this haze aint purple, Jimi!

Tonight:

The woods are embroidered by the mist,
Mountains look like heartbreak blue. 

Thinking is an antithesis of happiness

But, think she must for thoughts are dream bubbles

A bomb goes off somewhere while a heart breaks silently

T.S.Elliot believes that’s how the World will end .. . With a whimper!

A candle wick flickers, gutters out,
Mirth mutates to morbid.

 

Billie Joel Armstrong wants to be woken up once September ends, while I still figure out my sleep. 

Someone sent this in email:

"I was satisfied with haiku until I met you, but now I want a Russian novel, a 50-page description of you sleeping, another 75 of what you think staring out a window." Dean Young, excerpt from “Changing Genres”

I was flattered and saddened together. Does that happen? How does the mind have collusion to such opposites? 

I don’t realize I have been a spinning top until I play with him, giving him a time out, screaming and then squealing. Until I open the door cautiously to see him sleep, with folded hands below his chin, long lashes fanning the cheeks with their shadow. Until, I slide in next to him and he instinctively turns towards me, snuggling up like a reminder of his one year old self. Until I see the shining dampness on his temples and hair.

Like the way he lazily wakes up and hugs me tight with that melting gold smile of his, the way my body envelopes his softness and the way he traces my jaw, my clavicles, playing with my hair.

Is it possible to be great, to fill in passion in the momentary and finally create a grave full of passion? 

Is it possible to live deeply into the world, and still create the orchestra of warm home, the rhythm of domesticity, the moments of beautiful blandness?

Some days am full and think yes! Others not so much!  The consistency of the inconsistent heart!

Copyright © Neerja Yadav

#NeeNos

I think I would never have the best best friend

I think I will never camp in the wild

I think I will never live like a gypsy

I think I will never live in a cottage with a small old fireplace by the lake overlooking hills and greens

I think I never will be the mom I want to be

I think I will never own a quaint bookshop

I think I will never have that to-die-for love

I think I will die alone

lone wolf and sleeping woods

via web

Zelda Fitzgerald says: “Yours is a story taking place behind the scenes, and I only hope that you will not forget that most of the audience has never been there”

The way crickets chirp and birds sound, you can hear the summer coming to close. The way grass turns and flower behaves, you can smell the summer end.  

Conflicted colors of life, smudged with peach, the yellows and the pastels of:

the way Nirvaan trips over and goes “mumma mumma” hand held out for me, he quiets down as i hold him … other times he climbs atop me… lilts ‘lurvvve you’ while pressing his cheeks to mine or planting a big slobbery one on the mouth,

painted with pink and red of:

long talking hours when the time does it’s clichéd flying, the interweaving of love and lust, desire and despair, making a tapestry over my newest quilt for the everyday

patch work of gray and black of:

dead of the night floating off, flying solo, to distant stars.

Swim against and crash, the body breaks, the soul lives on. 

Like a logical progression, the timeline is being built up.

Somewhere in my earphones seemingly distant and hauntingly close Shinoda Raps:

I'm left with emptiness that words cannot defend// You'll never know what I became because of you//Ten thousand promises, ten thousand ways to lose

Wouldn’t be it wonderful to just get up, book yourself on a long long distance flight and be off to those distant shores. Create the fairytale, while living it! Live the gypsy me, finally!

The loneliness fighting for space with the fullness of grace! 

The beauty of the living with the beast of survival!  Their love needs consummation, because the lines blur, the anarchy blends in with the peace!

I think, I will sleep and catch on the half dreamt dreams of last night, of tomorrow.

Copyright © Neerja Yadav

'never let me go'

Christina talks about Animal Totems and I think I have two right now the deer and sparrow. 

He says I sound irritated. I stop.  Am I? Irritated? With what?  A presence or an absence?

I don’t really know or perhaps maybe I do.  Everything is a compass. The heart always knows best. The ever present friend and guide!

What is it like to finally decide to:

1.    Give up a friend and remember his birthday?

2.    Give up on another one and remember her idiosyncrasies?

3.    Not let the muck in a garb of pleas, touch you?

4.    Not let the fatigue and dark clouds envelope, interfere with the everyday?

5.    Let your son kiss you silly and mess with you, when all you really want is to be left alone?

6.    Not get disconnected completely, when you are really craving that shell?

7.    Not let lead-in-the-stomach-premonitions paralyze you?

8.    Taking a chance on a new friendship when you would rather shut out?

9.    Saying yes to self and someone, but more to self? That huge leap of faith?

 It’s vertiginous. It’s terrifying.

An unexpected rain shower of everything to make new memories takes over. A slow realization it’s good to be cautious but it’s greater perhaps to be true to self. The simply wild self! There is grace in nature.

To learn to know how it feels to be stranded in the middle of an ocean and have the skies open up and know things will never be the same again. And, your heart just got a bit more scraped and bit more resilient.

                                                      
Tempestuous! Dramatic! Bright! Scary!  I am vulnerable. I am scared.


Copyright © Neerja Yadav