Category Archives: Poetry

This Time the Page is Waiting

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This Time the Page is Waiting

This time the page is

waiting for the poem.

No need for the lines

to force their way

on to it ,

and into to it .

There’s no violation

here this time,

only a white willingness

of the page

to be inscribed

with the blackest letters,

as permanent and

Immutable

as a ratio

of golden means,

that is

pricked and inked

into the page

divinely

as it

lays spread out alone.

Today the poet

is an ink artist

in a skin parlour

with a willing client,

who asks for the inscription

to be made,

regardless of the pain.

From “The Black and Other Base Elements ” by PWChaltas

Embrace of Midnight Hours

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Embrace of  Midnight  Hours

You wash my body with water

and tiny crystals of dissolved salt.

The myrrh refused,

is now welcome,

and received with oils on skin

from rounded vials and bottles

of scented red and blue.

Rubbed on flesh is

fragrant cedar, cypress, myrrh,

and oil of Lebanon.

Tongue, arms, hands,

legs,and feet,

are motionless and limp,

stigmatized with love.

They reside here in limed spa

of striated stone,

so dimly lit by wick of lamp,

and laid out wavering candle.

I hear monotone music

of the chorus

of your beating hearts,

and the feel labour

of experienced hand.

Wrap me in the shelter of your linen

one final time

as in the womb

once long before,

celebrated

with flute and song.

When will I awake

from this narcotic state

to stir again

from my so deep,

and palliative sleep?

The Awakening

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He had not seen her for quite some time. Sitting outside the cafe she just happened to run into him with her two young daughters . She was a diminutive woman with fine features and blond hair and her name Anastasia meant resurrection . Her two daughters were dressed identically like two tiny porcelain madeleines except that one was distant ,the other thin and very affectionate .

The thin little one immediately jumped into his lap as if she had suddenly found her long lost father and gently laid her head against his shoulder .She looked up at him with soft hazel eyes . He noticed her eyes had many tiny specs in them .There were so many that together they rivaled and almost crowded out her pupils .”Your daughter is not well”
He said .The mother immediately got up and ran into the cafe .She came back shortly .

He noticed her eyes were red .She had been crying, Her blonde hair slightly disheveled and showing her black roots  She was angry ; not with him but rather at fate and how circumstances could fall together in such a way that her fatherless daughter at such a young  age could be ill and riddled with so many problems.

The little one nuzzled even closer to him.“ Have faith he said . “Time rectifies all things “They kissed each other on the cheek and she went on her way, with her two daughters on either side, holding hands.

The morning broke and he awoke from a deep sleep  .
His eyes slowly opened ,to the sounds of all the birds welcoming the morning, many small birds in a garbled melody of chirps, and the solitary refrain of an intermittent cooing dove nearby .This would be his last day. The pain of the wounds was excruciating now again, and he was sweating blood.

There were crimson tears at the corners of his  eyes,dried blood and dirt on his face  .As dawn broke to a new host of torture he realized the little one ,with her head on his shoulder , had been the dark one himself . He braced himself as the door opened .

From “Mercy Brother ” by PWChaltas

Disjointed Muse

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Disjointed Muse

A disjointed muse has hold of me.
Crossing  city streets
aimlessly with a knife
at my back
and a blonde woman
walking  in front of me ,
wondering  what it would be like
being hit by a speeding car
and in a millisecond
becoming
a broken bag of bones …
But let’s save that  experience
for another night .

On Queen Street West

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On Queen Street West

The sirens of the city

are traveling along

the fabric bazaars

and appliance stores

of Queen Street West.

The wood tin spire

of St Marks

lurches into the air

at an angle

listening.

The daylight heat

is blazing.

So is the fire.

The fire trucks

are bullets.

They careen

breakneck down

the street.

Shining

red and yellow cabs

follow right

behind them.

Do they care

about the fire?

The fire is burning

somewhere along

Queen Street

and

black smoke is rising

up into the air.

From “The Black and Other Base Elements “by PWChaltas

Beach on Infinity

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There’s a secret beach I travel to along the shores of Lake Ontario in the course of my frequent walks. It is a somewhat secluded spot tucked away in the trees at the end of long winding paths. I call it “my beach” although it is not mine. It is a destination that I share, at times with a few other souls, adults, children but mostly with nature alone.  It’s secluded, especially in the fall and winter. A place of contemplation and beauty, here the water is often beautifully luminous, translucent, although never static. It’s colour, clarity, form change and often dramatically. The horizon and sky seem endless here. The crescent shaped beach of fine sand, multi-coloured pebbles, and scattered trees, is mostly full of flat slabs rocks of recycled brick, asphalt, worn down by nature to resemble their original states before they were processed or touched  by human hands. Blanched deadwood litters the shore like snakes, and lying nudes. The beach becomes transformed by wind, water, and light by the season, by the hour, most strikingly at 4pm and just before sunset. These are the times when light hits the rock, water, and clouds at certain angles casting long shadows that transform it into another world.

Beach on Infinity

And we walked along

the guarded path

where the pygmy loves

could not tread,

to the sands of my sacred beach

on a sea of infinity,

to that place in the sand

where the setting sun

froze and

stood still as a pearl.

And our dreams crystallized

into cast

grains of salt

all around us.

There with our feet

grounded In the sand

of a cosmos

of a million realities,

we became

a knife in a bleeding heart.

Our tears became bubbles

that rose upwards

and burst into the air

that was thick

with the moment

of a golden light,

and with a fleeting

despair,

quickly melting

into a night of stars.

From “Free Verse in Useless Times” by PWChaltas

City

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Urbane

City
Surrounded by concrete,
lights,
and a crescent moon,
the obsolescence
of hearts confounds.
The milquetoast of regret
seizes,
and shattered glass
repentance
cuts a tear
of cerium oxide rust
in the soul.
It’s imperfect with
the screech of feather
cutting air,
as crackpots entertain
trained monkeys
on bandwidths,
while we engage
in the urbane .

From “Persephone’s Call” by PWChaltas

Love is

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Love is

Love is
devotion
and surrender,
in a giving
of the kind,
where in the giving,
you receive
more than you
could ever give,
and more than you
could ever expect,
or deserve
to receive.
It is deeper
than death
and much
more illogical
in the living .
Sometimes love
can destroy
the lives
of lovers .
Never the less
the true lover
is  fulfilled
and sated in the giving,
regardless of
whether it ,
or the lover is
ever
to be returned.