The stream (all workshops)
Fire and claw
the devil's dancing out
tonight
under the bushes
low winds howl
the bowels of the earth
have opened wide,
they spew the latent odours
from their guts
and roam secretly
about below the huts of man,
stirring the brew
of fogs legs
and toads slippers
to a pulp
among the rotting fungi
a smile a mile across
as the gape of the earth parts
swallows the woods
Your hand reaching across
the table with a nomad's empty book,
you tried to write poems once
but used too many words. Do
you remember your puppet feet
dangling in mid-sentence? Your
face frozen with false smiles?
What happened to this country, my
oh my?
And why didn't anyone say the truth,
is it now too late?
Was no one listening in the winter
of our silence?
Did Moses not lead us
to the Promised Land?
Was it not here? Is it there?
the flakes are falling
soft in purpose
like the sky turning
announcing her
mystic shine
beyond the fond
blank manner
how many blanket layers
cover the distant autumn
the summer laugh of
joyous balsam dancing
in he wind and the livid
skies aflame in rays
reaching
the streetlights are coming
on along the shores
and the dark green
waters hold their calm
I want a night of dreamless
realm
dark headiness
and sprinkler ghosts
rushing wet damp
pavement
Beneath the crashing waves
I am weightless.
Flowing with the circular current,
The sun shines through the crystal surface,
Refracting endless colors all around me.
My bodies six feet higher,
The waves crash into my chest.
Looking up to see God, so blue above me,
I hear the ocean moan.
You are perhaps
The cynosure of many eyes
despite your blue eyes,
you are the poet of five decades
that’s not old yet
the age is of no significance
time and the water
that has flown down Mississippi
or Thames,
may be Nile or Ganges combined
doesn't show or give off my age.
I care but tuppence
as my mind is young,
a teen’s
and
as an actor of poetry ,
as it seems
I’ m just an adolescent
and
upcoming in many a poets dream,
Albeit
perhaps, it’s too late,
* I still recall that little creek
tucked in between the mountain ridges
only seen by those who'd seek
escape from the workday week
on a waterway which had no bridges.
..................................
The cold mist of a waterfall
beads my old wool coat and skin
as I answer winter's call
easing down this small stream's hall
on a sylvan stroll again.
1)
"A POEM IS LIKE A GEM"
20th September 2010.
A poem is like a gem, the saturation of a text,
so complete, and being shorter than prose text,
beautiful as such.
In the readers mind, while reading,
it dances in unison with his own thoughts,
his gathered knowledge, his word associations,
his joys and sorrows,
Bless Canada where
I dwelt in self ordained confinement
and
woke up each morn,
to the sun,
trying to peek in
through the venetian blinds.
I felt like playing mischief,
closed my eyes,
till the sun was up
in the heavens,
only for a brief moment,
Suddenly,
snow captured the sight of Canadians,
I rested still wanting to bask,
in the winter sun alas,
THE GOLDEN DOOR
From sunlit shores
across gray seas
like Alice into the Looking Glass
through a Golden Door
we passed
with dreams of better days
Fools with foolish ways
clowns and buffoons of sentimentality
were we
to hearts who would never know
or see
souls that in passion’s fire glow
we love our liiviing
we mourn our dead
we open our soul
for the world to see
and are misread
Lying on the canyons rim,
With you here by my side,
The Colorado air never seemed so sweet,
And the stars never quite so bright,
At this moment on the canyons rim,
The desert air is cool,
The clouds all have a silver lining,
From the bright mountain moon,
Lying here on the canyons rim,
Your long hair surrounds me,
Enveloping me like a curtain,
Your scent is all around me,
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