sound of horn heralds-
bedecked bull ambles along,
a world gone, returns!

I am denied a second time
a catching glimpse
a passerby
the endless chantering that flows through the rye
until I catch a glimpse of the other side
through your eyes
we go together

a floundering heat
an upheld beat
that swims in midst of rays
to reflect upon your gleaming eye
holding a gaze, time says lasts for days

yet it already happened
a rewound record instilling its tunes
into you
and oh!
you're already gone
refilling these city blues
guess I wasn't ready for you
oh, this generation of use and abuse
to take as material , to ignore the core
denying the message, but focusing on the tune

I guess I really am you

If only I could grasp what I've always been trying to get a hold of.
Again, letting sand slip through my fingers,
laying back to float on the daunting shadows
coasted on the river
riding the rapids once again
watching days turn to years
the sun into the moon
until
swept from below - as the tale always goes
a man in the dark, looming
the land and skies afrow
asking where the wicked set their sow
we all know
its the river below
which flows unto eternal sound
Vibration at its highest currency

collision

You've heard its painless to drown
no need to worry, or make a sound
let it all come down
all can't be found

until light is shed in dark places
when sacrifice begins succumation
the need for precipitation
perpetuation
to wash my red hands clean
dawn the new moon, I'm ready for the next
this time to remember the paths I've taken
together
for this single moment of existence
a chance again to be divine
to escape the eternal river below
so i no longer have to live and let go
love, hate, feel, and grow
if only i could know

the third seed my body shall sprout,
which's vine i will climb
to the eternal valley

There is a certain beauty in a broken cup. A delicate elegance in an abandoned building or a disheveled old man. Some ghostly grace to a tattered dress.

Wabi-Sabi is a Japanese expression relating to the wonder of imperfection. To be sensitive to the natural way of things, to deny idealism for what is and to revel in it is the path of a true seeker, of a true poet.

The shadows get frighteningly long,
he watches in silence like a painter
whose mixed up colors in the palette
are found to be of no use, the pictures
are muddled by inept handling of colors.

once colorful skyline is suddenly
pecked in to pieces by winds,
the belligerent evening birds in discord;
the child playing in the park now gives up
her carefully structured house,
receiving cues from swarms of darkness,
looks at her mother as if she isn't  interested,
anymore, as if feeling the encroaching loneliness.

"Evening is a spoiler of beautiful things"
he jots down on the page of the day in his mind
"it's  enticing beauty is just a masquerade"
a truth he would vouch as a fact of life.

It's time to be back home, the dusk falls
holding mom's finger she goes
back to the lighted space of warmth
that has an assurance of kiss any moment,
on his way she sends a smile, just a stranger
till two days before, as if saying "See you tomorrow"
this little one is a fresh guest of breeze
a pure blessing, sunshine rare in winter.

This rusted garden bench knows him well,
the fragrance of mango blossoms from a land distant
in a season long past still spreads the scent of musk
touches somewhere deep, brings
memories from a land so far,  a land where
evenings were spent under the shades of mango trees
in exhilaration, awaiting the mango fruit season.

A change in the lighting of sky overturns everything.
time administers it's hidden poison drop by drop,
the memories of an evening from afar asks in a feeble voice
"Will the child come to the park to play tomorrow again?"

In the circular lily pond--
desolate, surrounded by lush growth of
tall, entangled ***** pine plants
spewing amorous scent
in to the humid tropical air
from musky flowers, golden yellow.
hunted by swarms of bees,
                                        --  you step in.
Peeling off  your clothes to the last bit,
with a jubilance freedom bestows
you spring down, delve deep
to take bathe, knowing, I the owl
that has an eye on you always
keep watching you from the other end
in a stunned surprise to see you ****
for the first time, after long last!

In a fix you are now about my presence
when  celebrating the freedom
of a village belle, that comes rarely
on such occasions, away from all eyes that pry-

You swim a few laps, my water nymph
on your back you glide, setting the water aflame
now, you pretend to see me all of a sudden,
then, swim towards me as if your secret plan, did succeed,
I am caught in your net of love, but your ploy is different,
plead not to look at you as you swim naked,
a wily love cat, you are,  that knows her alley well.

If only, I were a water lily,I'd pretend to be your waist band
made of the stem, supple soft; the petals would jealously conceal
the secrets of your lotus, while circling the slender waist  tenderly.

I wish you came with an instruction manual, because loving you makes no sense.

I take that back because even if you did it would probably be written in German.

I try to put together pieces and all I see is handle with care but when I reach out, your body language says "don't touch me there." Not physically, not emotionally, and when I try mentally you yell "get out of my brain." Even in the same atmosphere our breathing is not the same.

I cling to your exhale and forget that I need to inhale. I pray that you're alive not worried about my imminent death, because once again, loving you just doesn't make sense.

Maybe if you had come with subtitles, I could love you better. So that I could read what you say instead of hear it, since the two never seem to be the same.

You make me feel deaf. And that would be okay if only American Sign Language was enough to make you stay. Why can't you just say how you feel so I can feel what you say?

You drown me with complacency and get mad when I can't stay afloat.  You're screaming you can't handle this yet ask me why I'm walking towards the door.

We were supposed to be two beats, and one heart. I was supposed to love you right, but I don't know how..

You came with no instruction manual.

Loving you just doesn't make sense.

Your words are impactful because you only speak them when deemed necessary by your spirit. You never speak to hear yourself, and you never listen without hearing. When you talk your eyes wander... I think it's inside of yourself that you look. You always seem to go deeper than the surface of your thoughts. You understand that the last piece holds more value than the first.

You always crave more and in your silence I know there is searching.

Even in your silence there is life.

I wonder sometimes, if you see the warm blue light that encompasses your spirit. Ready for embrace. Calm and swiftly moving, steadily with peace, holding many of the same characteristics of a river. Smoothing over the jagged rocks that you come across. Whether they be people or situations.

Bursting at the seams with humility, you are love at it's finest point of being, you're G-ds example of the fact that love is living. That He is living. For He is love...

By that I am amazed.

Thank you.