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The stream (all workshops)

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An Ideal Ideogram

My father turns the inky soil
With his bucolic blade;
Readying the ground,
So gravid,
For the body blooming!

He rolls the rocks,
Like Archangels,
To the edge of the balmy beds —
To protect them
From the deluge of rude rabbits
And unthinking rains.

He gathers the sticks insensitive,
Plucks the ancillary weeds,
Rids the bejeweled yard
Of all that is colorless,


We are accused of theft,
Wanted by a whole planet
And here we are,
Two fugitive souls
Fleeing for love

Accused for stealing your Heart,
For having stolen the stars,
For penetrating and entering in your life
And nail a dagger of love
And a rose in your chest.


The twilight of the day draws near,
The blazing sun is laid to rest,
And dimming skies let stars appear
That twinkle in the bloodstained west.

The once warm air turns cold and still,
Long drawn out shadows gently fade,
While birdsong that before was shrill
Falls silent in a soft cascade.

The rooftops change from red to black,
So too the rising spiralled wisps
Of smoke churned up from chimney stacks
And stoves of wood burnt cinder crisp.

Just for Tonight

Come my love
fear not the ailing one
come lie on my shoulders
but just for one more time
let’s cuddle

the waterfalls have now gone dry
‘tis been years passed shy
now as the end approaches
why be wry
lets within each other lie
simply just try

Such another moment
may not come again
then why would you want to ever
our love we did not finally cement

come upon my cheeks
plant a kiss
the last one may be


I guess this is what being old means
struggling to top a hill
through woods bereft of summer's greens,
pitting pain against strong will.

But here I am shuffling along
just a few steps from the ridge top
listening to autumn's song.
At the peak I'll rest and stop,

Apex attained I stretch my back
then espy a big oak stomp
and since legs' muscles have grown slack
on it I carefully park my rump.


My father told me stories of war,
How the Mende fought the Temme,
Or how two tribes would fight
when Somebody had stolen a woman.
But the story I come to tell is much darker
Than what my father told in moony nights,
Beside the silvery river Sediment in Koryadu.

The last night I saw his face he said,
"My son, you're as smart as the White Men
That take our diamonds.
I see the way you read their book closely.
When you become a doctor,
Do not forget to make this place a paradise.


When my boat leaves sight
beyond that far horizon
will I have ever been?


In the middle of the night
When the clock is ticking slow
I close my eyes real tight
Bid the dreams to go

Nightmares ride in style
On steeds of satin black
Fading for a while
Now, I hear them coming back

Shadows on the wall
Noises in the night
There's creaking in the hall
Giving me a fright

Say it is not real
Hold me close and then
Off to dreamland steal
And here they come again

Mysterious Cat

Across from me I see a cat,
I note her pattern and design;
I marvel how her body flows
In beautiful authentic rhyme.

I watch intently her movements,
I wish to know what they define;
but tense excitement cause a sound,
and eyes wheel to alight on mine!

My stare is captured in her pull
In her wide penetrating eyes,
And strange -her power holds me there
Until her thoughts are satisfied.

The Holly Fields, The Flutes

The dead follow bliss with hound dog eyes.
cornfields are pawed with their hopes,
rusty legos, found objects in private renown.
Ellipsis is another key by the tomb.
So knitting thimble, so garage sale ring,
oak shiver by the moon’s garlands,
the chaplet cupboard’s slide.
The dead leave holly fields barely touched,
green a cold breakfast whittled
in small bruises. So knitting thimbles,
so mommy’s hearted baseball.
Only a fool stirs up a bodiless brew.
The dead mesmerize passerby


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