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Trying to dance in a sawdust enclosure
Finding the moon disappears on this night
Hearing a song though there’s nobody playing
Asking the stars if they’re wrong or they’re right

Taking a drink from a glass now half empty
Quenching my thirst on a warm summer’s eve
Sharing a glance with a mirrored reflection
Someone I know or at least I believe

When through the door walks a beautiful lady
Dressed all in white with a belt made of gold
Kicks off her shoes as she starts heading towards me
This is a story about to be told

Now in my arms as she moves very graceful
Floating on air is now just how it seems
Lips painted red how I wish I could taste them
I hope I’m awake for this feels like a dream

Spinning around as the world is now watching
Following steps that I easily trace
Slowly we slide ‘cross this dance floor of heaven
Long ago moments so soon to erase

We are like breaths sighed in harmonic whispers
Effortless motions so silent and free
Like wearing wings made of gossamer feathers
Such is the feeling awash over me

Falling in love with this wonderful woman
Something about her just touches me so
Hot coffee hair and her eyes nearly matching
Holding her close as to never let go

When just as quick I now find her departing
Why must she leave on an evening like this
A brush of my cheek with her fingers so gentle
Then with a smile she gives me a kiss

Watching the door as it closes behind her
Feeling my heart now is breaking in two
Then as she soars neath the glow of a halo
Blinking my eyes, can’t believe this is true

A few things I know as I stare out the window
I’m still not lucky at love or romance
That woman in white was all I have prayed for,
And I’ve now paid the devil his due…

to teach me to dance

Do not stand at my grave and weep..
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awake in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft star-shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry..
I am not there. I did not die.

It’s ironic that I
Grew up to do all
The things I said I
Would never do when
I was younger

Apu used to tell me,
as storms would haunt the night,
that the lightning was from God's camera
taking a picture of all that He treasured
The thunder was the rolling film
ready for another capture
And the rain was from the angels
crying at how beautiful His creation was

~

So you think all I can write is romantic poetry,
flowery, affection infused, soft and silky
poems that sing in sensual symphonies,
well that is not the case I can assure you
I can write poetry on many topics and themes
any time I want to…

Sure, I am in love with the most amazing
woman in the world, with hypnotic maple eyes
and a smile that could light up the
dark side of the moon, one who makes my mornings,
like this beautiful Sunday, my reason
to wake happily each day

And yes, I find beauty in everything I see,
from an enchanting honeysuckle sunrise
to a euphoric star draped twilight sky
on a warm spring evening as fireflies
linger in the cool breeze and we sit together
mesmerized by our desires…

And of course I enjoy a whispering ocean,
melodic waves of turquoise and aquamarine
gently lapping upon a satin shore
in harmony with crystal azure skies
as my love and I walk along
leaving footprint mosaics in the sand…

But that doesn’t mean all I can write
is romantic poetry…I can write about other things
anytime I want to…
and I will…pretty soon…maybe tomorrow,
well tomorrow is not a good day for me,
*maybe the next, but you’ll see….

I stand by the period bed
where Dupleix rested his head,
wondering at his kind of life,

if he lay there with wife
or some native maid.

doesn't hint his bronze bust
if he lay there bare
in ebullient lust

stirred by a girl darkly thin
bowing himself to her embrace
finding in his war beaten mind, happiness,

or, there wasn't any such thing,
he lay there staring at the ceiling
far from even one warm kiss
storming his brain to defeat the British...

I think of the kitten that survived a few days,
it still pains.

In the museum, I rhyme dust with lust.