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Best Poems From
RANI TURTON
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69.
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Alcoves, Shadowed And Empty
Alcoves, waiting to be filled or fulfilled
Waiting in the recesses of my mind:
Longing for the absolute self to find
What goes where, when, how and why.
Alcoves, patient and secret,
Waiting for objects and subjects to make
Memories, to fix, mend and bend
Lifes recollections, to analyse
To question and then to reply.
Alcoves that wait and desperately want;
The self is an entity that cannot be bought:
The route of life is fraught with danger and
Only at times is lifes true meaning sought.
Copyright: Rani Turton
Rani Turton
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70.
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All I Need Just Now
All I need just now
Is for the earth to curve into the sky:
To listen to rustling leaves
Watch clouds sailing by.
Then when my fatigued brain sleeps
And worries cease to be
I will dream of peace
Lying here under this green tree.
Copyright: Rani Turton
Rani Turton
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71.
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Almost, Somewhere
In a distant place, look up at the stars.
The sun remains the same day after day.
So much to think about, so much to see
To understand, almost got there,
Finally almost got somewhere.
Wandering on narrow paths, the slope was steep
The clouds not so high, and with numb feet
Slipping and sliding on small pebbled paths.
With boots on, roofs far below
Yes, far below lay the village street.
I was the almost poet, the almost wanderer
Almost understanding the meandering path
Was the sequel to my meandering life;
I was the almost bard; what was left were
The remnants of words and a life full of strife.
Teach me the almost phrases of realization;
Tell me why my heart aches so; I, this sadness
Almost fought; Watched the battle and then the mist
Watched the rain fall onto stone spires and then
Almost, almost held my life in my fist.
Copyright: Rani Turton
Rani Turton
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72.
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Analysing That Pain
Like a soft breeze that, barely there, sifts the papers on my table.
A window, open, and the curtains move gently.
A memory, that should not have been there.
An emotion that barely acknowledged should have known better.
Some serious men dissected my emotions.
An existence that, in existing, forgot to be.
A faraway pain, like a bird, alights on my hand,
Some ice on distant mountains settles in my heart.
All my experiences could not help me to understand
Why pain has be analysed, why the soul in crisis
Has to dissect, react and realise.
Pain is more than a commodity
More than a substance that can be caged
Artists and poets have used it in its intensity
And often, often sunk under the weight of its density.
I am one with this emotion.
It has become a part of this whole.
Remove it now and then I fear
That it will leave a painful, abyssmal hole.
Rani Turton
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