Cold Weather, A Melancholy Conjurer

Sunday, December 8, 2013

Is It Raining Over There Too? by DesolationSmile
The cold and rainy season is a contemplative time. The chill transports me to places, real or abstract that I have long forgotten or carelessly swept away and classified as mental rubble. Such a great time for erratic writing, don't you think?

Unlike the sunny stretch of the year where humidity and stuffiness are a bother and crankiness and the need to complain reign, the monsoon proves to be perfect for reflection and meditation.

The quiet after the rain, no matter what time of the day, can be a time for recollecting and reorganizing thoughts. A sort of pregnant moment in time in which epiphanies may likely arrive but that you'd be a fool to hold high expectation than to just let it be.

Tendrils of an insight, you may hope to catch, but even that is something rather than nothing.

And though it's been a while since I last jotted down a poem-ish entry, I have one to share today, finally.

Cold Weather, A Melancholy Conjurer

Cold weather,
wet dripping trees
bent twigs
lone canine barking,
sweet shelter
the warmth within,
sets the chill in a context
of relative perspective

Cold weather,
a melancholy conjurer
rustle in the leaves
sign of breeze
blowing at a dreamer
bringing her back to reality
if only for a glimmer

Cold weather,
cats huddled together
the moon shy,
the earth drenched,
stars blink for a second
and then hide behind the curtain
of midnight moody clouds
crazy winds take turn

Cold weather,
an orchestra of crickets,
frogs and other late night creatures
make for a heady buzzing
of nature's music whisperer

Cold weather,
back in the concrete
a clock ticking,
tracking seconds,
rewinding feelings,
scouring memories,
ghosts of a mortal's jar of thoughts
real or not,
does it even matter?

Cold weather,
drizzly spots of rain
touch a dreamer
deeper than the barrier
of her flesh,
for cold weather,
along with the falling pools of water,
pauses everything else
in the periphery,
the physical world unfolds
in blurred non-focus
time gets fuzzy
the future and the past
play out in the quiet,
solitude of her mind's captivity.

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shanaz@RS | 1:33 AM | Labels:

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