Praha

Founded circa 1306 BC; population 1.26 million, annual tourist population 8.08 million.

Cigarette butts glow like candles along the curb,
Still flickering after those last intense puffs
That took away the stresses of the daily grind
And replaced them with smoky satisfaction.

The fumes of the Underground infuse
With the toxicity of those spirals of smoke
That are caught in the rush of passing cars.
An urgency prevails amongst the timelessness

Of the amblers, travellers, flâneurs
Who search for the deepest rooted culture
In this permanent wave of exigent travail
Crashing through the delicate history towering down.

The cobbles are eternally awake
To welcome the next pilgrim, at leisure or otherwise.
One after the other they fall into this sea
And are swept away

To become part of the city, the oxygen that it breathes.
Everyone is faceless, native or nomad,
Lost and, alas, found in the ashes of burning tobacco and racing cars,
Oblivious entirely to their neighbours lost beside them:

This endless carnival of vague apparitions parades the streets,
A choir of angels, a celestial congregation from around the globe.
Their voices, low and reaching, soft and stark,
All call in unison, joyous in measure,
                               'Welcome to Prague.'

The Busker

"If music be the food of love, play on." - William Shakespeare

The busker sits against the wall,
A little hat at his feet.
It is a busy day, heaving,
As he faces into the heat
Of the Spanish plume above,
Weighing heavy over his denim-clad chest.
Still, the smiling chap plays on,
This noise, this poise crafting his best.

He strums out his simple tunes
For a penny or two, he asks no more
Of the passers-by who turns their heads
From his misplaced allure.
Conviction comes from his lungs
And passion pours from his eyes.
Lyricism drifts from his mouth
And he soars. He flies.

The music man is an oracle,
Profanes with his unworthiest hand
And makes sweet melody to his love.
The chords echo in this bustling land;
No one hears him
But he is not singing for the crowd.
I pay him not a penny, but my time
To his heart, beating out, beating loud.

Second Sight

Little-known fact - owls are far-sighted and his struggle to clearly see things that are close and otherwise obvious.

The drums herald a newfound track;
One million straws upon his back,
He pushes on and grinds his feet -
Something calls to him within this newfound beat.

The path ones, so dim and dark,
Without bright light, so coldly stark
From he clarity of the past.
Watch out, dear Monkey, beat moves fast.

Beat moves fast. Beat moves fast. Beat moves -
It stops. The path ends here, and here proves
Uncharted - these unknown bounds
Are bordered by shrill animal sounds.

Darkness fades in such a manner
That the Monkey is lost amidst the clamour -
The path has ended. The crescendo peaks;
The silence beckons, one voice speaks.

It does not matter what he says,
But what he does lays all else to rest.
The Wise Owl casts into shadow
The straws that were once a hallow.

He flies, not above me, but with me,
The past shrillness becoming symphony.
The path remains dark, but with each step on this night
The Wise Owl is my second sight.

Forgetting

"Memory... is the diary that we all carry about with us." - Oscar Wilde

What is a memory?
A temporal compound of moments
Unremarkable in their poignancy
When in the grand scheme of life
They comprise mere seconds amongst years.
Each is one day lost, cherished or not;
Sentimentality of the forlorn memory
Wears thin with age, worn away when aged.

What is a memory?
The loss of that sentiment
And the failure of fundamentality.
To recast into the depths of the mind
Is a rescue mission
For something edging ever further away,
And yet it still survives.
Pensive strength turns to strife.

What is a memory?
Interminable remembrance
Of something that lived, lives in, and is still to live longer,
Hibernating until rediscovery -
That is a memory of veritable worth.
It is nothing if it lapses with time;
The beauty of a memory is that it is birthed anew
With every failed chance of forgetting.

Echo

Refrain (n.) - a much repeated saying or idea.

An echo resonates with the clarity
Found in the haze of inveiglement.
Original ballads of a refined form are rare;
Plagiarism echoes some early majesty.

The melody of the refrain is enticing, invoking,
A provocation of mistrust birthed only in such a tone
Of rhythm and texture, of crests and falls:
A cresting chorus of screams, a trust that falls.

A certain type of poetry is conjured in your voice.
The words are so comforting and abundant,
A false pretence of one's heart.
Like the greatest of ancient philosophers,

To each new ear that tale is retold, reborn.
Re-imagination enriches a new soul in all that it seeks to find
And when the story was first told, no doubt, you crafted a masterpiece
But today your refrains are meaningless, vague repetitions;

They are an elegy for the heart you wish to revive.