The stream (all workshops)
above
an eagle's point of view
a symphony of green breaks
the monotony of sky on the
earth below,
sun, moon and stars pass overhead
with stories told but unsaid
vagabond bones on a dusty road
speak of time in a seed:
trees, rooted in dirt shed
seasonal leaves
like brilliant titles and musical
notes falling into human bodies
passing away the hours of memory.
We drift along elongated shadows like
rivers.
That Snowfall
The winter season, kept all of us waiting for snow,
the temperature was right for it, well below zero.
The chill factor of the wind kept me warm indoors
in my comfortable home with all of its three floors.
As the temperature fell we waited day after day
for the snow to fall which we hoped was on its way.
When my clear skies
Were occupied by clouds
The monotony mixed with
Irrational thinking kicked in
When rejection exchanged her vows
You were their holding faith
Like a dose of penicillin
to a wounded Soldier
in need of relief
Yes, you made a bridge out of
The torn pieces of my soul
Somehow you convinced
The sun to shine once more
You took the weight on my shoulder
And offered me shelter from
The world that swallowed me up
And spit me out like spoiled milk
It’s braw y’are its braw a’reet
Wi’ brilly natchers at yer feet
Tis one fer they an’ one fer me
T’ set tha brilly natchers free
So dinnae mumble dinnae fret
Tha has nae seen yon natchers yet
But when they come as come they will
Be sure t’stand rock solid still
Nae griping an’ nae felly soor
Wie brilly natchers at yer door
Union of partitioned sects
Ten coded commandments
Borrowed from Hamurabi
A heritage to Pharos’ past
Must testimonial judgment
Spectacles without light rays
Come as revelation in voices, sing
And compel me to be born again?
Must mutual friendship be betrayed
By illusions of belief in claims
Of self made uprightness
Oh! Holier than thou outlook
See others as legions of darkness
Assign vain, void and inglorious
Their hearts’ intimate realization?
“I write for self.” The poet often claims.
The scop has not been born who holds this true.
“I care not that the world should know my names.”
These very words I’ve spoken as I grew.
“Allow me but the chance to bare my heart
and all shall be forgiven of mankind
when disregards he will my poesy’s light.”
Such contradiction must remain a part
of every poet base or skill refined
if ego is to be secure from spite.
She dyed he died…
The dyed red haired girls green gloves
came up under her nose, stifling a yawn
as she stared at the sexy designer dressed
girl in the chequered skirt with stunning
eyes all dreamy.
Perhaps she subdued more than a yawn
while her fingers flicked about her nose
giving her face the impression of a kitten
in comfort surrounded by empty saucers,
whiskers all creamy.
lace of contrail
bitter cold
that window of sky
before the clouds came by
and streaming rains
that rush against the glass
and the radiator strives
shivering out its thin heat
unwell the darkness in your eyes
swells
your anger hitching in your breath
we sip our tea
and search the rooftops
green with light
this thick pressed front
is walking in
our history dwells
like static between us
the passion a ghost
we are formal
passengers
in a grey pic
CHRISTMAS AT LAST
Hurrah! Its Christmas, once again,
And time to get out in the rain
And sleet and frost and hit the shops!
Like toothache, so good when it stops.
A present, for some young relation
with attitude above her station.
Whatever she is given, why,
She'll pout and sulk and roll her eyes
They get so much, but still want more
Designer labels, classy stores.
But not this year! I won't be moved,
The sum I spend won't be improved
These old legs deny stealthy stride
as I travel beneath thinning canopy
on a day of clear blue sky
this trek though slow is loud
For the leaves crunch noisy and harsh
the grounded ones having given up their colors
as their companions drift slowly down
to join them on a slight breeze
Squadrons of fowl fly high and fast
all seeking warmth in southern lands
in tight formations and random flocks
whose honking, quacks and plaintive cries
trumpet the end of Indian summer
and cry out warning of coming snow
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