The Witching Hour

Restlessness haemorrhages heftily at my kleptomania

It’s a sinner’s cud I chew, ruminating as I am, on insomnia

The world outside me sleeps, draped in a white winter blackness

The world beneath me lies placid, morbid in its sullen sadness

Twists of fate and drops of hate glisten in the silvery moonlight

The shadows mock my wide eyed glare, hiding sense from sight

A cry shatters the silence, a shriek only my ears can hear

A vessel runs aground; causality’s casual cadence in crescendo somewhere near

And so I stare, goon eyed and glaring, playing tag with the daring

Into a mist that engulfs my sanity, stabbing at my plexus with its swirl

Gnashing at my nerves, pampering my discord, twisting with its every curl

The witching hour is upon me now, and I’m held captive to its antagonism

Irate and innate she hammers vociferously away, deaf to dissent, deaf to cynicism

And so to fate I commit my plight, to the hope of a time when all is all right

Tis but hope so faint, so quaint, so lame, so cold on this vicious night.

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Across The Expanse

Across this expanse out of my window I stare
To the fleeting clouds who will my message bear
Over the sea and Sahara sands, to the fields of Eden
Past snow-topped mountains and misty seasons
Across this expanse out of my window I glare
To the vivid blues and greens that remind me of you
I arch my head towards the wind to listen to your whisper
And into it send my own message of love, wrapped in silver

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The Benediction of the morning sun

A tribute to the early morning dawn. To the misty colours and plumes that dance with the impending sun. Acta est fabula.

The wintry morning mist

Out from the depths of the still night

Damp, wispy, a haze in a maze of sight

The minute is ablaze with a hushed sincerity

Lurking, wittily-so, in subtle notoriety

The equation lies delicately posed

Implicitly poised, a tribute to the night before in an ode

Wispy, damp A maze in a haze of light

Lies the night, profound and spellbinding to the sight

Out from the crispy plumes of the bygone plight

Uncertain, senescent. Pearl shaded in a sea of damp grey

The stillness is uneasy, disturbed and perturbed by the amber ray

The juncture in ascendancy, A staccato chatter through the melting ice

Cling is all the plumes can, unfurled, unbuttoned. Purloined by the warmth

And so wanders the wintry morning mist, riveted from her roots by the wings of fate

A stranger departed, bequeathed.Vanquished and vindicated from the shadow of the night

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Dear Paris

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Dear Paris

I could tell you that you make me feel on top of the world and that life has never been better, yet even so my friend, I would tell you but a fraction of what my thoughts are, convey to your discerning ears a mere shudder of the quake that trembles within me. The spring colours sing softly to my thoughts; the dainty kiss of the departing winter, the gentle thud of spring landing.

You have received me well, as you always do and we have wined, dined, defined and redefined as indeed we always do. I find you in pleasant health, bursting at the seams with energy and sophistication. Yet your sultry and cynical nature doth manifest themselves every now and again, but not for long enough for me to forget the love we share. As grass green and gentle to the scorching southern sun, I need you by day and I love you by night, I dance in the heat of our romance and shudder in your absence.

I am home again amongst the shadows that lay claim to me. They embrace me with plush sincerity, content to see me in their own special way as indeed I am to see them. Invariably, my heart is heavy and aloof, for Paris grand and gorgeous I miss you so. Till the next time we meet mon cherie, a teary adieu to you I bid.

Merci beaucoup Paris, I am yours forever.

 

C’est sûr que j’en mourrais,Que j’en mourrais d’amour, Mon amour, mon amour…

 

 

On an Insomnia Train Bound South

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Bored amongst the brethren beaten, beneath the bequeathed and benign. Time stands still and the ticking tinge and twirl of transcendence ascends to cadence. Condensed, cold, calm and composed like withering white whirlwinds of scarlet snow outside my window wooded and withdrawn from the vissisitudes of the past, the cast, the senescent and the present.

On an Insomnia train bound south…

With Baited Breath I wait

A poem written in the midst of the annual contrast clash between summer and autumn. A time of restlessness and uneasiness within the ether. The warm, succulent rays of the sun shine fretfully and unrepentantly through the perturbed mass of wind and strain, scorching lush green vegetation in a kaleidoscope of the shade red. It is within this intense purlieus that my questions pertaining to existensialism and meaning gain a purpose. With baited breath I wait…

Void

 

 

 

The decadence of the shapes and shadows around me.
Stark, shrieking shards of wit and disdain, deranged and withdrawn.
The sullen dejections of the wind, the intimacy of causality.
Deranged, delinquent ornaments of time, desperate and forlorn

The cacophony of the chambers and chariots before me
Sharp, sudden silhouettes of truth and lie woven intimately
The implicit imperfections of the elements, the suspense of glee
Devout, resolute instruments of space, withered yet stately

The stillness of the sun and the stars above me
Sage, shackled shadows of the then and now stately and sedate
The somber spirit of the time, the luxury of a more independent me
Dissolute, insoluble infractions of relativity loyal to the shelter of trait.

I Shall Fly Again Another Day

I shall run again one day I am sure
When, I do not know
How, I cannot tell
Why, Is not for me to judge
I shall fly again one day I am sure
Into the wispy winds of time
Towards eternity and the savannah sun
Towards a smile, a laugh, an embrace
I shall dream again another day
And carve you a sunset that will make you smile
A golden dawn that will kiss you from your sleep
An evening wind that will cool your eyes
I shall live again another day
Along the open road ever ahead of me
Vast, vague but always ahead
Your hand in mine, nomads in the sands of time
(c) Allan Mutuku Kortbæk
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The Infinite Train Track Rolls On : A Portrait of Spain

The train track rolls on infinite

The woes and whims of an entire nation subdued

By the weight of an entire peninsula

Locked away from the billowing shades of darkness that whistle past with every jolt

The wind at bay, my thoughts astray

Spread thinly across the central Iberian underworld like pale ash in the river of Eden

Hopes, dreams, aspirations asphyxiated by the ways of the world and the rumble of rails and coins

These days all they talk about is life as a crisis, a faded shadow of a forgotten form

A formidable giant laid to rest in the swaying, swerving mass beneath the sewers and piping

Next stop, the port of the South, exit unknown, destination vague

The world outside is as dark as the indomitable underworld

Lit  by the embers of a few flickering hopes of a few unfaltering souls

This is the light I intend to walk in

The shades of the shadows tamed

Like the gentle waves of a twlight ocean

My fears culled, social hysteria quelled

For tomorrow a new horizon beckons

From golden shores and shimmering sands

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Note found on the Madrid underground: ” Greetings Ladies and Gentlemen, I am a poor girl, I’ve got a child. I don’t have a job and I’m begging for help to help put food on the table for my child. Many thanks”

Wispy Dreams

For we have sung and dance and dreamed, higher and further than wispy thoughts could ever have carried us

Beyond the tuft- strewn fabric of soft white clouds in clear, unpolished skies
Far away, hidden in the refinement of a simple, beautiful moment
Alas, the world apart seems a world away, an echo astray
Time is but the now and the news, space, a bendy furl of smoke in the dry air
A toast ! To the twist of fate upon this forgotten road, a path of dance, song and untidy seams that have become our wispy dreams.

Plan (et) B

I long for the a society which doesn’t love in order to hurt itself, of places faraway from the menaces and perils of the time, of sundowns that need no words to describe them and dreams that seem too good to be true. I want to wake up in the dawn’s embrace one morning and look into her eyes and know that every inch of her feels the same way about me as I feel about her. I want to be faraway from this decadence, from the jaded character of the world before me. I want to understand, I want to discern the truth behind the mockery,the savagery, the hatred, the divisions of society. I want to know what the world has done to itself and if we are destined for another place, why are we still here fighting ourselves ? I want to know why the only audience for all these words is a musical instrument and a sheet of paper, why fallen leaves and butterfly wings are the only things that can hear the screams of the world, the pains of the past and the doubts of the present. I long for many things, and many more, but what good is longing when there’s 7 Billion more that long for just the same ?