Don’t cry for me this December

This is an image of sunlight pouring through a bleak forest and it captures the essence of the poem I've written which is both pessimistic and optimistic

Frank Zappa’s Watermelon in Easter Hay plays softly
As I’m amid fecund vegetation, lush hills;
The songs I’ve written weep with these distorted times
When all around me there is growth and newness and crisp air,
But tears cascade down rough contours and broken edges
My guilt has no bounds; it wells up like a spring of death,
Forever the tortured artist, is there no respite?
The bells of the chapel chime, they’re most uninviting
Through wind and cold and drizzle they cut, beseech, entreat,
But only like a razor slowly splitting the ear
Qui n’avance pas, recule –
This truth I know now in all its fiery vengeance,
I’ve squandered my existence Holy Father, forgive me.
The motel room I’m in is dull and rusty
With stubbed cigarette ends and dirt, and blood-stained sheets,
The cobwebbed ceiling heralds an aubade so dirgy
And in the choking light of the dying bulb, I see
A fly that flits around the dregs of tea in a cup
So pockmarked with the stains of time and brutal age,
The seven-branched old candelabra is a witness
To faith archaic and withered like a gnarled, unclean oak,
The dust beneath the bed induces a bronchial wheeze
And hacking up phlegm so green, I cough and wheeze so fiercely.

‘Is there nothing I can do anymore?’ I ask myself
‘Is my life now reduced to hackneyed statements and pessimistic clichés?’
‘Am I just carrion to be fed on by demons and vultures?’ I ask melodramatically.

And so, I pick up that old guitar I named Lucille
In honor of the late, great B.B.King,
I pour some aging brandy and pop that happy pill
And clear my drying throat and spit before I sing

I think of crime and punishment, the life to come,
I think of death and Hades, the age that’ll be,
I think of misfits and women, the brawls, the drink, the bum,
I think of all the things to still do and thankfully see.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

More than words

I need you to look for the deeper semantic,
beneath the minty sapphire peaks, layered and
layered in a soft mist, only hinting at you,
because even nature’s screen, that cascades
gently is palpable, but you’re (im)palpable,
and I say that because you’re heard, felt even
when you’re unheard, unfelt, and words
spoken on a page only allude to this connection
we’re feeling, leaving us reeling, so electrifying,
but words read slowly, meaningfully, quietly
with the cadence of the moonlight,
the rhythm of the skipping heart
will carry you to me
in a way that only (we) know

So, when doubts and uncertainties, leave you
thinking and thinking, unbearable, undying
know that I’m longing and longing for
all that’s implacable, insatiable, subdued,
distinct and I’m yearning and yearning
for more than something trite,
and I’m falling and falling for
what syllables on a page will never give
justice, and I’m loving and loving all that’s you.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2017)

Protected by Copyscape