There beyond the shrub
the sun medallions on the grass
around a python and boar,
the python winding.
Through binoculars I see
the python work so slow.
The boar now knows
what I learned long ago.
To go this way
takes years.
More at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com/.
I shy away not from what I am worth,
watching the beauty of passing days,
feeling passion in love,
like a flower that never wilts.
You awaken my heart,
and replenish the soul,
plaster a smile on my face,
with a twinkle in the eyes.
Captured by the passion,
I crave for cherished love,
with a smoldering fire,
overwhelmed by my senses.
A seasoned writer
peppered and salted,
weathered the storm,
added garlic and paprika-
He threw in the towel.
His work was done.
The day breaks into a crimson dusk,
Pastels merging into the bright chirpy hues,
The sea stretches to the horizon Unabashed hopes of a rendezvous with the sky
The shore seeped in love, surrenders to the sea,
The sea unrequiting:unloving,
Ebbs away with life
Sprawling death all over across the shore.
Since centuries, the Shore has begged for love from the Sea
Since centuries, the Sea has loved the sky.
Neither attaining what one wishes to have, nor belonging where the heart lies.
Reflecting the rays of the sun on itself, shore beckons out to the Sea…..
While, entranced in ethereal beauty of the Sky,
Sea strives constantly to endear
Spurned, rejected, the sea returns to the shore in the night,
Her cares are caressed into oblivion by the all giving lover
Yet again, then, she turns rejuvenated to the sky
The shore waits endlessly for the Sea, with silent sighs.
Joyous at dusk, the shore lives on; for those moments
And
Lovelorn Sea lives on for the dawn to meet the Sky.
Most of us evade as the Sky
Some of us are the Sea,
Very Few, like the Shore, stand by.
More at http://www.soulroot.blogspot.com/.
I can forgive
I can’t forget
Those words cut me
With time I looked back
Thinking not of me
Thinking of you
The deep anguish
The fire in your throat
The venom you screamed in words
The passion of frustration
I left
I won’t return
At first I wanted an apology
Now I want nothing
It wasn’t that hard to leave
It almost made me smile
You don’t know me but
maybe we should meet.
I’m your neighbor now,
just moved in
the big house
down the street.
Yesterday I waved twice.
I guess you didn’t notice.
Mother’s at the store
but she’ll be back
in half an hour.
I know she’d like
to meet you.
Now as I said,
you don’t know me but
maybe we should meet.
I’m your neighbor now,
just moved in
the big house
down the street.
Yesterday I waved twice.
I guess you didn’t notice.
More at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com and http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com.
As I’ve told my wife too many times,
the meaning of any poem hides
in the marriage of cadence and sound.
Vowels on a carousel,
consonants on a calliope,
whistles and bells,
we need them all
tickling our ears.
Otherwise, the lines
are gristle and fat, no meat.
Is it any wonder, then,
my wife has a problem
with any poem I give her to read
for a second opinion, especially
when the poem has no message
and I’m simply trying to hear
what I’m saying and don’t care
if I understand it.
The other night in bed
I gave her another poem to read
and afterward she said this poem
was no different than the others.
She had hoped I’d improve.
“After all,” she said,
“you’ve been writing for years
but reading a poem like this is
like looking through a kaleidoscope
while listening to a harpsichord.”
Point well taken,
point well said.
But then I asked her
what should a man do
if he has careened for years
through the caves of his mind
spelunking for the right
line for a poem
only to hear his wife say
after reading one of his poems
that it was like
“looking through a kaleidoscope
while listening to a harpsichord.”
What should he do–quit?
“Not a chance,”
she said this morning,
enthroned at the kitchen table,
as regal as ever in her fluttery gown
and buttering her English muffin
with long, languorous strokes
Van Gogh would envy.
“He should write even more,
all day and all night, if need be.
After all,” she said, “my line
about the kaleidoscope and harpsichord
still needs a poem of its own.
It’s all meat, no gristle, no fat.”
More at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com.