Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
*  Getting closer, to the just bloomed flower
that bewitched him in an instant,
the honey bee gets intoxicated
by the web  of love,
the sweet flower threw around,
it felt more like a gentle caress
to which his heart jumped!
He  starts to do an ecstatic dance,
never thought he could,
till this sweet moment arrived,
merely touching her soft petals
he flies high as if to proclaim his pleasure
buzzing a new tune he composed
for this special moment,
he circles the flower
as if to adore her beauty
form all possible angles
making the moments of love
so special for them both..

* A butterfly enchanted by the flower,next
has a dance of love so different,
he would flit around and hover above
adore her beauty in a more relaxed pace,
he appreciates her silence to his soft declarations,
his love songs have no words, on air written
by the sprightly moves of his colorful wings,
he knows she loves it and his dance tells it all.
Like a kite on the waves of wind, he bobs on air
gently descending,looking at her eyes.

ഇ**  The tailor bird who never misses
mother nature's children all,big and small,
in their myriad ways of loving and living
watches what's going on,
without batting an eye lid,
she has a doubt
"Who among these
  lovers are more intense?"
she thinks aloud.

 The sonorous singer,
Bulbul watching it all
from the hanging branch
of a Champak, flowered in
riotous profusion answers:

ഉ   "Both are poets, no doubt,
of  distinction too,
each of their deeds
spontaneous demonstrates,
with hearts full of love
they wave poetry around us
in ways ingenious
paired with flowers.
why compare them?
Mother nature's brush
dexterous paints each one of us
with such loving care  and kindness
to infuse celebratory spirit,to the world,
never forget that,learn from the bees and butterflies."
We live in a velvet world
Soft. With comfort. Free.
We've seen only kindness here
Love and liberty
Each person here lives without fear
In health and dignity
There are those less fortunate
Who lived in war's debris
They weep and cry... they may die
Why can't we all see?

They are children bound in prison
Captives from their birth
Bound in chains, there lives restrained
By poverty's black curse
They are poor, and they need more!
They also have worth!
Can't you see? They must be FREE


There are those out begging
Those who have no food
Those who have not medicine
Long ago approved
Those who drink of water
From muddy lakes & streams
Also used as toilets
Can you not hear their screams?


I don't want to hurt you
Or put you in shame
You're not the ones who did this
Not personally to blame
Just remember that you have the power
To END this wretched game
All children should play in peace


Imagine there's a world
Where kids can laugh & play
In the warm, soft meadows
With flowers bright & gay
I will fight for their rights


Fundamental WORTH!
We'll find a way
To help TODAY


Dedicated to Jakub Stepniak aka Kuba Ka.
He's a pop performer who started doing benefit concerts for children when he was only a child himself. Nine years old!

A humble young man & good person. I hope he can use this song!

a crystal cradle slowly falls,
from an indigo sky;
coyote’s distant howl,
blends his primal song,
with the whoot, whoot of the owl;
desert minstrels, keeping beat,
with cricket and cicada’s chorus.
above, a dark horse grazes,
in a field of ancient stars;
and below, encroaching mists
gather in the waving grasses,
crouching... waiting to devour,
all who venture near.
the endless whisperings,
of the brook, stream of
ageless waters, tell of tales
of distant ice and snow,
far above these thirsty plains.
aurora’s blend their magic,
their enchanting flame,
dancing in the rising ethers;
mesmerizing sleepy eyes,
a shepherdess is lulled away;
transported by her distant dreams.
dawn’s approach she fails to hear,
’til it's much too late;
when songbirds of the desert,
now seated in this orchestra,
sing her sleeping soul awake.


*post script.

watching the set of a cradle moon on a late night return from the rolling hills of Central Oregon’s high desert last month prompts just enough lines to keep these images alive, until i am able to give them complete thought and words this morning.  aside from fatigue, i love driving at night.  197’s winding crossing down to the Deschutes at Maupin and then it's descent into The Dalles beside a wide Columbia; these, and my longing to be home beside my wife, keep me from sleep driving, alone with my thoughts and imagination.  though rare to Oregon, there are times of year when the aurora borealis pushes its way far enough south to be viewed on moonless nights.
Summer is ending,
But I still feel the warm breeze,
It reminds me of home,
The divine smell of fresh roses,
Even fresh mowed grass,
Reminds me of a better time,
One that can only be had in the summer,
But summer is over,
For another year.
A loquacious beam from your eyes,
Vibrant sparks from my thoughts let out,
Two hearts  in sweet entanglement,
Create the most ethereal moments.

My itinerant eyes are buzzing bees
Circling your protruding buds so shy
Let the ensuing tunes now lead
Our swelling lips to a kiss interminable.
"I would look at them in the audience:
the frail old lady with thin white hair;
the big, rough biker-looking guy;
the pleasant middle-aged teacher;
the silver-haired accountant with two young kids;
the beat-up middle-aged woman with rheumy alcoholic eyes who is sweetly gracious, modest, as she moves to give you a seat;
the obese, wild-haired man bursting out of his torn, cracked leather jacket;
the giggly, chatty middle-aged redhead in the sweatshirt;
the Patti Smith-looking woman, tall, pale and austere; the hunky football player;
the skinny hipster girl in architect eyeglasses and torn jeans. Everybody listening so closely to the candidates.
Beret guy, too, with a white bandage on his eye and a beard that went down to the third button of his shirt.
What a crew we are."

Peggy Noonan, political columnist, writing about a New Hampshire meet-the-candidates Town Hall 2016


confess here an avowed legally, registered voter,
who fails to vote with almost
perfectly regular regularity

for his solitary voice almost always
swallowed whole,
living in the futility utility of a self-selected body politic,
geographical location where
dissent is a now pathetic revolutionary concept lost
in the new intolerance of a place,
where there is none of the
demanding New England hampshired state
that brooks, adheres to
only the standard highest,

"live free or die"

in the sweeping crush of nationalized,
commoditized would be Commodores,
whose sounds bite,
elephantine donkeys and donkeyed elephants,
leading us to the same slaughterhouse,
by different paths

but I am a crew member here...

proud and free,
proud to be,
amidst this mess of characters,
homogenous in their pursuit
of independent assaying
of the character of men
to whom we would
our liberty, entrust

God, it gives me breathing space,
these unusual common folk, who with the
unpracticed eye of a periodic literary critic,
in their first-in-the-nation primary,
selected the would be revolutionaries extremists,
polar opposites

God bless their orneriness,
though both of their final aisles choices to me,
message received,
we are tired of the ordinary hacks,
who think their longevity means success,
want a sea core change,
a fresh revolution
as principled as the original...

but they suit up, on uncomfortable
folding chairs,
willing to listen,
all the while acknowledging
their presence physical,
evidentiary proofs each,
that you can fool some of the people
some of the time,
but you cannot fool
all the people
all the time

a man proud to be a crew member,
of this cantankerous irascible population
who will vote this time
but not on any machine that offers up
more of the same ole insane,
will exercise my vote,
in the most old fashioned now waining way

*the same way
I write poetry,
upon a ballot where I will
write in, write on with
ink and paper,
tag a name of person
good enough for representing the
interests best
of this rag tag crew o'mine,
who I love so....
July 4th - There are no tribes in America
There are no tribes in America.  This is my annual reposting of my July 4th poem, written years ago.  After reading about some tribal warfare in a far away land, I wrote this true story down....
one July 4th,
many years ago
walking the streets,
of the city of Nice, situe
on the Cote D'azur of France,
on the Mediterranean Sea,
where ships of navies
may safely park,
sailors ashore
leavened to

how I came to be there is a
poem for another time

walking the streets,
of the palm tree resort
along Le Promenade Des Anglais,
coming at me,
Three Sailors,

One white,
One black,
One from California,
which I believe,
is still part of the USA

how we fell upon each other
in warm embrace,
smiling, bestowing
blessings of grace
not as strangers,
but as fellow signatories
on the Declaration of Independence

long lost, reunited
as if it had been many years,
since we had our arms entwined,
one family from one far away united place

dialectical differences ignored,
even the wide-eyed 'Bama boy,
totally comprehensible,
for on that say,
we spoke a language that
encompassed a single brotherhood,
a common history,
all on that
holy day

no tribes in America, no colors,
no religions,
only brothers-in-arms

I need not choose to believe
that should it happen again
twenty years hence,
perhaps with their sons,
my embrace will exactly
the same be,
for I know it true,
for there are
no tribes
in an
American heart
Earned under great spell of segregation,
With luster grand and blinding glimmers of false hope,
Standing like Trajan over his land, twice the spoils of war.

We must now thwart the hatred,
We must now look our brothers in the skin and decide if we can shoot them in the mouth.

Where lies the liberty in mysticism?
Why is this culture facilitating our schism,
And how now will we draw our party lines, or be done with them for a line in the sand?

Let us not fold in the face of dictatorship.
Next page