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You are the truest part of me
When I close my eyes, it is not to sleep,
But to fade into a place where holding onto you keeps me sane and safe.
It is often called reality.
And any place where our love is stopped from flourishing
Is nothing more than an ill conceived nightmare.

I still have faith I'll wake up to a bouquet of your kisses, sweeter than any rose could hope to be.
I picked a flower in May just to watch her blossom all for myself
Beautiful and brilliant I sat her in a glass on a shelf
I added water so she wouldn't go dry
Magnificence such as hers I couldn't let die
I watched as she grew
Time flew and flew
Her petals orange and blue like a vanilla sky
As she prospered and danced I noticed a change
Something very strange that caught my eye
Her stems became vines intertwined simultaneously with my poetry and life
In place of green,
She overflowed out of the glass in white sheets of paper
And it was there she made her illustration so divine
A perfect drawing of a heart
That turned out to be mine
VVednesday come;
Midazolam haze,
bronchoscopy,
an adventure:
  a changed
    troubadour avvakens;
      an ansvver
        either vvay.
The java grows cold , a pollen
migraine starts to disappear ,
ceiling fans thankfully churn night
cooled air , tunnel vision day review
misery turns to thoughts of poetry and peace
Evening songsters agree on one melodic
beat , a Barn owl assures me of safe surroundings ,
Cicadas stroke both temples , cool porch tile
nurses weathered , calloused bare feet
Visions of clean sheets , a half chapter of Whitman ,
beneficial sleep and good dreams ...
Copyright April 23 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
When the dusts settle from the last wheel
and the sickle moon stoops on the bamboo grove
the dead rise in the whispers of the southern breeze.

You may hear them splashing the canal's water
beneath the hazed halo of one quarter
by nocturne music of barn owl and crickets
in lights of glowworms from darkest thickets.

If you stop on the Rotwood Bridge
can hear them sing in gay abandon
though we're now all dead old spirits
the night can't make us anymore forlorn
.

The twin moon may from the ripples broken
beckon you and if your spirit awakens
take a plunge for a joyous down go
amid cheers from the watery hollow.
Time to take a break
Pause the rhyme
Shift the eyes to mountain's height
The mind to inner ravine

Take the eyes off the page
Put a stop to flowing ink
Give the mind the peace of sage
The eyes the soothe of green

Time friends to take a break
Pause play of words
Try to rewind and remake
Fragments of heart

But promise you
If all is well
I'll be back

Refreshed by new
Mountain's tale
Jungle's track
I'll be back by mid April. Stay well friends.
Here the pines blush
in the cloud's embrace
the sky comes low
falls for earth's face

the winds kiss
long lines of wood
fog weaves dense
peace of solitude

Here the curves
meanders blind
on magical turns
stumbles mind

all inner demons
the high lands slay
on angel's wings
you fall love's prey.
I love you, Bhutan.
Did there a shadow move
a stealthy feet
upon darkening bush?

The deer's woof
races heartbeat
before silence
closes like noose.

Will the pool
that beams the moon
draw a trunk
to the lure of cool?

And upon the wind
without a word
was it a streak
of a passing leopard?

The peacock cries
you're close to the ground
presence is aloud
in the slightest sound.

The jungle glows
in silver light
there are eyes
that spot you right.
Dooars
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