Doorknocker, France

Splendid doorknocker in metal in France.

Cycles: Poem

Cycles

Cycles of life spin, in eternal rotation
Like the sun; words, wounds
And weary worlds speak in
Samsara rhyme;
Eternal reconversion. Thus it
Happens time after time.

Look into the sky, pierce the clouds
Look beyond and see
Is the mind a deity?
Who is it that sees?
Is it me? Or is it noone?
Do not dissect the mind: ah, it is
Already all done.

I can touch and feel
As long the blood courses in my veins;
As long as there is some life in me.
I can touch and feel and see:
Ah, in perfect synonimy.

Cycles of life spun, spin, sing.
Cycles  becomes cycles and then
The weaver loses his soul within
The poet finds the words
On the path to nowhere;
And cycles begin again, somewhere.

Copyright: Rani Turton

Mysteries: Poem

Mysteries

There is a mystery in living
When, how, for how long and why
No need to use complicated rhetorical arguments
The devil's advocate I can play indeed
But the end is always the same
Its almost as if our lifespans are a timed game.

We can hop from land to land
For reasons only we can understand
We can lament and weep
Until at the end we finally sleep

To sleep perchance to dream
As a great poet once wrote
In lifespans, life's cycles, in moments of oblivion
I even forgot all that I wrote
The great mystery was not action or living
The great question was extinction and annihilation.

To come back to the essential
I, Me and Myself
My small insignificant life
Could I even presume to be remembered
After the third generation, the fourth maybe?
And what was it's essentiality?
Wicks flame, flicker and glow
That is finally the way I will go.

Copyright: Rani Turton

Through Those Lanes, Lost, I Wander: Poem

Through Those Lanes, Lost,  I Wander

The night resembles the day: endless and refractive.
I wander, in dyslexic mode, unable to formulate
One thought into another. I have left
Analytic reasoning far, far behind. Emotions
That ebb and flow like the tide.

Through those lanes, lost, I wander.
Is it this land that is foreign or is it I?
Is it me the stranger, weary and shy?
I have tried to reason, but now there is no reason
Even to wonder why.

Through those lanes, lost, I wander.
Was I the substance or the shadow, or was it
Just reality that eluded clouded reason??
I wander, wander, and now as time
Walks by my side
Shadows lengthen; though those lanes
Life, love, pain and all that remains.

Copyright/ Rani Turton

The Eiffel Tower, Paris

Much has been written about the beauty of Paris. The Eiffel Tower's
illuminations are spell-binding in the darkness of the night.

In This Silent Hour: Poem

In This Silent Hour

Roofs, dreaming in the cityscape
In this silent hour when the soft grey sky speaks
When nobody calls me by my name;
The mind, soft in melancholy
Asks why, and then again why.

In this silent hour, moments pass.
There are footsteps behind me
Dreaming, I must be.
Or waking, walking within the dream
I may not be all that I seem.

Flights of imagination once again
The past and  present merge;
Blend into one pristine fancy:
Now, then, before, tenses blend
Is this how the silent hour will end.

Copyright: Rani Turton