Heroes Fall

I stopped believing in heroes when my best friend and lover fled.

People leave when life gets hard.

Fair enough. Now I know about that.

Heroes are false idols. Totally fake.

We make them ourselves.

They fail to live up to our fantasies.

I promise.

It’s a fact. It’s not always their fault.

I’d rather meet a badly flawed angel

One with a strong embrace

to stop me getting away

because I always try to escape.

I’d like an imperfect face

A face I won’t like very much at first

but can slowly come to love.

About love

How do you measure love?
And why would you ever want to?
What do you think you could prove?
Do you think I would be distressed
To discover you love me less than I love you.
Isn’t it more important what you give than what you get?
Love is strong and elastic.
It stretches and it bends.
It bounces back and forth.
Look into your lover’s eyes.
You’ll see a light that shines

Did I?

Did I love you enough?

That’s so hard to answer.

We all know it’s often the case

that an adoring lover might love too much.

I don’t think I did that,

But I certainly loved you a lot.

And I kept the promise I made

to love you all my life.

That’s the only answer I’ve got.

The Map

‘Walk like a warrior’, he said

stand straight

feel from your solar plexus’

I walked like a young one back then

now I’m old I walk with a stick.

I won’t stoop

it’s a straight stick and the track is old

In asking for help now in old age
I further your blessings.

At sixteen I chanced on the Dilly to meet a boy
scribbling poems on scraps of damp paper
sitting at Anteros’ feet,
the god of selfless love.
He showed me around
dropping seeds and feeding the pigeons.

Salutations old friend. I hope you’re still free wheeling.

I took my first steps on
the way of power with Old Master Tzu
the Tao Ching in my back pocket
through fire, earth, water and air
straight on to the western shore
‘footprints runnin’ cross the sliver sand’.

and I remember my trips and my travels
LSD is the sacred chalice

I hung out in London with Alice
and went to Paris with Jenny,
Music opens doors.
I played music in Agra
and the drums in Morocco,
flew alone to Poland,
took a train from Warsaw to Krakow,
walked the Germanic woods by the Baltic sea
and sang a love song with an Irish Chieftain

but the touch that pushed me so far on my way
was Don Genaro and Castaneda,
the quest for an ally,
the remembrance of Alice Bailey
and sitting all night in a tree

aligning my chakras, with raja yoga,
the nectar I know as I swallow
tai chi, and shiatsu, reading tarot,
the gates of transcendental astrology are fully opened to me.

stillness
silently watching the way you move
listening to your body and mine

awareness of breath
silently saying the hundredth unspeakable name
with Brahman

feng shui in my house and my garden
forever following clues left by Robin
and a reiki master bringing me healing at home

i remember it all again
things practiced and studied
dancing with Pan, playing with flowers,
the daisy chains that ran through my life
all along the ley lines

a young poet gave me a map, a puzzle
played on incredible strings
when i was only sixteen

the signposts on my path
have all pointed one way
uphill or down
they all say the same
it’s synchronicity
life is for living and loving

I am passing the map and the puzzle to you
no race
use it slowly, be wise
I will give you the key, if you ask
and I’ll do better next time.

‘goodbye is too big a word
so I’ll just say fare thee well.

A poem that’s been revised ~ again ~ Purple Grapes

There’s a deep dark hue

to the worst of dreams.

I’ve been hanging out with the dead.

Those old ghosts are controlling my head

My heart is an open wound

Sweet grapes stuck in old glue.

Close the door.

Baby, I’m crushed, battered and blue

from banging myself on these boarded-up walls

with the juice pouring out on your floor.

DAY 24 ~ The Velvet Fist

If music is the food of love

Turn it down, don’t sing along.

All those words of sweet romance

Lull us in a lovestruck trance.

Loves and doves and stars above

Disguise the fist in velvet glove.

The honeymoons that don’t last long

Soon grow cold, as does the song.

Day 8 ~ No ghazals this season

I don’t want to write a ghazal.

You wouldn’t either with a brain as messed up as mine.

I have forgotten how I wrote them before

And now I can’t fathom instructions.

I’ll tie Celtic knots with Italian spaghetti.

with no sign of Persian delights

or patterns of beauty and promise.

Love is all a repetition of form and illusion.

We fly or we fall as we scribble old thoughts on our walls.

Belated Day 30 ~ Where Are You Now?

Where are you now?

~

All the things that matter to me, mattered to us,

matter so little to anyone else

if they even matter at all. It’s all so intimate. Small.

No-one but you could ever remember how we sat in that bar.

Must be fifty plus years ago now.

I can try and explain, paint a picture, tell the tale of our joy and the blight on our stars,

But why should anyone care?

~

No-one but you can know or remember that one special night

when we met in a world that was flooded with lights.

We were there. We were present. We were so very there.

No-one but you can remind me of words I have forgotten beyond all trace.

I have to scrape every shadowy cave of my brain just to recall the shape of your face.

A face I so loved. A beautiful face.

~

No-one but you could make me keep looking, hoping to see you around every corner, through a window, in a crowd, alone on a bench, out with your kids (assuming you had some), walking through galleries, buying fruit at the market. Do you still play guitar and sing in the street? Do you visit our favourite tree in the park? Have we passed each other by? Maybe you can’t even walk anymore. I don’t care as long as you’re there. Somewhere, still there.

~

I’m so frustrated looking for you.

© A.Chakir 2023

Day 27 – for my brother who died ten days old

~

The Tree of Remembrance (for my brother who died before I was born).

~

I forgot.

The tree did not.

~

The tree grew tall above the plot

where I, alone,

ten days old,

and not yet bones

rotted with the leaf mold.

~

With each year I climbed above

through roots and buds and branches.

In leaves I wear a crown of love,

the breeze my soul entrances

~

and now I know

that all we have are chances.

© A.Chakir 2023

Day 25 ~ I won’t send you flowers

I won’t send you flowers.

~

Love poems abound with flowers

denoting lovesick nights

bouquets of restless hours,

or scented petals of delight.

Roses, roses, roses

red, pink and white.

Don’t you have enough by now

Strewn beneath your feet?

As you walk you crush them.

~

I’m tired of your demands.

It’s not what loves about.

There are droughts and floods,

withered buds and broken bowers,

weeds running wild,

(weeds that later rot).

Why should I pick flowers

when I know you’ll watch them wilt?

~

I won’t refresh your vases.

Go and see the garden.

I grow delinquent dandelions

and neroli for neglect

(bitter orange for your lips).

© A.Chakir 2023