Childhood hangs in my room:

The fawn hops,
Runs by blossoms
And takes the grapes.

Aloof, over the river,
Bigger and wider,
The deer, kneeled down,
Watches in silence.

They bring with them the baggage of men
the lost children attempting pathetically
to recreate the aura of time long gone.

If you discount the roughness of skin
travel past the thick hedge of beard
penetrate the silt on the eroded eyes
you can delayer the hardened coats
and get to see  faces barely recognizable.

Some were once too close to be missed
their names and all
but most you could hardly recall
and it agonizes your thought
were they in the same class or not.

You smile till your jaws ache
fetching stories from the blue
dazzlingly colored and half true
for they are all in the mood
to joyfully succumb to falsehood.

You could tell from the body language
who's  in the backburner
and who on the front page.

Forty years break and make men
but they feign happiness
to be united again.

I didnt realise that
I wasnt cool enough
To carry myself with eyes
Wide open,
Like some enigmatic beauty
With no interior design,
Someone gazes at clouds making
Shapes,
People look at the man
With a pen and tiny pad,

Their thougts like dandruff
On the black polo
You bought to impress
Her father,
Self aware and glare at the living,
Painting the swindled
Version of the real things,
Wiping away the tears
Of this mornings' spilled coffee,
The 29 year old beggar looks pridedul
Enough to know you burn
Inside and out comes the
Weasal,

I couldnt truly see that I wrote
In the most sensible way,
A poet defines a classic sight
Timeless, wondering
When the pièce will be done
So he can write about beggar.

A poet is not slave to the mind,
And the mind is not a terrible
Thing, only when the door closes
And last light curls the spectrum,
The poet lays the earth in symphonie, afraid that he cannot hear the music,
Desparate and hungry
For the life he writes.

Little girl Little boy
All this noise in the world
And no one is listening
No one is noticing all the wrong
All the ugly words to the song
Children sitting gathered at tables
Laughing as they should
Laughing while they can
Life fast at their heels
Horror awaiting to replace their innocent
   days
And whose daughter will go first
Whose little girl will lose her will
      To smile
       To trust
        To love
Whose precious ray of sunshine
  Will be dragged
     To
        Dark alleys
         Dark couches
           Dark beds
Whose little flower will be
         Stomped on
         And crushed
         And dismembered
      And left living a life
      Constantly wishing for death
And who would do such a thing
   To such a sweet little smile
  Will it be by
    Monster or cousin
    Or uncle or father
    Or neighbor or stranger
    Or husband or freind
And whose little boy will lose his way
   Lose his way from patience
   And kindness and love
   And respect
Whose little boy will grow into brother
  Of brother of father of wealth
    And of name
Whose little boy will be taught by
  ignorance and ***** that he must be like
  the father of his brother of his brother
  of name and of wealth
Whose little son will grow into the monster
    of the illusion of being a man
Means taking whatever he wants
   whenever he can
Whose little monster will be left to wander
  and stray
    So far far away
     From the days of being
      A monster was only
        pretending and play
I sit and I sip coffee of sugar and cream
  And I wish and I pray that this was all
   A bad dream
But I cannot refuse or deny it
All this horrible horrible noise
Among the children laughing
With naive painted grins
I shudder inside of thoughts of their
                                       innocence gone
I tremble to know of futures of
                                        terrible wrongs
Whose will grow into murders of racism
  and hate
Whose will find themselves victims of ****
Whose will find themselves innocent
  locked behind bars awaiting death row
Who will turn into monster and beast
Who will turn into hero and friend
Whose little boy
Whose little girl
Will brave the road and pave the way
  To a future of endless
               Innocent days
It cannot be a day too soon
Let us hope it is not a day
                  Too late...

O Lord of tender mercy,
Could Thee cast thy light
Of sheer healing so heavenly
Upon where I lay bedridden this night?

O Lord of tender mercy,
Could Thee please quell away
To oblivion such a twisted malady
That hath perturbed me since yesterday?

O Lord of tender mercy,
Strange is the malaria, headache, flue,
And cold that hast rendered me helpless,
Yet from shores they ply, ain't got a clue.

O Lord of tender mercy,
Could thy steady ear hear me now,
Hear thy sons far cries on how I do fancy
To dwell in blossom? To thy glory I bow.

in dark deep aybss
i caught a little twinkle
and stepped inside it

The continuum of cries
Run through the bruised walls
And the fissures
Open their jaws wide
To gulp them
And then spit them out
After chewing their skins
The windows speak in Bells
As the wind high or low
Passes by and gets in
The roof doesn't cover the head
It sieves the thickest sands
My granny had hung a lamp
In the middle of the door
That makes one cower
To the porch and then out
In the ashes of evening
The building balloons to the city
And people whisper
Sleep, the Dracula is on the move

Poetry
Is
Itself
A ghost
But it doesn't haunt one
Only reminds him he had left him in the drawer to suffocate....

Being able to achieve target is a bliss
And don't do
Is
Only
A
Curse
Upon
One
Caused
By
Oneself