Looking back at the years
through the fog,
sorting the memories
that are real
from the phantoms
that long
for the castle and the throne
that have fallen.

a color was a thought of painting
and poetry and literature
sadly
my son took a crayon
held it in the air  it was flesh
said right on the paper wrapper
and asked
dad, this says flesh
and I see all kinds  of color
in people,
why?
Why what?
I asked trying to narrow his
question down,
He said , it is  pink,
it don't look like my skin
or yours
and I wondered
if  I drew a man
do I have to use this to
color him with?
I answered , I don't know if
correctly,
no son,
use all the crayons
grab as many as you can
make a rainbow
man,
that would be better

sunday morning is often quiet here early .the radio playing.



did you know they play music alongside bird  song. a special

moment.



we sit quiet and listen.  you see i think the swallows have gone.

i did not see them leaving.



in syria they drop bombs   to gas the children.



sbm.

Radheshyam

ninety years
and hasn't won one transaction.

He has lost each and every dealing

failed business
lost job
broken family

down in everything

smiled upon only in mocking
looked upon only with pity
befriended only to be exploited

poor in maths
always ended up on the wrong side of measurement

fool in love
her woman bore the child of another

unskilled in societal ways
cursed by one and all

and to top it all
he wasn't clever enough to know
why it were so
he wanted to reach out to everyone
but none could reach out to him.

Radheshyam
named after god
but never someone's god

ninety years of being a loser
he doesn't feel.

The stray animals and birds love him much.

He feeds them,
they repay with love.

is it enough that we do not write each day, that we travel on the old train sometimes.



is it acceptable to think in phrases, believe the attrocities yet do not share them

with friends.



what would they think of our diet and strange sleeping habits, we shall not tell them,

anymore.



is it a crime that we have spelled it wrong, and not go to heaven, which is okay

as our heaven is here, on earth.



the phone at the hotel was busy, and they have not rung me back.



yet.



sbm.

Time ruins our eyes
for each other,
while the moon burns
down the nights around us,
as if attracted to our madness
and spellbound by the dark
- ness that surrounds us,
yet here we remain, apart
and together, alone in a home
for the stone-cold heartless.

feels like autumn now, cat is in, windows misted.

a challenge to show  three trees as suggested.



the gentle good,  dawel disgyn,  little time

left, nor funds for flying.



tiny things become intimate.



you may put them in cases, or hang on pins.



straight or safety, it becomes political.



the choice is yours.



bulldog clips.



you are the curator.



sbm.