Colors Combine
Until the blues and reds mingle
be tough to find a purple patch
one would always remain single
and the fortunes of two never match
Unless the sand and sky meet
a green forest will not emerge
and the steady fall of lonely feet
only be joined for a dirge
When white and black intertwine
the shades of gray define real
an edge stands out alpine
two ends joined make a seal
Songs of Hope
A Traveler Grieves
Replay and edit.
not regrets, just options,
not chosen or seen.
friends and selves,
left by the wayside.
swept by tides
of time and distance.
had I seen you,
standing by the road,
we could have traveled
a few miles together
yet no qualms
later not sooner
our paths merge
Roo
My arms around you
a bond with a child
she grows too fast
too tall for her old bed
a beautiful life ahead
Memories last
I remember you crawling
across my back
tickle of little paws
a description of something
only you understood
a smile melts any flaws
always joy
a world of your own
days in orange
nights of lights
my wish that you don’t grow
cannot be strange
Soft Whispers
A diatribe.
Messages,
lost in volumes
absorbed,
with apathy and ire
A soft speak.
propositions,
Open a closed heart
Inhaled,
like gasps of fresh air
Smiling Phoenix
On a soaring thermal
paint the skies
diva phoenix
rise from the ashes
a beatific serenity
replaces the darkness
a smile opens the heavens
toes tap a dance
freedom is won
no fear in the shadows
a life interrupted
restarted again
A New Beginning
In the embers, a spark
found a reason to breathe.
Woke up to an angel’s smile
the demons of darkness
scatter at the approach
many things yet unsaid
await the emerging dawn
Temptation
A frightened sleep
you appear as a light beam
disturb the dark beyond
emerge as a shadow dream
a chance encounter
turns to dust
a moral turbulence
reduces to lust
the sound of laughter
disturbs a peace
attained in a cocoon
a mind on lease
The Devotee
Smiles melt,
the polar ice sheet.
the little crinkle,
age you blame.
See yourself,
in my eyes,
you need no mirrors,
to tell tales of your beauty
In my waking dreams
a haloed angel.
gives me peace
a reason to love life
Ah! To Be Young In America
In 1979 at twenty one,
reached the shores
confused, advice weary
unsure of myself
alone in America
cold, under the winter sun
brash, as only the scared can be
uncouth
persona unrefined
unrealistically idealistic
alone in America
lost, seeking the shade of a mentoring tree
eternally keen, and full of sass
irresponsible
totally unrepentant
comfortably independent
alone in America
what a fabulous time it was
Zoo
Dear Mr. Tiger, it hurts me too
to see you angrily pacing, behind chain fences in a zoo.
While your cousins in the forests, roam free
swim, frolic in the grass and stalk prey,
you dance to a whip, roar on the trainer’s decree,
and are rewarded by chicken morsels tossed your way
Born in a pen, by human hand you were reared.
Captivity has stained your reputation, and how.
You, that should, on sight be feared,
have grown up by suckling on a sow.
In your vivid imagination, you have escaped, to former glory
From the ennui of the sheltered life you lead.
Gawking spectators and tormentors would now be the quarry.
On their fat meat, you would feed
The Floater
A floating feather,
captures my undivided attention.
which sparrow,
seeking a seed to call its own,
sheltered against the winds,
let this thing of beauty drop?
What fate lies in wait for it, I wonder.
below which head, will it form a pillow?
Or swept up with other fluff,
will it continue its journey forever?
Bombay, the Magnificient
I have walked this town’s streets
looking for puzzles,
the answers for which many claim to have found
footpaths at the terminus
jammed with sellers of dreams
jostling seekers push by
the 9:06 awaits their odorous bodies
seedy bars
behind the dignified Taj
the underbelly or the definitive example
of a confused city and its people
A slum beckons
a myriad complex
lanes run like bulbous veins
joy, pain, life, death
the world goes by, nothing changed
a tableau on a single street
Cosmopolitan and posh
a promotional poster beckons
housing for the rising stars
With a condescending view,
Of the urchin pissing on the road
ramparts of marine drive
obscene blocks
prevent the sea from reaching in
to cleanse the city’s soul
This city is doomed
by its owners
Yet not condemned
By those who belong
My Songs
My songs do not seek to calm or pacify,
Nor hidden answers to anyone’s prayers,
or balm for their discomforting strains.
No doubts do I attempt to clarify,
no futile attempts to peel away diseased layers,
of disused, festering socialized brains.
My words will not always attempt to rhyme,
alien are methods of laureate poet celebrities,
By Hughes, Plath and Eliot I was never smitten.
Phrases emerged incognito from my mind’s grime,
limited intent to provoke liberal bleeding heart adversaries,
nor expecting emancipation through the word written.
Where go I, must my songs follow,
a truer friend one finds not even amongst dreamers.
Comforting words from others sound jaded and hollow,
my gentle songs sooth me in a world full of screamers.
The Creation – A Fool Thinks Differently
A thing of wonder emerges from the mind's recesses
A toy? A totem? A twisted metaphor from my past?
Or a result of life's abuses and excesses?
In reality its an experiment to leave you aghast
Objects that strain to be defined
Dreamlike images that refuse to be confined
In colors that light up the night sky,
built without rationales or reasons why.
Images placed in random sequences
Colors splashed in distorted spaces
Perceptions derived through fogged senses
The answers lie deep in hidden places
When is a thing, not the thing?
What happens when your mind is deceived by what you see?
Is coherent thought relevant at all times?
I know it’s not you, but me.
Celestial Questions
Why does the cosmos keep on expanding?
Why gravitate away from the centre where you were born?
Why agree with this absolute and not keep your senses pending?
Why not attempt to stitch, from whence once you were torn?
Why must there be order in the universe?
Why should stars always align this way, not that?
Rather than fall in line, why not be diverse?
Why not agree the world’s not round, but flat?
Why do brilliant suns eventually create black holes?
Why should all light and sound be trapped by density?
Why accept the obvious and not seek a reversal of roles?
Should stars get dimmer, and moons shine with intensity
Why must the sinister night always follow a magical day?
Why should a good life, always end tragically?
Why consider it fait accompli, rather than a miraculous way?
Not the end, but regeneration, philosophically?
The Iconoclast Son
Rules of an ordinary life do not apply,
Judgment by a jury of peers is impossible,
When elemental logic is in great supply,
It becomes an extravagant prodigal's parable
I am my father’s son, its true
In times of paradigm shifts I rise
To winds of caution, my fears I threw
Challenging powers without any disguise
Icarus I may yet prove to be in short time
Constantly seeking the heat of the sun,
Struck off the roster of life, in the prime
The heretic, destroyer of worlds is finally undone.
The world is yours…now go get it.
Float above the earth, the crowds
Their anxiety and fears are not yours to own
Your sun shines bright above the clouds
The seeds of euphoria, you have sown
Enjoy the moment. Rip away the shrouds
Declare freedom from doubts and ire
Fear not the tempests of the unknown
The strength of an idea, moulded in fire
stood tall when gale forces had blown
To seek, to seek, to seek, forever aspire
Lady luck
With luck, prevail you shall
Bad luck, and stare at the abyss of doom
Frail human minds
Thank. Blame. Thank. Blame
Captured.
She sells dreams.
The Artist is hooked into his ideas machine
I am overwhelmed,
Fantastic visions burst into colors bright
Neurotic, blazing, one weird, one sane
like sparks from metal striking metal
Whooping, emerge into a glazed light
Some reverential, others profane
A turbulent maelstrom, never to settle
Some stars bring us together; others pull us apart
The stars said no
My mind nudged go
When a life's drama unfolds, and
Victories and catastrophes are written
Which do we take the glory for? Or,
Blame the stars for the dust we have bitten