Purple daisies
in the silent fields
to their beauty
my heart with passion yields
this season
the next then
always in sweet succession
a miracle without end

SEA IMAGES

This rusty little boat, anchored on the far-away shallow bank,
Neglected, but still bears marks of past bruises and secrets
Of passion, known only to some daring lovers
Long forgotten.

Today the sky is still red with summer desire,
The winds blow free and wild, careless, enticing.
Crimson flowers, half-hidden from human eyes,
Resplendent in glory, flushed with fire,
Drunk with yearning, dream of a world beyond time
Devoid of regrets, pains and sighs.

This day seems so long, while the heat waves tear
At the insatiate hearts of all, both young and old,
Who share the common anguish, the same bond of longing
For what could never be, that unfathomable-
Beyond words, experience, touch, feeling-
that magnificent unknown
Born of first love.
Is that what is inadequately
Spoken of by the poets as ecstasy?

Like the themes of an eternal symphony, the sea
Holds the keys to the heart’s depth,
Its longing, loneliness, sorrow and pain
While the last song of this summer has come to an end, sadly,
There will always be a boat somewhere with its story-
Watched by the waves, the sky, the crimson flowers
And love unfulfilled, soaked in silent misery.

After listening to Schumann and Chopin’s piano concertos-
night of 14th August 1999, Sydney

The search is the angst
it leads nowhere
despite the strongest will
it ends neither here nor there-

even these my final days
after a life of strife and care
the distance lengthens with each journey
understanding I still can't* declare.

Are we then all existentialists
hopeless travellers over life-time?
are we being absurd ,as life seems to be empty
bereft of content and all that's deemed sublime?

time is worse than an executor
who  kills but once--it clings to the flesh--nothing does it relish
it festers and speaks no kind words
only that humans are born to perish


transient is human joy
brittle is its hope
old age creeps in too soon
(it's hard for existentialists to cope)

the waiting
the sighing
the heaving
the suffocating

the questioning
the doubting
the monotonous and inane grinding
which all seems to know no ending

but we are all existentialists anyhow
bearing the cross of being in the here and now

I HAVE NO NAME

Whether you know me or not
it matters not whether we have met or chatted
just think of me as that person
without a name--perhaps once you spotted

somewhere and had forgotten
the world has 7.3 billion names and it's fine
if I were not remembered
what's a name though it were mine?

I am a face as everyone else's
(somewhere in the wide universe
that's my home- an address is just a convenience)
unknown, often wondering what life's grand design and purpose

is, humbled by my own frailty
and insignificance of me being an ordinary man
if we should meet someday, somewhere, somehow
just know I have no name, so call me 'human'.

Much of our life
is in the past tense
we are held in present suspension
the future is an unknown sentence

I'll hold faithfully to silence

words -they don't solace confer-

the heart feels its mysterious radiance

the truth of life it will richly discover

Don't you in contempt dump
my affection in some landfill
love didn't do you any wrong
you could walk away but never ****--

hearts that had loved once
even in sorrow should bear no ill
I look forward to no happy outcome
but only bid to remain remorseless and still.

A thought is a colour, so I deem
in my dream so many colours
it does assume--ah, paucity of neuro-science-
it labours and struggles in shadows!

but my love is well beyond
words, thoughts and borders
ten million rainbows pale in comparison
with its infinite beauty and wonders.

LIEBESLEID

I can't find another
and in the wasteland of love
I'll linger
watched by the last star above

I can’t love another
you are my first and last
I would rather
not to have loved you in the past

When I tell myself
    'Be sober'
     that's precisely
    the moment I fall over!

Rest, oh rest so sublime

as night drifts into the unknown

forgotten is weary time

this, the sojourn alone--



light, oh light so calm

all darkness on swift wings has flown

ah, sleep so welcome--  the sweetest balm

what the living have never ever  known

The voice of poetry
lives beyond the grave
even more eloquent
sweetest of words they pave
for future poets to savour
the past lives in the present
do you not hear its voice
as upon the here and now it does descend?

Does youth
more tears shed
than old age?
I scarcely know
whatever
life is much sorrow

should things be such
from where should we
knowledge borrow?

yet tears
of both ages
are not the same
( distanced by years)
as they in their own way
silently and painfully flow

and what they signify
is from their own hearts drawn
youth is the folly of experience
old age is contemplation without blame
the season that makes wisdom grow

in this the winter-depth
of my fast slipping-away days
tears have become weary
no longer are they keen
their past stories to tell
they have so little now to say
I am quiet , tranquil and at peace
oblivious to what would follow
upon the morrow.

THE PRETENDER

This art I excel
I use words to pretend
Even the smartest are deceived
I triumph always at the end

With my machination
How people trust me
Many think I am infallible
They love to be in my company

As I ramble on with lofty words
My reputation and followers grow
My picture appears everywhere
In more places than I know.

'You can't fool all the people
all the time' ---so they say
But I am a master of words
I fool everyone---indeed everyday!

Don't let it

get you down*

whether it's tomorrow

or the moment now-



still is my heart

whether events delight or frown

to faith I dearly hold

I'm unshaken on my very ground

This is the problem
with words---the essence
of things eludes them
true meaning is in absence.

LIFE-SCAPE

Life-scape--  life as a shifting landscape
never a still picture
it glides kaleidoscopically
none could figure

what its next rotation would be
but my beloved—if your heart is constant
why need I heed
life’s each restless movement?

Three cheers
not for democracy*
there are no fears
when you are free--

three cheers
for non-conformity
shed no tears
when you embrace humanity-

three cheers
for the heart all ready
worthy among all peers
devoted to love and beauty--

three cheers
and it must be
for those in highest degrees
who bring hope and joy to society.

I write
because I feel-
more intensely
when wounds
I need to heal
life cares not
whether it embitters
agonises
or trips every heel

human tears
are mirrored
in words
the litany
of sorrowful years
adversity
spreads
like an epidemic
but to despair
and defeat
I'll never yield

my poems
shall be my shield
I know
living is never*
as easy as
walking through a field

The seemingly easy
might hide difficulty
that which is difficult
on practice could be accomplished easily

Me, a cynic?
can't be
I love all that
which is scenic!

A strange thing
happened this morning
through my bedroom- window I looked
heard a robin singing

the melody seemed
to be saying
'Wake up, leave your chamber
love,  beauty and wonder** is waiting'

later in the day on the door
the postman was knocking
with a registered letter
which read: 'Your writing

has won the first prize
your poetry book we'll be publishing
this is the agreement
please sign, don't keep us waiting!'.

VALENTINE'S DAY

My love she sent me ten roses
only one was fresh, the rest all shrivelled and dead
with a note addressed to 'You cruel and faithless lover'
and ending: ' The fresh rose is for your death-bed'.

The bridge has two sides
and I wonder
from which should I start
the side before me might hide a danger

I have to weigh and consider
would it not be better
to choose the other?
choice in life is truly the greatest bother

but if one side holds some danger
surely it's better that I cross through another!

My happiness
will spring like
a newborn flower
reaching out to the light
if you will love me
for what I am
all other things
set aside-

my heart knows
love is not my right
only that such
I deserve
and keep it bright
until the end of time
without the tiniest blight-

I stop, I don't know why
suddenly my words fail
and fall into the labyrinth
of my heart's twilight--

I'm sinking
I'm fading
like a flower
in withering
yet, there's
such sweetness
in my longing to die
for this burning love
I can't ever deny.

You can't rush
into your inner sanctum
demanding an answer
its sacredness you'd defile
and be left bereft, no better-

enter humbly you must
in purity of soul and heart
its door will gladly welcome
of you it'll be a willing part-

your dreams it will readily hug
the veil will then be lifted
never again would you
be left abandoned
in the lonely dark.

The epilogue
is the heart
of the matter

the prelude
spoke only
in fragments

all said and done
the epilogue
is the all-in-all

the story
has been told

no more
the longing
the loving
the hating
the wanting
the wishing
the hoping
the waiting
the doubting
the suffering

the last poignant song
has been sung
the symphony
ends with rapture

All beginnings
converge at the end
no more words
need to be said

a new epoch
is resurrected
from the debris
of the past

and what follows is
stillness
silence
calm
illumination
the stoic mind
and humble acceptance

no more tears
shall be shed again

the end is
more poignant than
the beginning

prelude
ends
with
epilogue

this is the last resolution
nothing else.

PAINTINGS
      

Paintings are the colours of music
Every stroke a note of harmony
Impressions of mysterious muses
Inscriptions of eternity.

Music without sound
Rapture of a grand symphony
Voice of sublime quietness
Quintessence of eternal beauty.

Modeste Mussorgsky breathed music
Into pictures at an exhibition
The twain embraced and waltzed-
Art’s most poignant and wondrous fusion.

What would earthly life be
Without the passionate kiss of beauty?
When words fail and the heart is weary
Beauty consoles in her infinite serenity.

A PASTORAL ROMANCE

Come, my love, come, join me
in the strawberry field, don't tarry
the fruits are ripe for plucking--ready
just waiting for you and me

the sun is shining
the birds are singing
the roses are dancing
and my heart is pleading

My love is in the garden
she sings not to me
but praises the flowers
in sweet melody.

My love is in the kitchen
(when is she never busy?)
humming Home Sweet Home
' Darl, this is mum's recipe'.

My love is in the drawing-room
at her favourite embroidery
' Your socks have holes
   I've mended-they are ready'.

My love and I are in bed
she asks: 'Do you still love me?'
I look into her warm tender eyes:
' You're immortalised in my poetry!'

IN THE RIPENESS OF TIME
      
      You are too impatient
      you can't wait
      you move too quickly
      
      you frighten
      the bird of happiness
      
      it eludes you
      It flies away
      (and you wonder why)

      be still
      lie quietly
      under the tree
      (the abode
      of that winged singer)
      
      just be calm
      and still
      be empty
      expect nothing
      feel the wind
      that passes by
      touch the flowers
      at your feet
      hold the rays
      of sunshine
      in your palm
      say to your heart:
      be patient
      what's the hurry?
      the day has just begun
      let the moment unfold
      in its richest beauty

     and
    suddenly
    while not hoping
    nor expecting
   like a dream
   awakening
      
    (a miracle happens)  
      
     that bird gently
      descends
      from the tree
      and leaves you
      with its blessing
      '  this is your turn
         now live and be happy'

Every want is a bearer of disappointment
as nothing in life is ever guaranteed

FIRST LOVE

I buried my wild youthful dream
In the sand of a faraway shore
I promised myself
Never to return there any more.

Time had taken flight on relentless wings
I thought I was brave and strong
Still that dream returned to haunt
Like the endless echo of a melancholic song.

Once she said she loved me
Begged that I would not abandon her
‘  You are my heart’s content, my solace
Believe me--I will love you forever’.

How fragile and forgetful is love
Who knows its inconstancy?
Love that betrays murders the heart
‘ La Dame Sans Merci’.

Who knows the secrets of the heart?
Is love an illusion and fantasy?
Who knows the how and why
Of that which is life’s most profound mystery?

Explain it  if you may
You would need words to cover
The whole sky and the widest sea
It would be wise not to endeavour.

I am dying, dying now
And that distant shore speaks to me
You must return before your last sunset
Perhaps, perhaps, you will be set free.

THREE THINGS ARE CERTAIN, NOT TWO

Three things are certain, not two
To tax and death, add credit card
The old adage is grossly out-of-date
The third is to so many life's financial safeguard.

The Tax Office and the credit-card man
Are too eager to have the first claim
Worried in case you walk too soon to the faraway land
Your obligations discharged---they can't be bothered with your name.

But we are not our own any more
other selves live within us
deviously shaping our psyche
bit by bit, surreptitiously too
(but we are unaware)
like unwelcome weeds
that invade the greenness
of our lush inner field
and devour the flowers therein
like a blanket of dark clouds
shutting away the light
that once was solely our own
like a slow-acting virus
eating into our system
we wake up one day
to discover we have become
a hybrid self
no longer authentic
but synthetic -
our thoughts are not our own
we are the voice of other selves
their language we echo
like well-trained domestic parrots

what are we then
without our-ness
our oneness
our right to being?

We worry
next we worry
about our worry
  we persuade our self
  not to worry
   and not succeeding
   brings in a new worry
   to summarise:
   the culprit is
   the first worry
   which leads
    to the need to worry
    then that worry weighs on
    the second worry
    a vicious cycle
    settles in
    and there's nothing
    to stop the worry
    so used to worry
    the worrier couldn't be happy
    if there were no worry
    believe me
    this is serious poetry
    not reckless comedy!

It's yours---the shame
just keep it
don't drag in
my name!

You might not
be a star
it's enough
if you like yourself
as you are

If I should die
this do remember
with no regret:
I'll still love you
in equal measure
from the Other Side

If
you do love me
admit
remove my misery-

when
you've set your heart free
I'll enter then
love should know no ambiguity.

If I've found the right attitude

   it will come easily to me----aptitude

dusk  the river is dark
no star yet    no moving clouds
deserted shore   dinghy boat  in distance
the trees whisper   falling leaves
late flight of herons across the grey sky
singing in unison  smoke from village chimneys
fishermen draw in nets   wives awaiting their return
aroma infusing the kitchen   the kids chasing one another
grandpa reading poetry  grandma sings an old song
winds rush through windows
the fields are empty and silent
who's playing the violin?
life is a picture and a poem

I do just the possible
I don't need to sparkle

Student to Master:
Revered Master, please tell me why I am so unhappy.

Reply: From your tone and posture, so suggestively
this I can say unreservedly:
it's because you have taken yourself too seriously.

I can't compete with others and I've no desire to.  I have to admit to myself that there are only a few things that, with hard work and patience, I could do with some degree of comfort and satisfaction.
On this alone  I'll focus, minding my own business, and as I move along, I hope to learn more of my limitations. Only through such self-searching, would I be able to make something out of my life. Without such, all my other efforts would be futile.

Nothing could be more deleterious than to pit oneself against others for to do so is an admission of one's inferiority and lack of self-insight.

In the beginning I was alone and it shall be so as long as I live. I have to look inwards to make sense of what is outside of me. This to me is a sensible way to live life.

Muted voices, broken chords
our life is made up of songs incomplete
missed beats, rhythms incongruous
our melodies are seldom sweet--

the notes are faulty and jagged
accord and harmony there's not
the instruments of the orchestra
fail in unison--- hardly any beauty is wrought.

The pursuit is in vain
the journey a fantasy
to my inner sanctum I should return
where resides the true me-

everywhere is the clamour
'  this is the true philosophy
   do not walk in error
   this will set you free'

  the public well is poisonous
  drinking therefrom leads to malady
  give me the pure rain-water
   it will keep me healthy--

   alone in the deepest silence of night
   untainted by the voice of rude humanity
   with the moon and stars as company
   I am content and blessed in my serenity.

No such things
as the right time
the right decision
the right shape
the right size
the right colour
the right side
the right ride

thus
I don't the least mind
I'm a little early
a little late
being off the clock
the way I dress
or walk
or think
or say
the direction
I take
lacking punctuality
free to surmise
ready to visualise
being happily
imprecise

In public, they seemed to be so deeply in love
at home,  you could hear their quarrel from 10 storeys* above