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Editing - polished draft

Birthing Butterflies

Cherubs fell from the skies
The day I died
Howling owls flew in circles
Wondering if the roses would
Ever bloom again...
And somewhere, nonchalant, a little boy sang
While the moon watched and waited and wondered
And the sailors all came home.

When the Fabric Contrasts

Renaissance sounded good, but Lowell was interesting as it was.
New, or renewed interest in it, was not a necessity
Politics or powerful people having their pockets filled
That’s nothing new in this corrupt world of ours

Factories closing, textiles manufactured outside the country
Production overseas, more proficient for those power mongers
Turning this city into a national historic park seemed a joke
This beat up dirty mill town built by folks with a bottle in their locker?

People of the Streets

They walk the city streets, invisible.
Everyone looks away, afraid to see.
Afraid that they may see themselves
They dig through garbage bins,
and everyone looks away in disgust.
To eat and strengthen the body
it is a must.
Invisible, street people live
for another day of the same.
No one even caring if they live or die,
no one knowing their name.
Watch your step carefully,
mind what you do and what is ahead.
You may invisible next, you know.
Or end up on the mean streets dead.

By Your Side

I sit by your side and memories swirl
The sweet and the tart
Those more precious than a pearl

I pace back and forth and start to despair
The light leaves your eyes
See how dull and lank is your hair?

I wake up at night softly weeping
No, I’m not your cousin, your dear aunt or uncle
Gone now are your days of running and leaping

I stand next to you gently reminding
It’s me, your first born, don’t you know your own daughter?
I talk to myself more than you, I am finding

High And Mighty

jostling for position
elbows bear the brunt
I have a primal need
to always be in front

It soothes my precious ego
when I can see ahead and
pretend a sense of prescience
to those that think I've led


once upon a hunch
(which proved to be amiss) I
lured my flock of lemmings
off a mother fucking cliff


the party's over.
it was quite a show
but now it's time
for all to go.

but there'll always be
some who resist
the only advise
I have is this:

start howling
or "Finnigan's wake",
or a political diatribe
from the daily fakes

as for the lingering hardcore
I guarantee they'll flee
just by quoting the "Bible".
take it from me

Where Cynicism Is Likely Wise

veiled in a mystical light,
(hardness hidden away)
gurus, Guevaristas
lovers and priests
cast first, an eloquent
dispelling of doubt.

slowly melts
under wishful images of hope,
gentleness, and joy.

then, suddenly
the veil drops.
sharp, stinging admonitions;
spikes of "no, no, no",
like fangs of a viper,
stab at the so-called
"apparition" of one's own senses.

inner voices snarling and growling.


I have been trying hard
to neither forget myself
nor become plagued
with having to recall
who I was before this man
sitting sullen-faced
before a cracked reflection.

Our people say reflections crack
when onlookers stare
at mirrors without blinking.

I have bought their words
and learnt that
you can never, ever,
pause the soul,
never create a saint
out of self-pity.


Fire a thousand salute for Neopoet
a ten thousand salute for our fallen heroes
though you've left suddenly like a gathering cloud
but your pen stands,
your comments fresh like the morning wine
your inspiration, your insight give births in our mind.

double a ten thousand salute for Neopoet
let the earthquake and heavens shake
poetry is our culture we live it
rivers of colours indeed, we are
in my next world bring me here
if i will die bury me here.

In The Giving

eyes bright

legs open

grace in submission


an exquisite intrusion

ooow love hurts

blood gush

pain for pleasure's sake

a yielding exorcism of shuddering curves

haunches poised to welcome

that which is taken in the giving


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