i.


the stars do not shine
loneliness presses the air
into a tangle of last years withered
leaves,
loneliness in summer leaves
that whisper to a grey moon
a song of regret.


ii.


dreams of midnight,
cool rain,
songs more alive
than this low-roofed night.


iii.


teardrops like the ghostly moon, lost
against the heart that
flutters like a dark sky
breathing stars.
  

iv.


the mottled horizon
pools into greys,
tender eyed with
soft sadness,

in these dim hours when silence
cloaks the woods and
human laughter disappears

we sink against the softer sky
and the slow fade of moon and
long for dream, for everything
to reawaken and unwind.


v.


we are swimmers heading as far
out as we can get. surreal silver
stars, opening like flowers,
refusing to drown.

And one day it will come
It will stop you right in your tracks
Arrest your heart
Leave you breathless
As desperation moves into your blood
You will feel like a child
Who has been deprived of laughter and
Cheated out of Ferris wheel rides
That day will come
When you feel like
Inescapable space between a
Suicidal Mack truck driver
And an industrial concrete wall
That day…
That day is the very day
You realize that you spent
More time calculating risk
Waiting for a better time
The day that failing and
Moving on becomes more attractive
Than fear of failing
That day…
Would be the day
That you are no longer exempt
From the age that has crept in
When you reckon
That time is a priceless
Commodity in a nasty
Affair with limitations
And I…
I will be gone
I won’t be found by you
Because I…
Have lived that day
And I…
Will be cutting the Ferris wheel line
While I have the time

Sitting cross legged on earth, in the wilderness alone quiet,
I meditate,on the single sprawling tree, in her poetic best,
verdant and robust, I wouldn't fail to see how ceaselessly
she did strive, in  reinventing herself moment after moment.

A bird, dedicating her song to the evening's evanescence,sings on,
like nothing else ever matters to her, even after it's end,
as she has known her inner-self better, by making her songs
more relevant, each time  than before,and than the songs of others,
without any reason particular, more by a compulsion mysterious.

While delving in to the depth of that compulsion, Marianne Moore,
I feel present in my mind, she is the tree fighting the creative battle,
not to  dislike her own creation,the bird with persistent compulsion.

And when the lights, once bright, one by one
in weariness shut their eyes, the last visitor
came in perplexed and stood still before
the one and only exhibit, kept specially for her.
An abstract artifact, creation of hearts through many summers,
a cry stifled in her *******, felt like a piercing knife to her,
But in that seeping darkness she didn't see a blob of blood
oozing out from it's center and dripping on the ground wetting her feet.