the day of the dead is not all it seems
it’s like writing a letter to someone long gone
and seeing them stand up straight in old dreams
and just for the record
replaying those scenes I thought they forgot
or staying awake in a creepy old house
seeking atonement in the big void
you can always pay me when you get back
I will wait for you here for as long as it takes
while bluebells are piling up by the gates
Those were the golden days
before the world turned round
and I fell hurtling through space
losing the grace of my self.
I hated school but I survived
because I knew who I was.
All summer we were free, you and I.
We ran from the gates and out to the fields.
You always hung on to my hand.
I didn’t want to grow up, but we did
and then I left you behind.
I never found that freedom again.
I am tired of explaining myself.
My world for years has repeatedly fallen down.
I have never grown wings
but I can fake flying if you promise to close your eyes.
There’s poetry on the horizon
on a far away beautiful island
surrounded by golden light.
Peninsulas, oceans and islands
blending in shades of soft clouds
fading away out of sight.
Ocean meets air and turns with the tides
and reality hides behind dreams.
I am cheating a little today but I don’t feel too guilty about it because this song made me remember what I felt like when I finished writing my unpublished novel and missed the characters I left behind in Arcadia.
~
What I Saw in the Fairylands of Wales
~
I was sitting knitting when I dropped a wayward stitch,
a stitch in the web of the worlds.
I saw a one-eyed fish and signs of sudden rain.
I saw the wren new-washed.
I saw hills that were cast by giants.
I walked through warring trees
and heard the starling speak.
I followed him through twisting streets
where all the lights were out.
We left salt at ever house,
to exalt the rising sea and summon subtler dreams.
Then the Wonderchild stepped out holding a burning lance.
He swore to the sinking sun and the valleys filled with light.
The river-crossings and wells swelled with sparking water.
He refused to be baptised and vanished into the wood.
I stood there watching, wishing I’d caught his glance.
© A.Chakir 2023
tick tock
tickety tock
clocks and tickets
tickets and clocks
connections and blocks
blocks to connection
contact is lost
but as the hands turn
time unwinds clocks
the coils spring back
solid as rock
the connection remains
dreams hang in mid-air
suspended in time
suspended, but there
in a place with no tickets
a place with no clocks
the boats rock at their moorings
i can smell the sun on your skin
and all night the sea salt stays
in the tangles of your hair
i stroke the curve of your near thigh
as the morning sun rises
i await your opening eyes
the clouds are moving fast above
clearing to blue skies, pale horizons,
a distant curve stretched water-wide,
and still you lay in dreams,
lulled by the waves of sleep,
while I dream myself wide awake
The lighthouse keeper fires up the light.
All you have done is seal up a crack.
Reading at night can’t shut out the doubts.
Nothing you think is quite as it seems
and unwelcome thoughts keep coming back.
Praying is futile. You drift out of dreams,
hanging suspended, close to the edge.
The horses are running.
They’ve broken the lines.
Water is rushing over the ledge.
All that was small has now become large.
In my digital dreams
of brutalised beauty
the last look loners
never look back
nostalgia is nothing
but an onslaught of senses
enigmatic eels fill up my screen
the rosie romantics
have lost their ideals
the violets are vanquished
by unseasonable change
i quietly quit
without yielding my self
to fanciful fractals ~
isn’t life strange
my answer was always going to be no
all of my instincts said i must go
dreams are not only a thing of the night
you didn’t express it, when i was there,
when i was in pain, you were so scared,
but our purpose in life
is to travel and grow
come out from that blanket
breathe in the air
darling just shine!
look at the light
The Dreaming Path 