Sunday, November 27, 2011

Nights Like These

On nights like these,
You don't need to count 
Your many blessings.
On nights like these,
They sit across from you
And sip your tea,
And smile back at you.
On nights like these
This city lifts it's tired arms,
And wraps them around
Your welcome faith,
And your heart,
Who never wavered,
And never will.
For the hope in your heart,
Steady then, steady still.
On nights like these,
I remember I love you,
More than I want to.
More than I should.
But no more than
I was meant to.
On nights like these,
You realize quietly,
Every friend is a poem
The Poet recited,
Especially for you.

Bloodbuzz Bombay

Send me home,
To what remains of me.
Send me away,
Before I disappear.
I was empty
Before you came.
Send me back
To the emptiness of me,
Now that you are gone.
There are stars
Shining for you,
While my comet streaks.
There are constellations
Hidden in the galaxy 
Of your hair,
While my fiery trail,

Trails away,
Back into the void,
Like an exile.
Send me home,
In a swarm of dreams,
That hold happy thoughts,
And the sound of my laughter,
The way it used to be,

Before the first wrinkle
Was etched under my eye.
Before I saw you smile,
And pick up your purse,
And walk away,
With the tea I made,

Unfinished and cold,
In a cup on the floor.

Wednesday, November 23, 2011

A Prayer on this Night

It was you,
On roads rutted with hatred,
On miles lonelier than the moon,
Each step a struggle,
Another prayer unheard,
Another battle lost.
It was you.
Beside me, behind me,
Around me, inside me.
When the Devil sang sweetly,
And the angels all sighed.
When Potential pleaded 
Once more with me,
Before it curled up and died.
It must have been you.
I couldn't have made it this far.
These dreams surely can't,
Belong to one as wretched as me.
These aren't my words,
This isn't my voice.
This is my soul echoing,
With the clarion of You.
There are things I'll never do,
Things I was destined to.
But whatever is left to me,
I know I owe to you.
Goddess Bright,
Everlasting Mother,
Hand on my cheek,
Blessed Shelter I seek.
I kneel here tonight,
Even though you forbade me to,
Because this smile on my face,
Is my prayer to you.

Tuesday, November 15, 2011

On This Quiet Night

Let me sing for joy.
Let me write the songs
That don't take me away.
That anchor me like
Happy ships
Resting in a perfect blue bay.
Let no other thoughts but these
Come surround me .
And let the sound of this music
And this forgiving wind,
Play with these easy breaths.
Tonight the stars seem not
Afraid, of this frightening city,
And it's unflinching stare.
There is magic in the wind,
And secrets captured in smiles.
True words go by unspoken,
But are heard all the same.
Let your practiced caution go child,
Be fiercely, softly, untamed.
Take wing like a prayer,
Be the wind beneath yourself.
Be your own soaring flight,
The end of your long pilgrimage.
Write your own songs,
And sing them on the balcony.
Let the Goddess come and say,
Sing that again for me.

Saturday, November 12, 2011

Listening to Murdoch and Dylan and Cohen

So tonight
I wrote this song for you
And I sang it quiet
And I sang it low
The closer I wanted to come
Was every step I took away
And every smile tonight
Struggles to me from afar
You think no one understands
Like I don't understand this guitar
But I'm going to take lessons
And learn six flamenco chords
To set every poem to
And these poems won't be for you
Most of the time
Maybe you should cry
A little
Maybe you should try
A little harder
Maybe I should shake my head
and swear this is the last song
I write for you
Except the ones
I won't admit are
So I'm trying to put it right
So I can love you with my heart
But all this trying has twisted
Me tight
Maybe I should walk away
Maybe that's a start
I'm so tired
But I can't sleep
More than my usual four hours
I try to find a voice
That doesn't leave these poems
Like shadows of you
I try to find a voice
That's entirely mine
I want to write the heart songs
For the dreamers like me
But you don't really care for music
Do ya?
Whatever else you may have thought
I only did what I was taught
And even though it all went wrong
And I'll never see the Lord of Song
I sang it once, my imperfect little



First Night Back in Bombay

It’s been more than a month since I’ve been in my apartment in Bombay.  Six weeks I wandered my beloved American streets, remembering each of my childhood dreams.  Reuniting with friends I haven’t seen in half a decade almost.  Never have I spent a better month.  It was everything I dreamed it would be, and more than I needed.  I feel whole again.  I feel like the man I was supposed to be.

Long walks into the Haight in San Francisco, across the Golden Gate Bridge and into Saulsalito, watching the happy people jog and play with their dogs, and enjoy the California sunshine.  Sitting with Boris and Vera in their cozy little home, watching them joke with each other, and tell me again and again how happy they were to have me with them, and to see in their smiles that they meant it with more fierceness than people express anymore.  I remember the food - ceviche at Fresca, sublime tenderloin at the Cafe Florio, the monstrous, devilish, delectable burritos at El Farolito in the Mission, and in Papito on Petrero Hill, the divine Burmese at Burma Star.

Then in New York, where the largest pieces of my personality were molded and cast and polished to a shine, where all the cool people live.  To walk down a different avenue everyday, from Central Park to the Villages, from Harlem to High Line Park.  To sit in Irving Place Cafe everyday with a handful of notebooks and the new collection of poems by Leonard Cohen, Bukowski, and Collins, and Lorca.  And to write my own, sipping large cups of perfect coffee, and pretty girls walking by, some of them kind enough to smile at me.  And nights out with friends who may have become workaholics and serious by day, but still full of that whimsical fire that drew us together in the first place.

And now here I am, back in Bombay.  When did this place start to feel like home?  When did this wanderer find such contentment in a city so difficult?  It was you, my darling friends, and your love, that made this place feel like a home.  Yesterday was a joy beyond anything I have felt.  The food, the drum circles, the deep long laughter, the music shared, the stories exchanged, the hugs so warmly given.  It was you.

I am happy.  To be back in Bombay.  To be back to all of you.  To be back in the circus, dying to put on my clown costume again.  Oh please baby please baby please, set me to act again.  Give me another shot at some modest immortality. 

You whom I was born to love and be loved by.  I want you here with me, whoever you are that will make this shattered poet’s heart beat steady and true.  I want you here with me.  I want to make you tea on this moonless night.  I want you to sit on my kitchen counter with your feet swinging and your eyes unable to blink back the brightness of your spirit.  I want to take our cups of perfectly brewed Qawah, and sit out on my balcony.  There, far above a city full of people all looking for somewhere else to be, with you is where I want to be.  Overlooking my restless neighborhood I want to sit with you in perfect stillness and silence, wrapped in the blanket of each other’s smiles.  And we shall sip our tea, side by side, close enough to touch, mere breathless moments from it.  I want to play you some music, that I’m sure you’ve never heard, and some that you have and loved deeply all your life.  I want to put some music on that's gonna make you wanna love me all night long.

All that you see, all that you read, all that can't do right, all that I fail to do, all that I try to, all that I fear, and all that is good is me - waiting.  Hurry up.