Let the fire in our loins tell the story
when you were the half of me that
came undone and left me for oblivion.
Let us come and go in the splendor
we once dissolved into cube-like sugar
on our horse-like tongues. Let orange
blossoms tumble into fruit while we watch
in wonder, time-lapsed candle-light flickering
slow hands and quickening spirits.

United, let our flame ascend, unknotted of our
mortal coil, breathing deep
the deepening hours.

i.

Arvind the Advaitin, who sometimes
writes poetry, writes a post about his
300K a-year-friend
who lives on acreage in California, probably
somewhere on the coast, maybe even the Bay;
he says his friend's gardener looks sickly on $25
(an hour? a day?). I ask why
he mentions it, and then send him a
picture of river-front property in Kolkata,
shanty-style.

You have seen poverty, right?
I wondered.

Begat from the loins of the damned
wrathful Sire from a nebulous and sinful grave.
Daughter of a virgin womb,
ravaged upon the funeral pyre.
Progeny of neither man nor beast.

Child of extraordinary power ,
Lithe an athlete and fighter
On the cruel streets of London town.
Dragged up and rejected ,no mercy found
A vagabond .

THE BRICK sonnet
The Wee Elf wants this mundane, "LIke a Brick".
My heart sinks, should I give my muse a rest?
Can mundane still be novel? That's some trick.
It's not just words in poems that may get stressed.
Although I'm slow, I'll try to write them down-
Those lines that flow unbidden from my gob,
I'll try to get them bouncing, metric, sound
If really good give up my daytime job.
Here in my hand I hold two common bricks,
Their purpose, to be part of someone's home.

Try buttering bread naked, and precariously clumsy.
Invite a mate, one unopposed to a little spillage,
and without the best selling brand of paper towels,
buttered bread, buttered bread, have some fun,
feed a friend.

It's time I rake the leaves outside
so now I'll go and get the rake
at the insistence of my bride
and for propriety's sole sake

I'll rake leaves into small piles about
under the swing and old grape vine arbor
working beneath warm autumn sunshine
a yearly necessary labor

Soon wiping sweat from wrinkled brow
muscles loosened from the work
I survey a job well done
and get a drink of tea

Theatrical Thesis…

Two lines into a poet’s song can say more
to me than a thousand preachers preaching
like the speed of light is invariably faster
than sound from a thousand tyres screeching.

So please switch on the light at speed,
as I have only one minute in mind.
As all of you know the worlds great need,
is for people to be more tolerant and kind.

dream trickles down
like the damp wood
of the raceway

above the dark embrace
of the day we can hear
the birds

the soft mute rot of leaves
the silver backbone of
the glacial scar stone

and light falls down on
her face and eyes
the shadows easing
like camaflouge

beautiful and intense

When wrinkles start appearing
Getting deeper by the day
With liver spots accruing
And the hair is going grey
The early morning aches and pains
A stomach growing flabby
The crows feet and the flatulence
No wonder you feel crabby

The mountain stream, pure and cold flows
swiftly into pumpkin and juniper seeds and docile rivers
no higher than a knee,
and the river bends through
the painted earth and snakes its way into the myopic sea.

The bloodstone roots with childhood's end.
The moon, hanging loosely, shape-shifts into images,
clouds
blow away like old men puffing on hand-rolled cigars.