waiting for an old friend,
conversation Irani tea?

waiting for a downpour,
umbrella a support stick?

waiting for a son,
whose canvas shoes he adorns?

waiting for a wife,
her obese form from the doctor's?

waiting for a street dog,
to make biscuit crumble fists?

waiting for nobody,
but tedium, a familiar habit?  

can only blunder in theories,
as I stand beside him,
waiting for somebody...

unheeded as they live
quietly by themselves
easy smiles flowing
banter chatter of
familiar things,

anything out of the
ordinary troubles
them for days after,
furrowed foreheads,
hushed exteriors,

slowly then life
seeps back to
their features,
that engaging goodwill
of generations,

of gentle demeanour
fragile as glass yet
companions affable,
little whiffs of honey
to the human hive,

a vine wall pattern
tribal's thumping
multi-drum song,
unassuming in
celebration,  
    
in the world's
gather, among
greed-gathering
plush pushing
***** blokes

soft spread gentle
wounded crumpled
sing-song trample
firefly twinkle
simple people...

what forests are those we pass,
blazing along the railway tracks,
a tree bloom of still cranes,
stream black of ******* bane,

stench of dead city rubble,
factories of rusted cast metal,
distant cotton twilight skies,
sun slide across a bunch of wires,    

passing tunnels echo
lonely platforms, frantic gecko,
looming hillside,
crackle dry wood fire,

a god barred in lock&key, 
blink glimpse of the sea 
one rush of vision,
pebble fling at frisson,

metal-crunch rhythm,
grind music sublime,
spark, grunt, grate,
we arrive, we dissipate...

.
A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It's the tears that trickle with radiance through words.
     It's a treasure trove that hides but longs to
     be found.
          It's a book shelved high that wants to
          be read.
               It's the freest of all birds caged but
               unbound...

A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It doesn't beat to the capable strokes of the artist.
     It doesn't pump in the most vibrant of
     colours.
          It doesn't wield a paintbrush to
          translate its thoughts.
               But it can see through the eyes of
               painters...

A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It doesn't conform to the conventional parameters of lyrics.
     It doesn't bind itself to the requirements
     of musical harmony.
          It doesn't follow the conventions of
          genres.
               But it sings its voice loud without
               restrictions of melody...

A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It's an open secret, that whispers in metaphoric codes.
     It's an exploding universe, that merges
     back into galaxies.
          It's a sought after painting, that boasts
          of unfathomable beauty.
               It's an everlasting song, that echoes
               within the poet that embodies...