Oh no, far remote-
I am not a poet though
poetry I write
as I know
I am but a tiny bit of sand
somewhere on the poetic shore
not worthy to be noticed
to be washed away by the tide-  no more
than a fallen leaf
from the giant poetic oak
that has stood so majestically and serenely
with the loftiest and most sublime voice it spoke

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

Tell me the colour
of your past and I
will construct your story
and explain to you the how and why

Tell me the colour
of your life in the present
I'll compose for you
music that speaks of your heart's hidden content

Tell me the colour
of your dream--your fondest-
its semblance I shall interpret
and relate how you will be blest

Tell me the colour
of the future in which you want to be
I'll look through my prophetic prism
which will reveal whether you would be sad or happy

GREAT JOYS IN SMALL THINGS
Why would you prefer
your joys to be loud
as fire-crackers
in the market-place and have spectators shout

'Watch and listen, here is someone who has joys to show!'?
let your joys be silent
temperate as a gentle noon- day
happy is the heart which is content

Why should one display
that which is best kept
to oneself? to preserve and treasure
that which is beauty-wrapped

to last till the end of time
(how brief are those publicly-demonstrated one-day joys-
grand pageantry, pomp and circumstance
by the night to languish away as spoils)

Great joys follow those
with hearts simple and pure
drawn to the sweetness of flowers
and fair nature's every lure

Don't you see the glitter
of joy in the innocent child's eyes?
don't you feel the wonder
of a poem or a song that life beautifies

I am thankful for every small joy
it's the greatest gift that has been bestowed on me
in a silent and peaceful corner I dwell
counting my blessings--happy in simplicity.

A GIFT OF OLD AGE

If old age does a gift on me bestow
it would be just: silence
in my youngish and manhood years
I had exhausted every single sentence

erroneously borrowed from writers,
from professors, friends, the clergy,
leaders, politicians, loud-mouths,
fanatics and extremists ( I didn't know then)--an endless litany

and I discover much too late
truth is only a word thrown about
for the convenience of the speakers
the stronger their conviction, the louder they shout

as they have all the answers
' you don't know-- you out
there---it's about time you followed us
we'll rid you of every doubt'

how I detest slogans now
pontifications are the death of me
I am lost for words--silence I choose--
myself I blame for my past stupidity

soon,  too soon I'll be walking
to life's terminus--near, so near-
with a tiny signboard ' finis'
I'll be quiet and calm --without a single doubt or fear.

Just for Today....
My smile came easier
I laughed more freely
I liked myself just a little bit
Causing a certain calm, peace, and warm glow

Just for Today...
I had a golden moment

There is hope for tomorrow

Kelly Rose
January 27, 2016

I am not your breaktime deed --
That cigarette you roll
Between your fingertips.

I am not your black bow --
The one that you wear
When you're on call.

I am not your alcohol --
That bottle on your lips
And your face to the floor.

I am not your suede shoes --
Your night time glitter
In your daytime locker.

I am not your perfume --
Bottled and locked,
Always consumed.

I am not your secret --
A kept thought
Inside your head.

I am not your personal thing --
You neither own me
Nor use me.

I am your drugs --
And I brim your head
With what you think
Is true.

The willow hangs,
drapes the ground,
dances to a tune
unheard in the hum
of cars and lorries,
in the commotion of
people passing in a
hurry, barely noticing
anything more than the
phones tapped with
fingers & thumbs.
But I notice,
I see it all,
the dance on display,
the symbol of sanity
I need today.