30 Jul 2016

The sky looks down with beseeching grey eyes that stare back at it from new potholes in the tired asphalt. The monsoon has stopped to catch a breath, its furious outburst now just a wet note left on the soggy air, ink dripping slowly down the rounded edges of its calligraphed verse.

There must be a word for this Marcus, this after-rain heaviness, this turbulent mix of relief and melancholy, a moment when every word can be written yet there isnโ€™t one to describe how the leaves carry the last raindrops in their trembling hands, wanting to hold them a little longer before the wind or sun stakes a claim.

It is that realization of their transience that improves their worth.

Like life. Knowing death.

A pause. A pause that was a surrogate silence holding up a placard, calling on someone to speak. Anyone. Instead, we watch the branch quiver under the wing of a hungry raven, blades of grass raising theirย heads to catch the falling shower. The leaf, unburdened, alone, shone a dull green in the liquefied sunlight.

No. There are no words.

awake in the eyrie
the eagle dreams of shooting stars
burning the sky

Advertisements

38 thoughts on “30 Jul 2016

  1. This has a very mystical feel as if the ancient eagle spirit has paid you a call. The storms may come, but we must remember that the sun will rise again even in uncertainty. A haunting haibun.

    Like

  2. Vivid. ๐Ÿ™‚ I especially like the descriptions of the sky staring down at the earth. Very rich and understandable, given Bangalore is so cloudy these days.

    Like

  3. Oh my goodness. This is one of the most beautiful poems ever! I was arrested by the sky’s beseeching grey eyes, by the weight of the after-rain heaviness, by the raven, and the grass raising its heads to catch the drops….and especially by that eagle, dreaming of shooting stars. Spectacular imagery, and drenched with mood. Fantastic!

    Liked by 1 person

  4. I love this section: “its furious outburst now just a wet note left on the soggy air, ink dripping slowly down the rounded edges”

    And this: “there isnโ€™t one to describe how the leaves carry the last raindrops in their trembling hands”

    I think your approach here, talking to “Marcus,” is brilliant. I do this, I suppose … just, talking to myself. If you have one person in mind as your audience, I think your writing probably comes out better. Maybe not, but I think it’s likely. Don’t you?

    “calling on someone to speak. Anyone. Instead, we watch the branch quiver” … Man, if you’re ever waiting for someone to speak, let it be you! Forget the group-think. Just shout your s/h/i/t, man. Get it out there, loud and hardcore. Don’t be shy. The best leaders are loud-mouthed assholes, if you ask me. I’m certainly in the minority, but there’s something to be said for just extending your jaw and letting fall, whatever wants out, to come. Even if it seems jumbled and messy; at least you gave breath to the truth, as you saw it, in that moment.

    “under the wing of a hungry raven, blades of grass raising their heads to catch the falling ” … I love that grass/catch rhyme. Very nice. Maybe that’s what we need: let’s just all get in a circle, and pass-a-round/smoke a peace pipe. ๐Ÿ™‚

    Beautiful haiku, too.

    Like

  5. I must ditto Sherry’s comment. This was absolutely beautiful. The images and references to the mood nature creates are so enthralling. I loved reading this.

    Like

Comments are closed.