Dotted in the dusky sky 
Spinning wonders in the eye 
Glowing white in ivory 
On a night of ebony 

There's mystic magic in the air
With golden robes that you wear
Nights in white satin soaked 
As in the sky, you gently float

What mysteries in you dwell 
Weaving charms and casting spells
Kindled hearts each night you win 
With moonlit dreams that you spin 

Surrounded by a million stars 
That hide and seek from afar 
And twinkle as if on a cue —
Nights are dreary without you

Don't wrap me in a hearse of gloom
When it's time for me to go 

Don't drape yourself in black or white 
But in the colours of a rainbow

Shed no tears of death in life 
Let your heart feel no  pain 

For I will be in a sky of blue
With sunshine in a frame 

Spread my ashes far in a river 
I'll flow and meet the sea 

On waves of moon bathed silver 
Sailing I shall be 

Leave me too with flowers 
With marigolds I will stay

A whim of floral frenzy 
Will touch the sombre  grey 

I, a part of earth and water 
Why mope and sigh and grieve  

Burned by flames of pure fire 
I'll float like a feather on a leaf 

Though with a cry we arrive 
There's laughter when we're born 

Let the smiles linger on
Why make it oh, forlorn 

No tears of death in life 
No crease, no sorrow's crinkle

Think of me with happiness 
And know me in a twinkle 

Don't wrap me in a hearse of gloom 
When it's time for me to go 

Don't drape me in black or white 
But in the colours of a rainbow

Like a cup of coffee
a perfect brew
you are my morning cuppa 
I am addicted to you 

Or Darjeeling tea 
for which I pine 
aroma in gold 
you're always on my mind 

Like watermelon juice 
a sumptuous burst 
pink and sweet 
you quench my thirst

Or a bottle of wine 
red or white 
you tickle my senses 
in fermented delight 

Now of course 
there isn't much I can do

Dear poetry
I am addicted to you

I awaken mornings feeling upbeat,
Praying my prayers set like concrete.
But No!
This repetitive routine has no soul.

Perhaps I'm praying wrong.
Perhaps He prefers a song,
A Hallelujah chorus
To **** of the Anti-Christ.
(but the Creature lives... it ***** up all our hopes).

I'll pray again tonight:

Now I lay me down to sleep.
And pray that God won't willfully keep
That blakened spot he calls his soul,
Dispatched to Hell for our repose.

How do I love you - in poem or prose
In a story, a eulogy, aubade or an ode?
I could love you in a sonnet
A senryu, though terse
I'd spill my heart - drop by drop
Or ink it verse after verse
I could write a terzannelle
A villanelle I could chance
Tapping on the refrain of love
The feet of romance
I could weave metaphors and similes
Sweet and sublime
Or trip down the keys
Playfully alliterate each line
How do I love you?
I can love you as I do -
In simple words that are writ -
From a heart that is true



Repost

I add one word: Let the [orange] blowt king tempt you again...

A long unopened folder
Fell from a shelf,
Spewing unfinished poems
Across the room
Like shards of colored glass,
Edged as sharp as razor wire.
We know those fragments;
And how deep they can cut.
They speak of life and death,
Love and leaving,
Good, evil, and Roads.
I may arrange them
In a stained glass mosaic;
Not much symmetry,
But piecemealed,
Telling of my Inquisition.

God knows where the miscreants come from.
I don't get it.
Anyway, take it,
Place it in the town square,
And select your stone,
Or use a poker stake,
But near a drain.

                          or

In a cell... alone.... or going for a walk-about
in the common area,
or just under the upper window with the blue square.

                         or

while travelling across the great expanse in a private jet,
even a simple maintainence slip up in the hangar.

Where have all the ****** assassins gone?
I don't mean your run-of-the-mill crazy radicalized terrorist, like Sirhan (though that would suffice);
NO! Enlist an old fashioned one,
With names like,
Mark or James or John.

It's awe inspiring.
It's wonderous.
I truly believe.
I'm IN.
                                        but

I do wonder.
Doubt creeps in.
Then thought.
Now insight.
Now I don't.
I'm OUT!

I love the word melange
It sounds not-so-ordinary  
Though not so extraordinary
But I feel a notch above the rest when I use it
So much so for being pretentious

And without being rambunctious
I’ll say that I find —
It describes, perfectly, the state of my mind —
Some happy thoughts, some with twists
Some clear ones, some fogged with mist
Some good, others amiss
A curious melange of thoughts
Of that and this
And that, I suppose, is also what life is.