he wept, T.S. Eliot
for he lost a poem he penned
by hand--a piece that called itself
The Waste Land

in which he declared
April was the cruelest month
but he recalled little more, while scavenging
his memory for wily words

though I did not weep with him
I placed a light palm on his shoulder
to tell him I understood, for we all
lamented the loss of verse

phrases that came to us in dreams
lines that licked clean the inside of our skulls
words that repeated themselves, coming and going,
coming and going with each breath

A friend is a safe shoulder
to rest your head on
an assurance a sweet reminder
you are not alone.

A friend is a hand to hold
on stormy seas a guide
a commitment writ in bold
to be ever on your side.

A friend is a treasure store
a precious find to keep
forever ready on your shore
with his sparkling ship.

Friendship is the greatest need
to lift the spirit high
and who for that would sow the seed
if not you and I.

There is music at dawn in the song of the koyel
The tweeting, the chirping, the warbling,the cry
The medleys that float in the morning air 
As birds sing a welcome to a rising sky 

There is music in the span of feathered  wings 
The steady drone of the humming of a bee
As the sun revels on his throne at noon 
While a brisk wind whisks leaves on willow trees 

There is music in the silver drops of rain 
A gentle drizzle or a thunder squall 
Music in the flow of rivers and streams 
And the sparkling cascade of a waterfall

There is music on slopes of lofty mountains 
In echoes that reverberate of a water spring 
In the soft rustling of a valley of flowers 
Of blue irises and pink hyacinths 

There is music in seas and oceans blue 
Waves overreaching to meet the shore
Rippling in sounds of frothy ecstasy 
Whispers of pearls and ocean floors 

There is music at dusk when the day rests 
The throaty croaks in a nocturnal sheer
As moths flutter drawn to light 
'Tis music of life that I hear

oh absalom, my son, my son.

cry out,  travel miles to

worship,  purify.



pray for him, the note

says all is disorder.



travel miles to tell those who

cannot hear, nor listen.



yet. if you cannot believe all

that is told, find a place your

own.



never mind the ancestors, absalom

my son.



sbm.

What she whispers to the deity

in her daily evening prayer
from her lips' quiver
I try to hear

I try to understand
what she asks of her god
with folded hands

is it her own welfare she prays
begs from the deity
well being of her family
wealth and safety

or her prayer is not that small
she asks god for the good of all

I am not sure
but deep within feel
her prayer is pure

through years of asking
but never receiving
she has quit
praying for any specific thing

she prays as a need
as an inseparable thought
whether god heeds her
or not.