The heart’s rightful owner

A certain amount of our souls
Have always hungered for wings;
To return its heart to its rightful owner
and vanish years of exile as though
We had never really been away
In the first place.

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Coming home from a month of summer days

A still evening is painted with saffron upon the sky
Kindling the mind of dreamers
Coming home from a month of summer days.
It is not a sorrowful reunion, but a tryst
Between a pilgrim and his undefinable homesickness.

Poetry of Home

I have drowned my soul
In the music of this land,
The Woods, the shores, the hills,
Until I have forgotten how to live
Anywhere else.
The tossing of the sea,
The stillness of sand in silver turmoil,
The storm-beaten trees bent in prayer…
But it is a life worth living
If your soul is on the speaking terms
With Poetry.

Solitude is on the shores

Solitude is on the shores
Of Summer twilights,
When the sun is falling
And the old keeps its tryst
With the days it loved.

You will harness your soul then
In the dimming sea,
In the whisk-away surf,
Clothing yourself in the fairy grace
Of whispering trees
And rolling waves of sunset
Gradually disappearing
Into the lost lands
Of beyond.

Walking down a lonely road

I’m walking down a lonely road
I wish time wasn’t walking along,
Seeing faces and places;
Reminders of home.

There is snow on the signposts,
Autumn’s clutter in the guts,
Beaten down tracks of
Asphalt and stone.

I’m walking down a lonely road
I wish I wasn’t walking alone,
Seeing white-painted crossings
Faded and gone.

There are untouched skipping stones
In sea-washed harbors,
And crab traps left
To yellow and grow old.

I’m walking down a lonely road
Where possibilities’ shop
Has long since been closed,
Leaving only in its wake
Miles and miles of unclaimed love.