.

*Music written to
the sound of the rain,
patters of notes upon
slick windowpanes
mesmerizing a day
of reminiscence,
when two hearts
danced between
the steady drizzle

Drenched in the key
of lost moments
playing over and over
in the saturated symphonies
of my mind’s
harmonic sadness
un-tuned melodies echo
through puddles collected
within a cappella fingers

I am a wall you carve your name into
A stencil in time and motioning hands
Beckon me forward
Call me as though my ears were formed to know your voice
And music could not exist without your skin
I am a ship in open ocean
Battered and bruised by belligerent waves
Carry me under
I am in current meant to wash your star-lit shore
And your island is my earth

My star cannot shine
Unless your eyes can see
My seas are your words
My gold is your dirt
My sun is your hope
My heart is yours

My gold is your dirt
I am the son of the soil
And you the seed
May these roots of sycamore grow
And reach your vision
I am a star only if your universe allows

I am an empty desire and an early death
An unmarked grave
In a battle ground
An unknown soldier spilling blood to win your war
I could never give my life
I never was alive

Except for you

My gold is your dirt
The land your feet will walk on
I will worship the sidewalk
And love a ghost of memory
Never forgetting a shade of blue
I place nothing above you

what a wonderful coincidence to discover that when I look up  
one of my two favorite words
threshold
it is linked to my other favorite word
phenomenon
but my life is laced with coincidence
my third favorite word
they happen daily
like itches

for instance,
today I did a wikipedia search for Ezra Pound
because my poetry student daughter fell in love with one of his pieces
I find that from 1945 to 1958
Mr Pound was incarcerated at St Elizabeth's Psychiatric Hospital in Washington D.C. after being found incompetent to stand trial
for treason against the United States
my father worked at St Elizabeth's hospital for 30 years
including the 12 that Mr. Pound was a patient
my father, who kept his poetry hidden in a little black book

I have a vision of him
young at the time
enamored with the 60 plus year-old poet
seeking him out and finding him
resting outside at one of the tables
enjoying the simplicity and intricacies of nature
and perhaps they have a chat about poetry...
my father having a chat with Ezra Pound
70 years before his granddaughter falls in love
with one of his poems
a poem already written and filed away somewhere in the memory of a once beloved poet

threshold: the magnitude or intensity that must be exceeded for a certain reaction, phenomenon, result or condition to occur or be manifested.
“nothing happens until the signal passes the threshold”

With a paint of white on his face
A paint of red pie on his nose
Fascinating colours of dress
Making himself a fool
Making others fall into laughter
His life being a tragedy
Hiding it in his fake smile
Making it a super comedy  
Becoming a Shakespearean
Tragicomedy character
A fool , the JOKER !

You aim for a marker on the dial
two hands cupping destiny
numbers adding up to a cusp
riding a measured point of action
and its called time travel
but no-one will believe it.

out loud unsaid
words transcribed
but never read
and all the knots
that came undone
threads unraveled
one by one
lover     family
child of mine
forgive
my selfish ways
my pride

Broken things require glue
Turn around that's you

Don't stand by and watch me break
This world needs NOT another fake

Take a moment to embrace me
Your touch will set me free

Pure hands infuse humanity
Deliver it just for my sanity

There is no mistaken identity
Inside you is my serenity

One touch ... a basic need I concede
My ache is now full speed

Do not make me beg
Press in and heal my plague

Today I ooze of selfishness
You are familiar with my reticence

Guilt draws near and whispers
Push past its tiny embers

My need today transcends
Straight from you, no bends

I lay curled up in a ball
Listen, do you hear my call

From you, I plead one task
One touch ... *it's all I ask

In their Garden of Love,
She,the beautiful queen,
Champak, with her
Intoxicating scent
He,the handsome King,
Gandharva, with his
Mesmerising scent
Hypnotising two hearts
With love and romance
Taking them to Heaven !

I will only let you touch me if your hands are so full of intension that every brush of your palms feels like your writing a novel on my skin.