Stealing away from the noise and glare
I paced the aisles of an ancient library
Being worn and tired, indisposed to read
I sat in a corner, lost in half reverie

Around me were books stacked end on end
In safely locked glass and wooden shelves
And sectioned into different genres
Fiction, non- fiction, verse et al, in thinly layered leaves

I felt lost in this vast continent of erudite friends
Poet, scholar, philosopher and sage, each sat quiet
But those silent souls seemed to crave for human touch
Waiting to serve anytime learning’s lovesome diet

Closely sheltered from the tumult of the world
The place, though serene had an eerie air
And books like so many beauties in a harem
Were kept away in seclusion just to admire

The lifeless air and the long deserted look
Mildly disturbed my inner calm
Couldn’t digest man’s total disregard of books
Which for long, to many a lonely soul, served as balm

Sitting amid those gallant souls
I thought over the relentless efforts of sage like men
Who in the stillness of the night, in their cloistured cells
Plunged into research and meditative reflection

What knowledge is garnered in these tomes!
What all charms, encased in these pages!
To what magic lands they can carry us
Sharing with us the accumulated wisdom of ages

With the profusion of electronic gadgets
And information, readily available by a finger hit
Books no more are given a venerable treat
And fated to be stashed away in corners unlit

Heavy with the time tested wisdom of the wise
They sit huddled together in damp corners
Longing to get a little human warmth
But sadly neglected like rusted burners

After an hour’s enervating reprieve
While I was leaving that dumb world
In my ears, fell a faint sound
Of the agonizing cry of the Printed Word!

Like a snowflake in a micro-planet
flying around in the vast universe
fading away, melting for eternity.
Small breaths carry your memories
fall of tears slide down the cheek
as the raindrops on your window
pouring out the life from your chest.
The little snowflake had a beauty,
meaning on its own, truth in the core,
hidden and observed, as life knows
how brittle and precious is every breath.

Twirly
Swirly
Whirly
soft as a willow wisp glides
Lift
Shift
Drift
Into the air they slide

In the morning, a lively blackbird
calls for its loyal companion.
The dawn is young and luminous
As the painting on the old easel.
From the crack of the window
a breeze plays around the vivid room
tenderly touching the dry paintings
of last month’s tears and blood.

Standing at the door, observing,
the eyes wandering carefully
surpassing every slight detail,
closing for seconds, to compose
a pile of memories and pictures.
The coffee, ready on the windowsill,
a gust of smells swirl in the room
melting on the canvas depicting a hill.

Inspiration, I need you, dear muse,
are you blue, black or bordeaux
show me the landscape and love,
pour into me the tingling liquid,
so I can close the eyes and limn,
the paintbrush leaving impressions
like the life leaves traces in my soul
with flammable sharp expressions.

The hill on the threadbare canvas
multiplies as the colours mingle
bold lines swirl into each other,
the Pangoian Hills, fair Koutra,
the glory of Greece embraces it.
Lost in the tale, forgetting the rest,
what else keeps my soul in place
as the world makes it repressed.

I fly thousand miles away, painting
I hear the piano in my head, sonata,
Beethoven, the day’s melancholy.
The brush slides and curl swiftly
the beauty of nature comes to life,
passionate impulse, instinctive urge
precision and fever absorbs the Artist,
irresistible and weakening surge.

Day and night, trying hard to survive
grasping the world’s innate essence
yet never getting back enough or thrive
the Artist works, loves and dreams
living in the marvellous inner world
neatly painting the life of the universe
sitting from place to place, searching
hoping to succeed, trying to immerse.

Years passing, the music still playing
I need ardour to find the meaning.
Greece is glowing under the sunlight
throwing diamonds from the sky.
The Artist senses immense love
soft brush in the hand comes alive,
clear beauty, happiness flowing over
as the Artist eternally closes the eyes.

Tears of Pure Emotion
********

Tears of pure emotion rolled over his cheeks
Taking out the lava of pain down onto the earth
His revival now solely depends upon the way
He manages to carry on in the aftermath
Of the eruption of the volcano, called emotion

You're not here with me doesn't
Necessarily mean
You're not with me
I know you're always with me
Whether it is here
Or somewhere else.

Death separated
Our bodies
Not the spirits, the hearts
Your existence
In the space-time
Once or thence
Enough

I'll lead my life
Till the end
In the name of the best within Us

There's a Route 22 near you.
A licorice asphalt road,
Twisting as opposing currents of time,
With anticipation and apprehension,
From home, to unknowns,
From comfort to expectations.
A rural ribbon of signage,
And milestones.

I traveled mine yesterday,
In an overdue Spring,
From Melrose to Bright's Grove.
I writhe and bend with its winding,
Former times arise like heat waves;
Mirage puddles flood my head,
Always just out of reach.

I recalled hitchhiking through Warwick,
As I backtrack,
And almost stop
For one today on the curve
Where they sell the garden gnomes.
I once looked wryly at them
When waiting across the road.

Sprawling upright over the northern landscape,
Towards the Co-ops of Arkona,
And the beer store in Thedford,
Wind farms thrive like techno giants,
In a mutant Utopian world.

****** Mary's red sign no longer hangs
Outside the white house in Lobo,
Where she could bring you in touch
With your dead.
Poplar Hill's trees no longer snow in the summer,
The water wheels are seized, barns are exposed.
The lofts collapsed.

I had to stop near a culvert, to listen to the sound of run-off,
The melt reflecting the transition under the sun,
Converging at Black Creek, Pulse Creek, or Cow Creek,
Carrying forward to the St. Clair River and Lake Huron,
Then onward and back.

Weathered iron fences enclose pioneer graves;
Settlers who cleared the dense Lambton forests,
And made the first ruts along my way,
With wagonfuls of backache.
I know well how you fared on our Route.

On Monday I bury the last of my dreams
And give up my hopes for tomorrow.
I do what’s required to look in the glass
Resigned to become friends with sorrow.

On Monday I’ll pass over white and wear black
I hear the prediction is rain.
I’ll pray for the sun and prepare for the clouds
And seek out small joys in my pain.

On Monday it all takes a turn for the different
Will it get better or will it get worse
I’ll gamble my future on staggering odds
With nothing to save me but verse.

On Monday my heart will have gone somewhere else
As my will walks me into that room
And my mind searches vainly for some safe escape
From the depths of my self-tunneled tomb.

On Monday I’ll stand up and do what I said
The chips must fall down where they may
I’ll carry it through, though I’ll wish I were dead
It’s a price I can nothing but pay.
lsj

That song stole my sleep
Have to wake up all night

Nectar she might have drunk
For love's flowing from her voice

Drenched I am in that rain
Forgot all my pain

Bliss is all I can feel
Light's all I can see