Santosh Bakaya . The Weaver


Yes, it was a new  dawn

But my spirits drooped

Heavily I stooped

lost and forlorn

in the  lawn.


Then things changed in a jiffy

As my eyes fell on a  weaver  spiffy.

In the first rays of the sun

It  spun

A  beautiful thing sublime

Elegant  its  gossamer rhyme

In every strand was hidden a tinkle

And a buoyant chime.


I loved  the way the weaver  rolled

On the morning cold .

The silver gossamer strands

Stretching from one tree to another

were tinted in gold.

The tiny architect and designer

Heaved and weaved

An  intricate  web

And received

My appreciative glance

As the sunbeams broke into dance

Foxtrotting on the gossamer strands.


Suddenly it took a false step and slipped 

Damaging the majestic tapestry,  but gripped

A tiny strand  alternating between

Desperate ascent,

And frenzied descent.

Frantically it groped

Clinging  to the tenuous edifice of hope

Scuttling  across  one broken strand

Feverishly resuming   the renovation grand.

The never say die spirit scintillated and shone

As the  web  was reborn

As  a beautiful rhyme  sublime.

 An exemplary  tapestry was yet again spun

Under the sun.

Step by step, strand by strand

 Before my eyes there was  majesty grand.

I saw the weaver heaving,  cleaving, retrieving

 Firmly believing,

 Not grieving  and  leaving

 the weaving of this

 Magical tapestry of  rebirth ,  regeneration

and resurrection

from the debris of hope.

 Now no longer did I  mope

My spirits lifted as to me the weaver gifted

A gossamer rhyme.

 In every strand I heard  a tinkle

 And a buoyant chime .

And the peals of labour



Santosh Bakaya

No Poems . Tony Hicks


No poems would come today
as I went to the usual places,
Or as I walked the worn old ways
just staring at the same sad faces.

But still no poems came today
no fierce fire of words burning,
So bright to lead me on my way
no ; I was left bereft and yearning.

And still no poems came today
and no matter how often I raged,
Or how my worn mind was flayed
all the words would do was fade.

But ; when all was nearly over
and at the very dying of the day,
Soft ; like the touch of a lover
finally a poem came today.


Tony Hicks

Jamaal May . Hum for The Bolt


It could of course be silk. Fifty yards or so
of the next closest thing to water to the touch,
or it could just as easily be a shaft of  wood
crumpling a man struck between spaulder and helm.
But now, with the rain making a noisy erasure
of this town, it is the flash that arrives
and leaves at nearly the same moment. It’s what I want
to be in this moment, in this doorway,
because much as I’d love to be the silk-shimmer
against the curve of anyone’s arm,
as brutal and impeccable as it’d be to soar
from a crossbow with a whistle and have a man
switch off upon my arrival, it is nothing
compared to that moment when I eat the dark,
draw shadows in quick strokes across wall
and start a tongue counting
down to thunder. That counting that says,
I am this far. I am this close.