I’m wrapped in a netherworld
between fear and urgent turmoil
a shady region of late twilight
on the edge of dreadful night
what to do with the light.

Like the nightingale whose song
brings pausing, sadness, and hope,
blinking in a landscape of plains and *****
sadness of a creative life’s ending
a blending of sand and the hand of God.

My gut clinched in a tempest
rowing unknowing for shining sky.

I submitted my poem
to a teacher, Mr Rowan
and he graded it an F
Still, I’m a great poet
he just doesn’t yet know it
but some day he’ll have to confess

though he’ll give me an E
yet when it comes to poetry
I’m the greatest poet there ever was
I’ll climb my way to a D
just wait and you’ll C
I’ll prove it just because

I’ll let go and let B
he’ll wonder if it’s me?
A poet born not made
he’ll grant me an A
on a poem I’ll tear up that day
and prove I’m more than just a grade

There is an old hymn
this world is not my home
an old friend freely sings
its lyrics but she’s lonesome
never full of joy in her place
ready to depart
but a strong heart keeps her here
for us to talk
and laugh this year
not last or next but now
with both cheer and tears
in our eyes
and on our cheeks.
We’re not waiting.
In this long float
we can smell the fragrance of aster
not before or after
but blooming in our spring
upon this glorious encircling stream.

Finally "He" was born , gave the sweetest cry
doctors printed the gender "M" , given the biggest lie

relatives and visitors rushed to see the baby
sharing sweets and happiness , father was busy

after few years , he became the prettiest boy
wished to grow hair , but his father became angry

he whined and whined and whined terribly
but was forced to stop , when they said boys don't cry

he soon found another way to be happy
that painting the nails , with the colour ruby

mother got shocked , but tried to understand calmly
worried what people would say , she began to worry

cosmetics and jewellery, mother kept everything away
few months has been passed , she thought now everything's okay

today he's an educated person , being ever more wealthy
posted a pic on insta , of himself painting the nails and lip-ivory

the pic gone viral, people began criticising & tagged #girly or boy?
"it doesn't matter" , some raced to reply

a group began reposting , tagged #human being rapidly
commented, "anyone will bleed when cut" no matter he/she/they
he continued to love his inner "she" ...

So many “road stories”
from the Odyssey, and Kerouac, to Augustine.
Each rich in emotion and spirit
most of the stories
have the hero hitched to a fellow traveler
to bathe the soul in word and mood
to throb with the music.

I have recurring dreams.
I’m in a hotel looking for an elevator
can’t find my floor or room
or can’t find my car downtown.
I wander streets, and lots.
Are there road stories hidden in these dreams?

Why do I trip, fall
stay misplaced and lost
find only
transitory
destinations?

~
cracked compass
burning atlas
no sense of direction
on a drive about
the silent forests of the heart
egressing from the shadows
that hunt for us

foot caught on the accelerator
passing escapism's plateau
like a dissolving shelf of flashbacks
kept in a glass jar
it's normal to tire out
wondering who will it be
looking in the window?

the people at the wheel
are not on the payroll
they're pierced and sheer
on the surface
but their deepest parts
still inhabit bone
and slave for mere feldspar
once again human thoughts
turn to crystalline
and still they shine for us

signs are posted:
"a time for vanishing, lay it to rest"
until the unfamiliar sound
of the walls of Jericho
collapsing
breaks the momentum
quiets the traffic

we entered a promise land
on cruise control
with too many exits
and not enough things to see
we did not end up
where we thought we'd be
those eyes at dusk
in the rearview mirror
they hunt for us
they wait for sleep
~

~
gone to earth

left for dead

everything is tickety-boo

forget your iron-on measures

and scuttled installation

your life is a bakery

that cake is like your head

bittersweet

and full of regret

what am I reading these days?

a book across the stars

where dreams in the throes

of giddy aerosol cans

**** the passersby

and sleep against

the exit sign
~