The stream (all workshops)
We fruitlessly go through life
Scouring our outside
For our missing piece
That for its uniqueness
Defines our very existence.
Our missing piece
We had it all to ourselves
In the dawn of our being
Naïve and frail as we crawled
And giggled and wiggled
At life a gentle fellow.
Our missing piece
One we truly lost
In the noon of our being
When the rushing waves and tides
Came crushing on our solitary shore
We sauntered like insanity’s friend
Trying to make meaning out of meaning itself.
The horizon is far
yet not distant enough,
We surf our ways across the seas,
we fly over sand dunes
and
surpass all eventualities…
None is brave enough,
to place a boulder
nor a hand upon our shoulder,
to prevent our movement
from darkness to light
I sing a song of praise and joy
To Him who makes us all wake up
Each day, from the day we were born
I sing a song, I clap my hands
And dance to the beats of each day
I walk the path laid down by rules
Not to hurt those who come my way
I laugh when no one comes to help
And cry when they mock at my back
They know not that I see them all
In front of me they show their teeth
If air were to be bought by men
I will have no where to buy it
I sing a song of praise and joy
No man can give what they have not
But I am told,
I can't comment on workshop poetry,
hence I read slyly…
But now it’s clarified
I can comment easily.
But your Everyman
includes everyman and woman
Hopefully!
When I passed by a garden in Montreal,
I observed a beggar
sleeping on a bench...
Torn shabby dirty apparel
but his inner showed,
as if he had just purchased it
or picked up one ...
He was an
Every –sort –of man
Like just any one…
i.
I suck at being holy.
Can't write poetry worth a damn,
I can't pump sunshine up my blanks
or my blind side. My mileage will
always vary.
Can't help but think the world is no more than a rock
in a hard place,
torpedoing out in space, hurtling to some final destination,
each and every being thinking the answer is
written in pure poetry, holy prophecy or
monetary concurrency.
Asking questions already answered
in a desperate quest to clinch a dream
by the skin of a tooth.
That is how life is like,
for any one born in a cage.
You see the ends,
and know the forced limits,
but when darkness falls
and your eyes fail you,
you ask the slave-master
"How far will you let me go?"
Oscillating like a pendulum,
eternal in the timed swing:
you are set to and fro,
and that is all you know.
Coles doesn't stock spinach anymore
sometimes you can find it in the cans
but it doesn't come in bunches
I don't know what a spinach plant looks like
so I'd Google it
***
I want to find out what finding out is
where's the screws on my iPod?
my mobile?
how do you use a thesaurus?
I know it's not alphabetised like a dictionary
isn't there a search tab?
***
I can't remember what a stone looks like
in my hands, touching me
It was indeed
a great day for me ,
when you passed by my solitary lane,
somewhere in the maddening wilderness .
That you having been declared the best,
by the only poetic authority
enlivens my heart
I am no one to commend,
but greetings I can send
to a poet who time views
as God sent
Alas, I am a solitary passerby,
In this vast arena of time,
where only death bells
for ever for me chime ,
so anonymous,
Loved,
is a name of mine.
The genius in you rocks my emotions, and
Volcanos under virgin seas, erupts
Rumbling noises heard miles away
Warns islanders of pending smoke and fiery ash
And demons behind my eyes seek your demise
You never cease to amaze me with your crafty ways, and
Hyaenas live at bottom of the food chain
Scavenging for quick steals from lion king's hunt
Learned hard lesson from power of kings roar and mightiness
And a kingly crown of thorns I've design for you in my mind's eye
I will come back to see the book you bought
We shall read the page you talked so much about
If you still have some doubts on the main theme
We may have to call in the one who knows
Judge not from the piece I gave you to read
I can see that I am no where near good
I start to count my words with hand and pen
This stalls the flow of lines from head to hand
The muse waits in the room with a stern face
To go or to come back, she seems to ask
My fears rose high if she will come at dawn
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