The sunken stream lays across the land like a trench
In my dreams I see it, the old snail’s den zigzaging
Beneath the treeline there is only throttled sunlight
Sometimes the tadpoles and coin sized fish see snakes
And the rusty riverbed holds roting mangoes and red seeds
On it’s fringes weeds and moss are quartered
All year round the tree trunks and river side drip water
Sweating in the heat, living, breathing, calling in my dreams
Tag: God
Morning Glory
daybreak &
the butterfly’s bed
is my door handle
it must have come far
wading the rainfalls
of silence
Lord Hypnos
out over the fields on a winter evening
crescent moon solitude in lonesome traffic
the road disappears walking all night
subtle of soul, from afar or old memory
thou gracious vision smiled with beauty
slumber bounces from quivering leaves
from the shade restful comes the orchard
cool in my senses, murmuring water
cushioned with mosses, lotus flowers empurpled
sea green eyed, stepping with my hand firmly grasped
drifting gray of vesper shadow
the lord of dreams makes lucid this abode
Labyrinth
The Phantom roar of an ancient ocean tide
A storm raging on the sun,
Annihilation a billion light years away
Roaring Helios, Titan unfettered, alien and distant
Unfathomable might, reins past mortal mind
Cestial symphony, groaning giant
If you spoke shattered sound would echo
Over the nine fixed powers,
A turn of your face-
Apollo, light bringer, purifier of rituals
Prophet, appear before closed eyes
Drawing down revaluations
Silver thread in the dreamy path
Float past the dark unknown
Idol meditations
Quiet and unmoving figure in shadowy sanctuary
Heavy in cement, garish colours and mass produced worship
Your arms wide, open and embracing the slums and towers
The misery, noisy and desperate incantations- calculus for virtue
Hungry in extravagant prayer, furious in all encompassing faith
Harder and colder in steely indifference, gold hearted over empty stomachs
Adorned, lavished, ancient and praised amongst aching limbs and inner torment
Before you we fearfully fold in submission, for you may be muted,
But the devil’s voice is always echoed, among spectral nations and monstrous profit
Blood drinking machines and ciphers in our souls
Help me solve a riddle
A week or so ago, when the year just began, I was doing some reading on the Orphic mysteries and Gnosticism.
Soon after I dreamt of Apollo. Invoked in marble, I approached the statues’ base and he gave me two bronze arrowheads and a buckler sheild, circular with a semi-circular boss in the middle. The bronze was aged, a green bronze, beautiful like no other metal exposed to the elements can be. It occurred to me the size of the sheild could also change.
The figure of Apollo was thought to be dual natured, sometimes Helios, the sun god. What’s important to us is that he was know as a prophet, an Oracle besides the usually connection he has to messages.
It seems to me that I’ve been given a riddle. So my readers, do you know what I could do with two arrowheads and a sheild?
Born to wait
The queue seemed to stretch for miles with people moving like they had all the time in the world.
I was tired and unsure of the ground below me. I looked around and decided that the people there were a sorry lot despite being dressed up like a carnival. The ones that smiled made me uncomfortable.
Eventually I reached the gate. Some guy there showed me a video- all sped up but vaugly familiar. I said “What a sad little story, you guys should make that a movie.”
He said “The name’s Peter. That was your life on replay.”
Rijul Ballal 