Gradual process is my colourful nomenclature.
My self-exhibited great subject an essential drum beat that
I want to grab.

Vitality is coming out my life
At last that shall make people to shout: wow!
For a sudden reality of my very long dreams
Many would be in doubt to agree for an outlaw for decades
To create such mastery piece and to be co-author;
Some people will not believe my little
Scratch creativity.
Knowing that I work behind the close door for years
More especially (in solitary) that I always draw my strength.

He returned from the war looking like a scared wounded animal,
The spark in his eyes gone, like two extinguished smoking candles,
Crutches under his upper arms, balancing carefully on one leg,
Looking like a one legged pink flamingo in a faraway jungle swamp.

His mind scrambled and unclear like an early misty London fog,
A stranger to his wife and children, totally broken in body and mind
Waking up every night from nightmares in a cold sweat, screaming,
He sees bullets flying all around him, his friends bleeding to death.

A poem …

is not bad prose that provokes an onslaught
is not profane, but projects the humane
is composed purposely to promote thought
is not meant to offend, but to transcend

provides freedom to express the mundane
poignantly paints events of History
creates a space to explore the arcane
inspires visions of human victory

some days,
like a blank slate
awaiting a big bang,
I slip comfortably into nothingness
and lounge around
in complete aquiescence

not much I can say about it
(being totally blank at the time)
but eventually
thoughts of a basic nature
start ping-ponging
vague glimpses
of useless stuff

...why do I have a red car
...did Michaelangelo have a last name
...how long have I had these slippers