Old selves die easily.
They whine their superseded demands
And the winds of change
Blow buildings down on them.

Or slide into a warm bath of contentment
And gasp out their last as the water drains,
Marooning them like bathtoys of despair.

One has expired in my arms.
His face turns to smoke
Like a ghost beginning to form.

Tenderly, I drag him to the backyard
To hide him with the others.
I mark where they’re buried
So oblivion knows where to find them.

Silver fog
the stairs wet
knock knock
would you let
the winter enter
your door
would you let her
swallow the floor
underneath your toes
collapsing into her heart
would you meet her there
waiting in the womb of silence

neither your helipad nor your limos
neither your huge country mansion
nor the famed cellar of vintage wines
in your basement world of wonders
neither your wild and loud wardrobe
nor your collection of fancy silk ties
when it matters most in this world
can make any real difference for us
in our assigned bits of rugged terrain
your fabulous diamonds and rubies
and your green emeralds and pearls
are no more than mere shiny trinkets
before the warmth and camaraderie
exuded by those who still can smile
and still can laugh a deep hearty laugh
in this world of sordid corporations
shady conglomerates and mega deals
you had better be on the lookout for
smooth operators and suave conmen
with fads, facts and figures to sway you
these are the hyenas of today's world
and they will always dissemble if it pays

smog
has assailed tropical havens
nostalgic weeping

i am a sorry sight for sure
heading for the grim shore
carrying nothing to show
for all my pain and labours
just a tiny frown on her brow
and i'm reduced to a wreck
just the suggestion of a smile
and i'm in heaven, that fabled
place of purest joy and ecstasy
she plays me like a kora, ethnic
and magical in its call and timbre
and i respond like a typical disciple
and say it is well even when i suffer loss