the cat is asleep
under the sink
in a cubby she found
dark and discrete

while lazing away
the day-light in dreams
a troupe of mice
practice and preen

little they know
during her doze
she hears the dance
of little mice toes

when night arrives
she awakes with a grin
promenades to the ball
and the slaughter begins

1944

Where are the winter snows
the Christmas trees with silver tears
color lights that glow
under golden angel hair
the scent of pine lingering in the air
and cold crisp nights around the radio

who stole my years.
I want to know
and where did the old folks go.
where are the winter snows
the wreath of pine on the side door.
where is the boy of three
why was he left behind
in nineteen forty four

Memories of mamas
Never fade away
Till we similarly
Pass the same way

My mom smiles at me
Since her very last day
I still keep returning her way
Oh ! Lord when will time
Take my smile away?

Come back mama
For once
And
as we smile
Take me smilingly
your smiles way,
miles away

I was just reviewing the fact, notwithstanding only one

Condemning me,
Has my poetry reached the masses?
Poetry I say, you may say,
PROSAIC

I saw almost hundred percent poems composed by me,
Had been read
And
The ones I supplemented in my BLOGS,
Which, because of my prolificacy, was banned here,
I saw almost hundred percent Blog poems,
Had not had, a single read

So I thought tis better to convert,
Blogs into poems,
Though composed eons ago
Hence this teen agers one

Question !!!
Why do so many men think with their dicks?
these guys are just pricks

They have wives and partners
That should put them off for starters
But it doesn't

They profess to care for their lovers
And yet still love their spouses
What gives?

I say when you think with your cock
You better take stock
Because you up for the chop. 

When fire flares up in the bush or house
Be careful with what you use to put it out
It could well be just an additional fuel
That may shoot up everything out of control

Excesses escalate into extremity in jihad
And holy crusade becomes a child’s play
Generations of able men, women and children
Wasted away like rain flood in hollow pits

some seek for a grasp of infinity
through the supposed god of the trinity
which frankly bears no affinity
to this mythology known as divinity

one can get close to the vicinity
with the joyous loss of virginity
and no shame of your masculinity
if we embrace the planet with dignity

Since I think I this poem is perfect, and needs no perfection either in thought or how it is written, I can only add my version of it following Merwin's poem.

The Nomad Flute

You that sang to me once sing to me now
let me hear your long lifted note
survive with me
the star is fading
I can think farther than that but I forget
do you hear me

stillness climbs
filling detrius daydream
touch the window
misted in its corners
and the sink
awakes in shadows
with another perfect
faucet drop

Monumentally momentary bubbles,
In the isolated deserts of time,
The sands time erupts,
In its due course,
As the sun paves its path as usual