From love no one can run away; being lost by you, it's for another to be found.
Those days of love will not repeat, alas it's memories cannot be ever drowned.

I understand the importance of anchors
And know what can happen when the
Rope that ties them to their life is cut

But here in the warm sea of creativity
I can feel the wings of happiness beating
As geese draw giant arrows in a red sky

Love cherishes these precious moments as
It anticipates the next heartbeat of potential
While mother tide puts the salty beach to bed

Dear star, neighbor of my broken, but adamant  singing heart,
All I wished here in this life disguised as a journey man
Trekking through the meandering wild, forest paths,
Extended moors and misty, dangerous marshes,
Was rooted in the faith that we would meet and connect
With our inner fire and get to gather together our band
The cosmic adventurers at large,each in a disguise  willed.

I kept on searching for the parchment, the papyrus scroll,that has
The secret missions of our lives encrypted, in an ancient script.

Yesterday at night a thunderbolt told the truth,like in days of yore
In pouring rain standing on the river side,wonder in my eyes,I got
The glimpse of a cauldron, floating down in the surging current,
That has all the answers we seek all though this journey fantastic.

As if by magic, or is it a plan we never know the karmic reason,
The scroll of papyrus came flying and sat on my hand, like happened
To many before us, I am sure, and I guess, knew nothing to do with it .

Come home soon, let's learn from this scroll of man, who we are
And the cryptic code  will tell us our kinship with all lives around.

Even this latter
lingering emotionality
will vanish somehow,
masked behind an affable reflection,
but already collapsed
into a black hole.


Bigger and bigger.


Mastery of nothingness
in satisfying myself
as mute, stripped leaves
observing their art
of turning into glow of warmth.


Autumn’s heredity.


Fierce hyperbole is Melancholy,
remote and severe sixth sense,
obsidian monolith
in this too mild dimension.


Melodrama of light
is the vacuum of such empirism
saturated ad nauseum
by the ceaseless delay
of the most natural
and contemptuous ease.

And then I  woke up in an ethereal hour,
As the sublime scent of a wild flower,
After roaming through many many lives,
As insects, birds and many kinds of animals,

When I by chance stumbled in to her eye
It was love, with out knowing who or why
In a  moment I mingled with her deep sigh
Such was the  alchemy, we soared to a level high

Later after many lifetimes of stars and many cycles,
Held within the depth of a dream, I realize this:
All I now need is a piece of tranquil blue sky,
to dissolve all clouds of avatars, be immortality, never to die.

Two protruding supple *******--
on much toned down
lactating, tender *******,
swollen, in anticipation
of thirst, awaiting open mouthed,
      
---are gently pushed in between
pursed, eager, fumbling lips,
of the newborn, who in no way knows,
what happens, in this world of strangers.

When milk in one is fully drained, as if by prompt,
it's the turn of the other full one, he knows.

Each one is avariciously taken in
by saliva dripping cute baby lips,
instinctively discerns it as "Mama dear"
even without opening tired  eyes
that fear the rushing, hurting light.

Motherly warmth, the distinct scent,his nose smells first
the bonding felt, when held close to her  warm *******,
incessant flow of lukewarm milk of love;
aren't these enough to make her presence felt
in the baby's nascent mind, that craves for a  mom?

This is the  precise moment, of the 'new born mother'
Mother, the flowing milk of life, protector, care giver.

As if in a dream just began to unfold,
the new born, like a bloom disarmingly smiles!
Closing her eyes as if to join in the baby's dream,
the mother suckles the infant in self oblivion.
The meaning of the pride written on her face
in hues of crimson, only a mother could fully discern.

we tiptoe,
stepping through
stories of lives past
watched by a cascading
hologram of
mists and possibilities.
the first step
we enter leads
us like leaves dipping
in the rain to
white fences and
stop signs, red lights
and caution.
waking up or
falling asleep, we never
notice the patterns
to our weaving webs.
we imagine and we
pontificate, making
noises of promises
we will not keep.
slipping footfalls
that walk in
circles, and when
through, begin again.
we tiptoe,
expecting to not
be notable, and so
in doing same,
we leave
yet
do not
arrive.