the farmgirl with the green flecks in her anime eyes
is snoozing in her van. it's afternoon and she's lost her ruby slippers. she knows not where.
she charms the water fleas with her clean teeth.
she gropes through the ampules of her ample *****. where her heart is like a fox and hound.
in a glass forest. the otherwise, warm porridge is the cruel gruel of her next poem.
she gnaws on the nape of her next unborn. the naked rube of her snipe hunt
on a night with no moon.
she doesn't mind either.
her kites fly, un-flummoxed in the effulgent. unchained in the Quixote of our windmills. distilled
by charcoal fences. a net of screens, nimbly deployed across the hinterlands
of our possibilities.

now " who could that be ? "

agnes is calling and i know she just wants her computer fixed.

Love is like a candle, unlit the
love is safe, never shared just a
wick to afraid to light the feelings
that will spark this heat of love alive.

once lit, will  love burn slowly
lasting through time, or will it
burn bright and quick and just
as fast it was lit, then extinguished,
are love just a puddle on the floor
hard and cold.

Love is a candle, there are many
ways, each has its moments to
love once, loss it and never
open a heart again, to love over
and over till the wick  slows and
you meet the one where you heart
wishes them to stay, and the eternal
love, which is one love that last
till the end of our days..

My father.
Old sailor.
Old farmer.
Old carpenter.
Old interpreter.
Old archive of facts
And history. He knows
Our ancestory by heart down
To the 1600s. Born 1946, 68 years
Old today. Bought me my first pen,
My first book, taught me English
From the age of five. Told me I
Had the gift of language and
Expression. And that I was
A stronger boy than any
Anyone had ever seen
By the time I began  
To learn English.
I owe him credit
For every word
I have written.
Weak now
With age and
Bad lungs, I still
See him as a giant
Handling a chainsaw,
Smelling of forestry and
Gasoline and winter, smiling
At me with eyes deep blue from
Seeing more ocean and sky than I
Ever will know with my own.
His name to me is pappa.
After a few pints of his homemade
Wine, I sometimes let him beat me at Armwrestling. Then we laugh like
Old friends, remembering how
The roles were different back
Then. I am glad I stopped by
For a cuppa on this day. He
Would never ask me to.
Happy Birthday, pappa.

I'd cut a decade from my lifetime
To add a single year
To yours.

We search once more for the crystal stream
Where poets wrote and young lovers dreamt
Of the beautiful years to come

But no more now is the crystal stream
Where poets wrote and lovers dreamt
Of the beautiful years to   come

The crystal stream now a fetid place
Of sewage and industrial waste
The hedgerows long ripped out and gone
The once green fields now barren ground
What legacy do we leave to our unborn sons
Now that the beautiful years have gone

But we poets still can sit and dream
And write of things that might have been
In our minds we still see the crystal stream
And dream of the beautiful years to come

Do you feel the ‘touch’?
Stirring old memories
Your body awakens
To the familiar ‘touch’
Blossoming the heart
‘Touch’, etched in your memory
Opening the hidden chambers
Where I once inhabited
Passions reaching a crescendo
As we have touched the familiar chord**




© Amitav (Radiance)

Dedicated to
dr. B. Dixon, Ph.P (Philosopiae Poeta).*

You, Poet, define yourself as a
"'Meat and Potatoes' -kinda guy."
We were speaking of food
But I see that you eat
With your writing-hand.

You, Poet, write like a
Quitting smoker
That stands with his very last
Smoke in his mouth -lighter
In hand. Frozen; carving a statue
Of the moment. For himself.
From himself. For all to see.

You, Poet, are the wind thrusting
Confidence from under the wings of
Angels, down to assist the
Flapping of little, pen wielding
Ducklings at take-off.
You are a devil of a gentleman; an
Arms open welcomer
In this realm of written renderings.

You, Poet, are an agent of king
Poem Himself.
As convincing and encouraging as a
.357 barrel imprint on your forehead
To remind yourself to keep writing
-Just always keep writing; just
Write.
If you guarded the Gates of Hell,
You'd still give good meaning to
Words like 'Warm Welcome'...

You, Friend, make poets feel
Like the true
Rock Stars of the Universe
That they all
Truly
Are.

Maybe one day we will cross paths at an art gallery
and
everything
will
be
ok
again

It was relegated to the old root cellar
Dropped in haste in  forgotten storage
Where dimmest beam of shafted light
Kept it 'live in yellowed life , weak and twisted
Root and vine, seeking sickly , striving life
But now it's out in planted field
Furrowed in and giving yield
Vine and bud quickly growing
Spreading out and surely choking
All the other crops of life
Air and water , precious light
Strangled , starved , beneath the blight
It feeds upon all below
In rapid spreading nourished growth
Soon to cover , spread to all
Like a **** , all fields will fall
So grows the tyranny imposed on men
Carefully planted and watered in

Your physique is stunning but what's within those walls is pure gold
I want to touch every inch of the thoughts that lead to those feelings of yours
Let my words ****** your fears until they finally give in
I'll massage every one of your tears until they open the doors
Don't try to lock me out for this temptation I can no longer hold
Push away your happiness facade, I want to reach your inner core
Allow me to kiss every bruise inside your long darkened soul
Let our words interwine and your dreams unfold
You've inspired me to aspire
Let me make love to your mind..

Such a common trend
I could've been daddy's little princess but you left mommy out in the rain
when you found out 1 2 and 3 were on their way
you didn't even flinch
but everything's okay
see she made sure I never needed you
worked multiple jobs just to afford a smile or two
and when she had to leave
we were never afraid, because she wasn't like you
I didn't mind your absence but why'd you leave the black & blues?
no longer visible on her skin but emotionally they'll always live
and truthfully, that's the only reason I resent you
because when your name is mentioned I simply ask:
dad Who?
see I never asked questions like "where is he?"
because you made sure I never met you
and at my high school graduation the headcount was perfection
now I understand why some children are actually lucky when they're born to one parent instead of two
After all,
what kind of princess would want to live in a castle with a daddy like you?

You are
Rain drops
On my
Heart, and
I am
Soaked in love.

You live
for no reason at all
and that's
the worst
Joy.

Because.

summer is a fool.
sprung from the unctuous
couscous
of a witless bloom.
the too long reason for a plausible ruse.
a dumb chump, whupped and thrashed
but never told otherwise how down
the below goes... but well informed
how the formless reeks
of damp
No.

the worst joy is slumber
when the wind is kissing your dessicated kiss.
when the whole emotion
is half the feeling.
when the real thing is just false enough
for poetry
but real enough
for dreams.