Paint a picture with stars
The moon doth give light

Dreams come true or not
Dreaming a pleasure ever got

Seldom found a love true
In time hearts different hue

None is hurt by thorns
We just step on it

Lend a hand wipe tears
Stay long till trouble clears

Love is not ever near
Moments found a treasure dear

Value of a poem determined
Hearts touched and souls defined

Passion a flame fanned high
Separation the cause love die

Bells of glory heard not
By hero in body bag

In the eyes of mother
A child you always be

All life lived blaming parents
When gone they proved correct

fighting
impenetrability:

whys,
whatfors.

working hard
in a garden's recovery.

weeding.

endlessly.

no use.

Or you die
Or go crazy
Actually
Those happen anyway
Is their a third option?

splintered night,
the thorn tree
of stars,
all falling.

hours
of broken glass.

Some  places  call  it
In  the  Autumn.

Some  places  call  it
in  the  Fall.

In  Cumbria  UK  we  say
in  the  Back  End.

Meaning  the  Back  End
of  the  year.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2016.

The acrobat
Twisting and
Tumbling
Through space

Back-flipping
Into worm holes

Attempting to
Undo time

(Infinite
Disappointment
Of entropy-

Forward rolling
To destruction
The only option?)

I'm reading poetry at the cremation ghat
amid chanting of God's name
while ferrying and burning the dead.

The noise unsettles me a bit
as sets me thinking of my own death
that by all means seems closer than farther.

Yet I get the relieving feel
reading poems would heal
all the agonies of my flesh
and take me to that spiritual level
where I would take death as
passing into another dimension.

I'm not much of a religious person
but have always felt devoted to my kindred
seeking transcendence through them.

The best thing I'm hoping right now
is when I burn
someone would amid chanting of God's name
read poetry at the burning ghat.