ONE time he dreamed beside a sea
That laid a mane of mimic stars
In fondling quiet on the knee
Of one tall, pearlèd cliff; the bars
Of golden beaches upward swept;
Pine-scented shadows seaward crept.

The full moon swung her ripened sphere
As from a vine; and clouds, as small
As vine leaves in the opening year,
Kissed the large circle of her ball.
The stars gleamed thro' them as one sees
Thor' vine leaves drift the golden bees.

He dreamed beside this purple sea;
Low sang its trancéd voice, and he-
He knew not if the wordless strain
Made prophecy of joy or pain;
He only knew far stretched that sea,
He knew its name-Eternity.

A shallop with a rainbow sail
On the bright pulses of the tide
Throbbed airily; a fluting gale
Kissed the rich gilding of its side;
By chain of rose and myrtle fast
A light sail touched the slender mast.

'A flower-bright rainbow thing,' he said
To one beside him, 'far too frail
To brave dark storms that lurk ahead,
To dare sharp talons of the gale.
Beloved, thou wouldst not forth with me
In such a bark on such a sea?'

'First tell me of its name.' She bent
Her eyes divine and innocent
On his. He raised his hand above
Its prow and answering swore, ''Tis Love!'
'Now tell,' she asked, 'how is it build-
Of gold, or worthless timber gilt?'

'Of gold,' he said. 'Whence named?' asked she,
The roses of her lips apart;
She paused-a lily by the sea.
Came his swift answer, 'From my heart!'
She laid her light palm in his hand:
'Let loose the shallop from the strand!'

Across the dimly lighted room
The violin drew wefts of sound,
Airily they wove and wound
And glimmered gold against the gloom.

I watched the music turn to light,
But at the pausing of the bow,
The web was broken and the glow
Was drowned within the wave of night.

I dance in circles holding
the moth of the marriage,
thin, sticky, fluttering
its skirts, its webs.
The moth oozing a tear,
or is it a drop of *****?
The moth, grinning like a pear,
or is it teeth
clamping the iron maiden shut?

The moth,
who is my mother,
who is my father,
who was my lover,
floats airily out of my hands
and I dance slower,
pulling off the fat diamond engagement ring,
pulling off the elopement wedding ring,
and holding them, clicking them
in thumb and forefinger,
the indent of twenty-five years,
like a tiny rip of a tiny earthquake.
Underneath the soil lies the violence,
the shift, the crack of continents,
the anger,
and above only a cut,
a half-inch space to stick a pencil in.

The finger is scared
but it keeps its long numb place.
And I keep dancing,
a sort of waltz,
clicking the two rings,
all of a life at its last cough,
as I swim through the air of the kitchen,
and the same radio plays its songs
and I make a small path through them
with my bare finger and my funny feet,
doing the undoing dance,
on April 14th, 1973,
letting my history rip itself off me
and stepping into
something unknown
and transparent,
but all ten fingers stretched outward,
flesh extended as metal
waiting for a magnet.

warm wine flowing through my body
(Cabernet being ironically the same color as what gives me life)
directed me to my room
at approximately 11:25 pm that Wednesday.
A light in the left corner painting a pleasant and inviting
gold
I tumble into my queen bed
laughter airily escaping my lungs, exhalations of exhilaration
Ruffled a string of words into a message.
Borne of unadulterated joy and hopeless seclusion,
radiation from my center came out of my fingers as
"**** me like the angel I am. I am true beauty and divinity and deserve to feel like a goddess"

There's something I desire like
Dripped honey on strawberrys
It's scent delicate and ravishing

We are the universal harmony
Through which human warmth
Survives hidden from cosmic wind

Celestial incantations float airily
Beyond everything inessential
Being joyful of the incidential

And we should treasure each sip
Thoughts running in time like grass
Reflecting lifes own  peace endlessly

I thought sirens were voluptuous women,
Who sat upon rocks and sang to men,
Who couldn’t think past,
The tips of their *****.

I was sure they had the longest hair,
I had ever seen,
That swore to you,
It had met with eternity.

Through rose-scented ears,
And rose-budded drapes,
I had heard of their full, soft *******,

That breathed airily beneath,
The green beads of the sea,
Speaking, softly, of impending agendas.

"

But, I found out yesterday,
Their hands are great,
Yielding rough spears,
Rather than white sarongs.

They’re not sitting at all -
They actually stand tall,
Looming over you,
With ***** of their own.

walking down the street airily,
up comes a man so hairily
telling me how unsofairily
the world has been to him.

you see my dear friend,
our lives we must mend
for we never know our end
thus we pretend we live forever.

death left its mark,
a hardy spark,
deep inside our heart
vulnerable til the end.

a stillness occupies the brain,
an illness with all there is to gain
that causes unfathomable pain--
mental illness, will I ever be the same?

What I elected is fresh perspective:
the world is not so defective,
it just needs a new directive!
one that is protective,
completely unselective,
and infective with love.

Come here
Sit down, knee to knee…. ;-)
Sense the grass , feel the breeze and talk to me* ;-)
Merrily a coffee for our wearily eyes
Warily a walk , airily a hold… ;-)
‘N momentarily a Nosehi5 ♥  
NO BYE’s, what if it stuck my memory on replay ?
Come here !! ♥

∼**Narayani©

fierce
   fierce
blows the wind
   across this island
   off the coast of Africa
  
sittting on the ***** of a volcano
I keep listening to the sound of things

street signs clatter to each other
empty beer cans roll noisily
   through midnight streets
doors keep slamming
   to make their presence known
plastic bags hiss airily
and fly away
   like they never thought
   they could

the ears
of the little dog that thinks
   I am his master
stand at odd angles
while he is grooming himself
   on my lap

warm bodies
in a blustery place

the patio chair
   scrapes its way
   across the tiles
   inch by windy inch

my wine slushes in the glass

I share fiesta music
   from half a mile a way
   coming to me
   in gusty fragments
and almost feel the rush
   of low clouds chasing each other
   under a star-studded sky

here I am
on the ***** of a volcano
listening to the sounds of the world

                  * *

The Gypsy Girl

I like the quiet lakes and their reviving breeze, where the water’s eyes are always sleepy. You can't imagine his red cheek in the winter nights. I remember when my mother had made a nice hat for him. My mother is so expert in the seasonal souls and she told me that the autumn is a gypsy girl. I didn't see autumn, but I am sure that my mother saw her because she described her face precisely. She told me that Autumn is flying between the trees’ branches as a small bird and leaving her veil weaving airily in our souls. Sometimes I feel that Autumn is a fairy and you may see her stormy tale swimming deeply in our dreams’ water.    


A Gypsy Tent

I am not a hippie, but I seriously had thought to live in the forest without cooker or air-conditioner, just wood for the fire, and if you don’t agree, I will leave the fire for you. I will drink the river water with the birds and eat the greens with the deer. I will sleep under a tent without walls or doors. I will leave all your walls and all my closed doors for you. I will take a gypsy tent because I wish to dream at the night widely and chant at morning loudly.

A Gypsy Wagon

My grandfather had a beautiful horse with a heart filled with compassion and kindness. I didn't see her, but they said that she was legendarily clever and brave. My family might have possessed a wagon. I don't know and I didn't ask about this, but I think if we had one, it will be closed as the desert’s soul. I am an Arab man and you know there is nothing here but desert, so I decided to bring a gypsy wagon to my home to learn my children the freedom.

“He also saw the cook’s cat which could do somersaults.”  

At least that’s what the cook said,
a claim the cat, shapeless sack
of snide, deigned neither to confirm

nor deny, content to ****
long afternoons in desultory

elongation, stationed
on the window sill above
the blackened eight burner Garland.

Once, when the cook stepped outside
to smoke, the cat, mood sour,

expansive, airily confided
the corpulent cook could climb
stairs on his hands while whistling

“Parlez-Moi d’Amour”
then spat in the soup, dispelling

any lingering incredulity,
his stomach duly nailing
a flawless double backflip.

Crawling to repair my median voices,
I bump my lumbering head along the curtains
Picturing a light evaporating out of masses
A sculpture modeled in my deep-seated mountains



I'm about to begin a brand-new journey,
as all my letters and signs are falling airily
Grit is granting me with a glowing crown
No slices are left from my earlier dawns



A rapid switch hit on my pavement,
like losing memory and diving in
a lake full of velvet and blinding diamonds
My lot is sleeping in covering wings



Another morning emptied of tongues
I do a humming like bambino birds
My pen blushes when seeing my pump,
as wine of this pulp turns into dust



I steam to tie the stars, and I sink
in a giant maze of origami planes
I pinch every no-man's land, in a blink,
pour them like milk in a pan sitting on flames



When snowflakes rise as bubbles of calligraphy,
and symphonies catch back their delicacy
My wizard's iris drinks the clouded chords
Veins wrapped in purple, as it snows in my globe



I'm bordering the gate, into writer's crowning sun
I inscribe this poem, to salute ladies and gentlemen
my hand waves to you, as eclipse calls
This is not a break, just a swing of my bipedal poles



My silhouette hikes in an elevated air,
like a pat ballerina climbing up the stairs
Bolting bulldozers, with feeders into the orb
A crystal punch radiates downtown's corpse

Watch life bloom where it wasn't
in the patches of fragrant wildfire
that sway airily in the calm arms
of the wind at noon sun.

( Our plans always fell as hasty child's scribble, but every farmer knows that a garden takes a season of storms and worms to bloom. )

can you kiss my fat like it’s something made of marble? can you brush my hair as if a Rembrandt **** you secretly adore?
may you fetishize the simple way I blink my eyes: do you like to the way my giggle echoes throughout your body? may you watch me whilst I dance around you moody, will you sit on a chair and watch me with your admirable eyes? let me straddle you and rub your beard and take off your shirt, until I wring it around your neck and force your eyes to follow me: and peeled on me they’ll be until we’ve finished our sublime relief: I bend over the mattress,

the table, the hill — whatever: you press your knee into my buttocks, and a slap from your hand rests on my cheek: pleasure and pain and I almost wish you had me on a chain for you, I’d be on a chain for you: extreme and dusty pink your cheeks turn from this hazy eve, and not to be so gloomy and painful yet the sun has yet to eat the morning clouds and all evening begun the sky to change: the shade it fades, slight pourings and droppings I hear, it’s like pennies falling into a paper cup — are you aware of this sound, my love? and then, then do you also, too, hear the paper? oh yes, the paper, can you, may you feel me? may I feel you — and you know I don’t have to ask, and I know you know I don’t have to ask, yet I do and I know through your mind you think we’re in the sky, because you watch me so airily, and then you move like mist: through a tree line, and your the light that filters through — or really, you are the filter : and I applaud you and everything about you because I am the thing you desire: how may I stir your passion? do I really need to ask? my mouth between your legs and I hum your name, “Daddy”, I think this is all I must do— rest my breast between your manhood, rest my breast upon your lips, **** and twirl and tease and lick: drink me, you’ve gently held my Soul: I thank the Gods who’ve blessed me to be deep inside you: I wonder what you are dreaming about now?
you lay upon the gilde that wreathes inside me, a beauty surmounted: you’re so painterly: the bridge of your nose, the glitter in your eyes: the crows feet, the wicked way I know— relinquish all your regality inside me: being it out, I’ll bring it out from inside you(what is it?)— your being, your raw and natural being: yes, yes, I’ll bring it out and many more things you never knew you were:

intensity, passion, and controlling: some major key-tones that we flavor with: spices spill over a mess has been made deep inside you, you *** all over me I accept you

you made black look gold
as the pitch curtains cascade and luster
light that shouldn't gleams onyx shimmer
sheens and glimmer angles manifold
you made black be sunlight
scattering shade ensconed dapples
soft embrasure slowly enamors
black is context airily laid
i love the black that reminds me of velvet
the black that echoes of a heavy blanket falling
the black of warm silences between words
but also the black regal sharpness that demands worship
but also the black night sky that beckons eternity
you make black radiant

I am a writer
aloneness is nothing to me
rather it helps me horn my trade
a time to sleep with words and ram honeyed verses
tenderly skim the hot skins of panting sentences to hear soft moans
breathe in the fire of raging expletives as they surrender conquered

I am a writer
I traverse the minds of others
meeting the nobles who show me great heights
while adding to me the wisdom encased in knowledge bouquets
and lesser's whose limit are the closed sewer pits of literary demise
they the beggars mired in the crippled minds balming words infirm

I am a writer
attuned of a mind beholding no evil
knowing that words maketh  the man or woman
from soul to mind lies paradise or hell as words finds their nests
paying homage and dues to the masters who offers the fitting abodes
in the poisoned minds lies airily thousand poisoned words in refuge

Come pay homage in reverent tones
in shrouded musings bow and **** a snook
in sweeping denials hide the blue orbs rancour
rise on bended knees to praise you no longer crawl

if that be the blalant case in truth
why thou feast on worms in rags yet toil
faffing and farthing your depraved stench airily
its your origins that shames and from doth you hide

call out battlements of wingless flies
hang out your offals and call them jewelries
wait not till noon to guillotine your restless guilts
you have slain your hearts your riots are within yourselves

your tongueless words echos in vapours
depleted souls of wanton savages man Fort Arrogance
warring for birthrights thieved and plundered from afar isles
in black your red blood bubbles and screams defying justice unpaid

we know the maltreats of yesterdays
blazed the wrath of dark impostors dressed in white
you are but children of nightfalls awaiting retribution in kind
your bloods dry within as you akimbo in peat and poison to your end

so pray do crawl out and pay
Come pay homage in reverent tones

Face to face beloved her I saw straight-
And kidding it- airily edged twice
With flaming sword to slash my gut to price
This sin my taste for fleshless comfort mate;
As I past cattle taxed on belly wait
The wage of food and dust known to entice
Beloved her to death, with rib for vice
Ruling over that sin her taste for hate.
And I tempt down my mouth and fall the same
For furrowed brow as her for bearing pain
In birthing souls that voice caught naked out.
Now beloved her has everlasting fame
As seeded bride to be a spirit lain
In white to clothe our sin this taste of doubt.

I chanced on a familiar sight
a minute  or two
ago.

It struck me as similar
but unfamiliar.

A sight of a flying machine
up above.

Once a sight a minute.  
Now out of place
in the blue sky
above.

Who is coming .
Who is going .
For the world is apart for the first time
in a long time.
Everywhere is over the seas now.
You home is your new neighbourhood
your suburb the new city
We survive with inches
Long gone are days
filled with endless miles.

The flying machine now.
Seems airily familiar.
Similar perhaps
to my ancestors first sight
of those European ships of plunder
as they slithered slowly in
on our peaceful shores.
Abundant with all that is life.

The flying machine
landed somewhere
I didn’t not see.

I have a feeling
one of these days
something more spectacular
way beyond our comprehension.
As dramatic as  
it was for us
when Jan Van Riebeek
first set his sights on us.

I have a feeling that
unlike the flying machine
what will be hovering above us
would be the sort
no living being would have seen before.

The signs are ominous
If I think the rare sight of plane is out of this world
out of this world will be upon us.
Soon than we are ready.

Our future will fly in
In a pirate ship that set sail
from a time totally unknown to us.