the corner where they sell deep dark beer.

 

Here there is steampunk and an engine riding to the sky, bolts and iron welded to the imagination, rearing

 

To a sky of scudding white beneath which is a café clad in iron, rusting for your pleasure;

 

An endless main street past open fields and rich ground through which Jersey Bennes spring;

 

Scent of steak and jammy nuts dusted white and sweet and resting on plates made when your grandmother was a child; cake plates three high;

 

The smart-step of leather on cobble, the sweep of tweed and serge and a man in a pinstripe shirt and a bowler proving that fashion is nothing new and was better at a time of high-stepping horses and penny-farthings.

 

And look: there is one, an iron horse, black as night beside buildings of white –

 

Come for tea, for a book.

 

Come to see Happy Bay, the collie in the little waves, the boy with the ball, the man in the waistcoat.

 

Listen: it is a radiogram, it is the ocean, a boy –

 

It is time

 

Unwound

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

alchemistengasse

alchemistengasse*
inspired by Reiner Stach’s ‘Kafka The Years of Insight’, a biography of the second half of Franz Kafka’s life

was it just
too obvious
that you wrote
much in a room
cramped stiff
with cold of a
tiny house hard
against the high
stone wall of
Alchemistengasse
‘alchemist’s lane’
those mad chemists
of centuries before
who worked their
sand and base metals
saw in one eye
wisdom and courtly
riches their vindication
and acceptance
trying to reach across
the natural tier
of the elements to
raise the most base
to the highest
and rarest
it’s said the
simpler, truer
picture was
this lane
in fact
was where
goldsmiths
worked, you
in that tradition
then beating out
your words into
ever thinning sheets
that tore on a
rupture in the
lung*
your stories,
intimate as a
dream just
woken from
still fast under
the nails
a stain
across the eyes,
what is it
in them that
sells us down the
river for the price
of our return?
intimations of
the great disjoint
of time
of times
of borders that
waltzed crowns
that wobbled and
rolled of
peoples
where one
at best
would yoke
the others
at worst
uproot and plant
them into
nothingness
eden burned back
to the stump
intimations
the snake biting
down on its tail*
unto death
blood filling
the planetary
circle
you struggled and
won out in time
to learn the tongue*
of your ancestors
a language that
sounded as if
clearing its throat
for song while
you coughed blood
to catch up with
it and carry the
melody like the
dusk over prague
over the tabernacle
the dusk that broadened
to a table for your
pen and precious
paper.

january 2014
nelson st

 

*Alchemist’s Lane in Prague, where Franz Kafka’s younger sister Ottla kept a small rented cottage in which her brother stayed and wrote in for a period.

alchemistengasse

*alchemical symbol of renewal

*Hebrew

The Frog and the Rabbit

Prime rose confetti drifts into dreams,
Tiny cities made of ashes,
Centre to the path showered in acrylic light,
Its resin gives the vehicles it’s wheels,
Little green bags litter the roads,
A reverand at every corner,
Issuing blessings and hail marys to every racer,
Purity in a cereal box of cantankerous faith,
Following a frog in a checkerd suit, tie driving a 32 coupe,
We encircle the hounds we chase down,
Out to the outskirts of town,
Until a white rabbit playing a trombone calms us down,
The hounds gather their pace away from us as we gather our rainbow of thoughts at the moss bridge at the edge of town,
We turn our engines off gather our tails,
Puff vapor cigarretes and drown flasks of absolute vodka,
Drink absinthe from nymph’s shoes,
We howl at the wolves and the wolves howl back,
We appear to have won,
Sky rockets burst into arrays of red confetti,

wind pearl girl

wind pearl girl
                 for Keikei

wind
supple
around the
leaves the
swell of branch
lifting like a
worn reef
in cloud
you open your
hand to roll
her warmth
along the blood
the breeze of her
wind pearled
warm of cool

her breath
i chase up through
the hay, the noon
tucking shadow under
the arm, i trip
at sky where the
old gate opens
atop the ridge,
bumped
further wide
with her hip as
she verges
before me into
blue and harvests
the sweat of my
skin with her touch
wind pearled
warm of cool

hard to speak
of the roundness
of air, how it
clouds in a chill,
forever saying
something else
like wind in a
hole through rock,
such is her
skill. you reach
your fingers round
in embrace,
feeling the flee
of her grace in
form, a tear
that has fallen
from eve
till now
never to
be put back
in eden’s trust
wind pearled
warm of cool

june 2017
moonbridge

Cover Smitten Validated

home!, in the whiskey rubber looseness
of the first hour after work, seated softly
and alert, because of where I live,
a patched compartment, a hive of the unemployed
and the left behind elderly. a desert without oasis,
except for the band, from somewhere above me;
home of the prostitute and boy-pimp, the Agency
suspects, men, trans-everything genuflecting
in oral obedience. the place a poet arrives
to romanticise his alcoherent-holiism,
tapping the he-did-it book cover, smitten.
validated. the sky is a cheap malt colour, half smog,
and I’m one cone into the evening, and three hours
from the five minute taxi to the gloryhole.
I burn slowly, whole, a warm even melt
looking for poems in everything; a Nature magazine,
a Reuters year book, Magnum, where I was headed,
where . I am . not . together enough, to assemble and shop
my portfolio around. my eye is as good, I know
. how . to be invisible, and the source
and the centre of a Shoot, but I come on
like a belt that is either a hole
short at the long end, or too little
to tuck under the thing keeps
the tongue flat…and if you’re beginning
to like me, the scent of my candle,
I push back, belch a little black, a burnt
wick taste, an adoptee’s defence mechanism,
this flickering is reflected in this poem
always needing a modification…
I spent the day in the basement
of a skyscraper, in the diesel fumes of loading,
wheeling office furniture, boxes of miscellany
into a truck, my job was to wheel the stuff
from the service lift along the shinny concrete
to the driver, who is also the stacker, plugging
every gap, not a foot space goes wasted. he doesn’t
look much, brown, coughing smoker,
but this takes a clear focused intelligence,
and his mood is upbeat, for 10, 11 hours of it.

Sydney 1994