Thinking about the first poems I wrote
Taking my notebook, on a sunny day
A solitude park
Located in a small town Illinois

Feeling the sun on my back
As I scribble the words for a new poem
The melody of birds singing
A small breeze upon my face

Back in the days
Where I was writing for myself
Where I was the only one reading
The visualization of my own thoughts

Poetry is unique
Everyone imagines words a different way
Never let anyone define your skills
Write out your heart, poetry is made for you

After fifty years
I slipped into the school.

Madame Bela was visibly pleased
The classroom was too empty
Now I've one to do maths with

No less happy was Auntie Aloka
My favorite student is back
She lifted me up and said with a kiss
So vacant felt my class of English
Without a boy from olden times
Sweetly singing nursery rhymes

My eyes searched her and before long
Miss Jaya spoke in her softest tongue
I'm so glad to see his face
Sans him Bengali class was all emptiness

And there he was the only Sir
Amiyo Baboo the sports teacher
Isn't this the boy never won my trust
For always being in every race last

Fifty years haven't changed a bit
Either their age or their spirit
And surely the fun was doubly more
When I stood before the school mirror.

tis a fine line
between darkness and sunshine
when youre in the shadows

Once I met this girl
On my way to a desert of snow.
With a bucket and shovel in my hand,
A bit of chill on the spine,
I was trying to make a heap of snow
Then maybe a man of it.
She sat there for hours,
Watching me, smiling with fair cheeks,
While I saw her transforming bit by bit.
A carrot appeared on the nose,
Green scarf of a childhood winter
Cuddled her cold white neck,
And a fuzzy hat sat on her snow-head.
My baffled voice asked,
“How did you do that?”
Without opening her lips, she answered,
“Just dreaming bigger.”

We're goin' down to Freetown
Gonna watch our freedom fly
We're goin' down to Freetown
Gonna live now till we die

My heart beats a little faster
Every mile closer to home
My mind don't need a master
I think just fine on my own
The ocean looks much different now
Such a hopeful sight to see
As freedom bells are ringin' now
'Round Sierra Leone

We're goin' down to Freetown
Gonna watch our freedom fly
We're goin' down to Freetown
Gonna live now till we die

Well, I left half my pride
In those cotton fields
But I found all my spirit
And strengthened my own will
I made it through the sufferage
Never once alone
I trusted in the Father
And he has led me home

We're goin' down to Freetown
Gonna watch our freedom fly
We're goin' down to Freetown
Gonna live now till we die

Faces only remind you of
How lonely you are,
You say you've swam too far
Into the sea of your regrets
That I am your lifeboat
But didn't you hear
I sank long, long ago?

You've been searching
For a new home,
One that doesn't creak
Or shudder at night.
But homes are not people
And your voice cracks
As you point out
There's a welcome mat
By the front door
But I never answer
When you knock.

It's been a while since
I started attracting
Strangers with flashlights
To search me like
A haunted place.
I finally realized they
Were the ones that
Needed scaring away.

It's so odd to think,
You once told me
You saw beauty
In clifftops,
And I thought you
Were talking about
The view.

We attempt rescue, unable to bear
the stardust-coated dragonfly
beat, beat, beating
frantic on the glass.

We entice him to perch
on our extended lifeline-broom
nurse him in a box, where he flutters
quivers, lies quietly blue.

My son cries bitterly
as we place a minute cross
upon the dragonfly grave
while intoning our final goodbyes:

We honor those who have fallen victim
to this fatal architectural trap, lured
by skylights of enticing white-light death
and the paned illusion of freedom.

In admiration of winged determination
and perseverance in the face of futility
we carefully tend the fragile, curved bodies
lay them here to rest under the mock orange.

years of gauze-weighted detritus
swept beneath these ponderous shrubs
a reminder - what seems like freedom
                                                         ­           often isn’t.

I practice Being Peace
out here by The Artist Colony on Hood Canal
collecting treasures and Bright Dead Things
the moon snail nesting in the Flatland  of my palm
a Gift from the Sea carried ashore
on The Torrents of Spring
it may take A Thousand Mornings
to attain a Mind of Clear Light
to transcend earthly Crime and Punishment
to consume knowledge hidden in the Weathered Pages
of this Book of Luminous Things
but I carry on - Skinny Legs and All
Burning Daylight street preaching
The Teachings of Don Juan
"looking, looking breathlessly"
for internal coherence in this
*Brave New World