from a eulogy, by a poet, of a poet:

she rewinds the years for the dead

to a time he sat around a campfire with the ancient ones, singing,

"old songs written by broken men in love with their own vanishing nature..."

and it hits me, I am now among their ranks

proudly proclaiming, I am Natan Lupan, the grey wolf

yet seeing more a shivering coyote in morning's mirror

no noble howl to greet the day, but scripting what I will say,

to a world of faces, without whose feigned graces,
I would be put out to pasture

they see the white beard, the thinning mane, and wonder why I am still among them

then they decide where to go to lunch

without me, but I do not lament this loss

broken sons, long lost lovers, buried friends, and a Medicare card trump such trivial slights

they know nothing of my pitiable past

nor do they care--they weren't there
when my Elysian dreams and grandiose schemes
were born, and died

now a darkness approaches, and I fear I face it alone

though a borrowed line reminds me,
others have been there before...

sitting around a fire in the night,
mesmerized by flames that flap gold wings for short flight, then become red embers when men take sleep

when morning's cold ashes are lifted by the wind, I hope the songs we sang will be their celestial waltz

moonshine overflows
from night's infinity pool.
rare are such delights.

Here i now sit beside the river
Awake yet in a deep sleep however
For i am swallowed down by this beautiful mirror

How it opened its mouth and i fell in, down, straight through, untill i saw you
Without a future, without memories
You sweetest creature of my fantasies
Walking like a dancer dangerously

Awake yet wet and in pain
For i am swallowed down by this invisible rain
Unheard comforter that willfuly has to lie
For the river reflects my buried will to die

Words Of Harfouchism

I look and i spread wide
Connection established, i am in your mind

I see lust and lonesome , i understand
I see jealousy and greed , i understand

I am sad. What have become of woman and man?

I don't back down in front of your mediocre thoughts
You lack of soul , you lack of trust

I open my eyes, and i rise
There is only one answer, no need to analyse

It is a vicious network, i am omniscient
I live and capture it, this pure moment

Spending my days aware, i am everywhere
I combine intangible layers

I am here , will you ever notice?


Words Of Harfouchism.

on the shore again,
away from all the lol's, the ***'s
and especially the brb's

because he doesn't want
them to brb, or fret they have
revealed the dreaded TMI

he wants all their cryptic
and crap-tic codes to disappear, to be
erased from memory

and he can again be on
the Pacific, with his dreams and illusions
making tracks between the two

knowing they too will be
washed away at high tide, as evanescent
as an imho or a ***

though not birthed by silicon gods;
created instead from sand between his paws
and washed away by sea and salt

===========================================

O My gardener
your shadow is my best fertilizer
and you watered me with your perspiration
your sweat added me the fragrance
your hands gave me flowers
You can never die O MY Gardener
since you are always busy in the garden of life
planting more and more new seeds
and everything follows you creeping with Smile

by
~~~Jawahar Gupta~~~

called, "when I am dead"

and what came to mind, while
pecking away

were thatched roof cottages, hedgerows
all along a cliff,

and waves below whipping against
earth's spine

farther out were great swells
and black ships foundering

sea serpents were darting through
the green depths

this spectacle was silent, the screaming
men, the crashing waves

even the charcoal sky, threaded with a
thousand bolts of lightning

birthed no thunder, though I didn't
wonder why

I was supposed to among the dead
where vibrations abound

though none pound against
eardrums

such silence, I was told, was tantamount
to solace

but men were drowning, and fires leapt
across the waters

and no passage led up the cliffs to home
and sanctuary from this terrific tempest

he poured the remaining Cheerios
into the bowl, then covered them with milk
he need not sniff to know was old,
stale, curdling

still he ate, for he knew without
this sour meal, he would tire on his
mile journey to the bus stop, and
not concentrate in school

his red brick haven, where there
was always running water, porcelain
toilets, adults who didn't reek of
of moonshine, **** and smoke

there he could read under electric
lights, watch movies about the moon
and strange rockets that would one day
blast a man all the way there

another cleaner world he imagined:
a sterile, silent white orb, pocked by boulders
bigger than mountains, craters with names
like Mare Serenitatis, a sea of serenity

that is where he wanted to be
on the dark side of the moon, where
grave gravity looses its reins a bit, hidden
from earth's billions of eyes

and when he dared reveal this
wish in the ears of his elders, they
would whisper among themselves,
saying he was an old soul

but barely double digits, he knew
this could not be so--for his body was only
tired from toil, and as far as his soul,
he knew it had no age, not in years

not here on this wretched third stone
from the sun, nor in a crater as old as time
waiting for him to escape the bounds of earth,
and the bitter milk of morning

Bell County, Kentucky, 1964

two of them
to my naked, simian eye
are identical twins

though one, a mere millennium
of light years away, performs its
magical fusion yet today

the other disappeared before
dinosaurs devolved; its phantom
photons now without a source

but both poke pinholes
in the blanket of night, gifting
what some call divine light

not I, for if gods were igniting
those gaseous masses, they would both
yet be furious and fiery white

and not tricking my meager sight,
deceiving me into believing, there is
eternity in an eternally dying sky