A cup of coffee in my hand,
Fresh aromas rising with it's steam
In this cool crisp morning air,
As I sit and read,

Your poetry inspires and moves me
As I catch a glimpse of your soul's echo.
We remain strangers separated  by land
Yet together we find community in words,
In prose,
In the release of voices that reside inside of each of us.

This is my morning routine,
I greet the day with your rhythms and rhymes,
I sip and savour them,
Along with my coffee,
And my heart knows peace.

I am ready for this day.

out and about grass cutters
petrol engines whining and groaning
the smell of cut grass-
a memory as far back as childhood
the grass itself -universal almost-
a world wide survivor -
fed on rolled in sat on....

Will an eligible bloke happier be if he
Marries a ranking *ele like Miss Universe
With all her glory and graces, and 'cause
Of marriage mirth? Will a sheila pretty
An unbroken regalement have for a dream
Prince Charming--the fairy man of her whim?

Will the soul be jolly for the sophomore
More than for the frosh rapture of success
Had in the Ivy League of cosmic business,
When the heart cut a caper and an encore
Of hilarity requests of narrowed life--
To have constant binge in lieu of strive?

What man is wholly from trouble free, whose
Being be to sadness inured? Within, the
Spokes do sometimes snap at the rotary
Wheels of serenity, and chaos is let loose.
What thus can stay the pillars of pleasure in
A plagued world is above this little noggin.

i am seven and in your living room
with antiques & photographs
of family that are more like strangers
and handshakes at christmas
there is a jar of circus peanuts by the armchair
and i remember being told that these are here because they are never out of stock
and that they are the only things
children will not want to take from me
i still do not like the color orange.
i am eight and round the bannister
to an upstairs that reminds me
of heaven in that
place i can't go sort of way & i am
knuckle deep in your pumpkin pie
wiping it on my uncles suede jacket
our hands still shake but the jury is still out
on if he looks at me and napkins the same
i hope you do not sleep
with my apologies under your fingernails
i will not say them out loud
i know i should have mowed your lawn
i should have been a home
for second hand smoke
if i could go back i would be your ashtray
i remember the day you forgot who i was
i bound into the room and throw my arms
around you like an armistice
and you ask who i am
we are not in church
but everyone stops singing
i am passed from child to child
while we all laugh
but my lungs feel like
they've been mugged in an ally
who's son does he look like, mom?
my father says like gospel
you pull on your cigarette
sip from your watered down wine and shrug
and i am neck deep in forgetfulness
i imagine alzheimer's
as being born again every day
so, we will spend ages
looking at captions to photographs
telling your stories to strangers
as my father begins to forget
and when i imagine probate
an unfamiliar hand unfolding a will
to be read to wayward angels
i want to burn down the house
and sleep in the ashes

You lean over me,
Reaching for some product
That makes you either

Taste, feel, look or smell like
Things hanging from
Trees in warm countries, or

Nails pink, black or back to
Natural. Upper arm so
Close to my face

I can't resist
Leaning into it;
Mouth and eyelid

First. You shift in
Confirmation. I feel and
Smell; find myself

More than six feet under
This divine concept
Of Woman. Girl. Other

Half. God in Man.
Buried and blissful.
Breathing with ease in

The sweet soil that
Covers
Me.

A blank canvas on an easel
Not splashed with hues, yet
Yearning for the stroke of a brush
And be painted with the painter’s dream
Most intimate of moments coming alive
Reflecting the colors of the heart and mind
Stroke after stroke, brushes caresses it
Coming alive, with passionate undertones
In cahoots with the painter, an **** of colors
Brushes of passion, colors the emptiness
A masterstroke of the painter; the canvas is filled
With these kaleidoscopic moments
Vivid imagery of the painter’s heart, is an Arts saga  *




© Amitav (Radiance)

I have given you
So much.

Still I find with
Every thing I give you,
You give two back

So I have four to give; and
Recieve your eight.
Feeding wealth to feed itself
To feed itself itself.
You taught me
Circle.

You have given me
So much.

Sometimes you have to be alone to escape the loneliness*~ Amitav

Two broken
Eggs on the floor.

Flour and milk on
The bench.

Sinks both full of
Dishes and knives,

Pots and stirrers and
Ladles. The bin

Has long since given
Up on containing.

Bacon in air.
Me on sofa.

What on Earth
Happened here?

She's home. *I got
Hungry.

I love 'Chick Lit'
yes, it's true
My guilty pleasure
I'll share with you
I can't help it
I love it so
it's easy to read
and has a steady flow
My brain works hard
all day long
pick up 'chick lit'
you can't go wrong
I love the romance
and all it seems
'His' muscles flexing
'She' always beams!
All the kissing
oh, so intense
and the throbbing members
apparently they're immense!

; )