Half a milken bowl
               stuck on the wall:

sporting a contraption at its head

all silver, this touch-cold cast,

spouting out a colourless stream.

Sound of an outpouring,
the song of life.

parched desert mirage.

moon ripples
cast away the journey's edge--
neon kiss-patterns

Sunset On The Lake
Down beyond the woodland
The magic setting golden sun
On the still lakes shining waters
its glowing corona hung

Magenta clouds spread like curtains
as they passed the lighted sky
I could almost hear them rustle
as the daylight bid goodbye

The gentle whispered breezes
in the pine trees by the shore
Sang a song of nature’s anthem
I would remember for evermore

A hanging reverent silence
That no creature dared to break
In each soul made a painting
Of that sunset on the lake.

In beauty so transcending
As the water lapped my feet
Spoke beauty in a language
That I had no need to speak

Then under the cloak of evening
Played a softened lullaby
Sleepy splashing of the wavelets
with a dreamy darkened sky.

If I lived forever
This vision will awake.
Memory will leave me never
Of that sunset on the lake

my father’s younger brother
was quite an interesting fellow
worked over time in different jobs
and on the sided wrote poems
stories  novels  texted songs

we lived about 150 miles apart
exchanged occasional mails and comments
on each other’s writings

then I received an email rather strange
stating that he had underestimated
his sickness but wished to have no visits
at the time

it seriously felt
    like something was not right

and two days later
    I was just about to call
a weeping aunt was on the phone
and told me of his death

from what she said
it was not nice

he died of  cancer of the pancreas
could hardly move in his last weeks
and only weighed one hundred pounds
down from 200   when he died
guess his demise was a relief for him
    as well as her

how sad that he  a man of letters
     who wrote thick novels and articulate verse
could not find words for his own pain

maybe  like many of his generation
he felt his sickness was  a shame
or he was furious at his body   or his fate
or did not want to burden others
or did not like them to be witness
to his waning health

I do not know

what I shall remember
is the loud silence
in his last mail

          * *