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The Bard 23 April 2014

Stratford-Upon –Avon …450
The bard
Ladies and Gentlemen…
Today some 450 years away
An infant was born
to become the Bard
Who’d
never be forgotten
by not only Stratford –Upon- Avon
but
The entire world

Such souls come once
in one’s life time
to live
In the hearts of memorable humanity
for times immemorial

So let the world join
in the memory of the one
who composed theatrical poems…
those live in their existence
even today
450 years away.

Haiku

The wisdom of trees
Is the shadow of the sun
As yin is to yang

A Conversation Across a Table

Upon reflection I suppose this is
the inevitable conclusion of
the circumstances that first brought us to
this point in our sad, intertwining, lives.

I am compelled to ask you, to question
your motives, to query your reasoning,
and to try to understand how you might
have considered you would ever succeed?

Tell me, if you would, before we end this,
just how you came to the conclusion that
anything you do could ever be more
than the most pitiful inconvenience?

the ideologies of coma
procreated by totems of the Arabs T.N.T
bouquet at windowside.....
her drift
of skirmishes
that crave becoming of air

this other world
opiate in the eyes
inner self semblance

trudging the hours beyond the blue fiasco

two men enter
both will drink
i see him in the window
blurred
the man who writes at night

has it already
been a year?
has it even been
an hour?

from the lists of names ignored and forgotten
flashless, the fool finally finds a field
and blends among the graying stalks
that slowly in silence erase
their once proud names

Sijo Like music to my ear

The sound of rushing water is like music to my ear
the surging water falls from hilltops into the raging sea;
a river flows in the imagination of my mind's eye.

in that orchard

paddock the pillage of sailing flowers
dreaming that they dropped asleep
lapel in shrewd courtesy
as a coat of cold pillory
punishment in a shack tenement
where floors dull wasted petals
cheap metals have they become
colour dried with frail polish
they are let to rot away

Villanelles The bees and the butterfly

Why do they swarm trees when it's hot,
leave their winter nest in spring?
enter white boxes, then caught.

pink cherry blossoms, their world,
black and yellow, winged;
why do they swarm trees when it's hot.

tasty in the chef's pot,
bees loose honey comb, cut;
enter white boxes, then caught.

bees sipped nectar wait for signal, new spot,
beekeeper gets a call, bees, caught;
why do they swarm trees when it's hot.

g o s s a m e r a

cherry bleeds
like wind through the blinds
these moon escapes
wrapped up your calves
and filling black certain
midnight
between
the gap of morning
and yesterday

sugary filling
glitter
dancing at
the dimple
of a smile
hesitant
bold
afraid

and the slow
crawl
filled with
light

over the smooth
summit
of a dream
and waiting
on the precipice

Breathe

I want to play a game of contact
allowing fingers to connect pores
with perspiration of anxiety

Inhale me ecstasy.

Electric chair twitches from thighs
crucify your scent onto the bed
let no sheet forget the ritual
that is upon us

exhale me excitement.

Forget names for this episodes
as I commercially broadcast
a plethora of teases free of cost
one lip bite, two fierce glances
a multitude of DNA under the nails

inhale me passion.

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