While a thought slips into the air, something mystical and magical happens; the mystic curls through one's thoughts; it weaves through the air; it climbs around and embraces my core, like wild rosevines, like sweet, ripened grapes, like little hands holding onto a skirt, leaving the drunken child yearning for more...
When I see your difference I'll embrace it;
I may give you a hug.
Stranger danger is not always so,
I know your fear; I have it too.
But dear my dear, it's a world for two.
At times we proud under the same dark
cloud--the rain's so loud. Why we doubt?
You walk the talk; I talk the walk.
We seldom talk. Away we walk.
There'll be a day we'll meet half way.
A day for better say.
A day for newer ways.
It ain't for me to say.
Oh, sweet heart with a broken heart,
You asked and punished...
And I did with one thousand kisses.
Then your indifference
Brushed across my face,
Little zinnia in a spring dress,
I welcomed your caress.
Oh, you feeble soul adrift,
You fragile breeze of mists,
Oh, you sweet melody,
Little damsel I once knew.
Written in 2050
Dried logs at the preserve,
forgotten by the lushness around,
Burnt logs by sunrays of indifference.
Logs near Kitching Creek,
pine needles dangling, soothing breezes soften the air around the logs.
Erected pine trees
stand adamant and firm,
like foremen by the clock of the seasons.
Pine Cones at the crown of the trees;
pine cones by their dried roots on the ashen sand.
A thriving log tries to set roots once again; the nature around it
engulfed its hopes.
The surplus of my physical life needs much repair.
It happens that my knees ache—a couple of wooden strips and nails would straighten my stride.
My buttocks need much lifting—a couple of inflatable pillows to prop them up would do.
My nose is as submissive as it has been for decades—perhaps a hook or a couple of toothpicks can help regain its pride
The hues of my countenance had become so ashen and wan—a couple of strokes of cheap exterior paint would bring me back in sight.
My skin sags and hangs so loosely from my bones—a forgotten raincoat on the rack of monotony.
And with this—Time keeps ticking!
The wind grasps the crown of green trees
As they dance synchronized, swaying free,
As Playful cunning, fox-like trickery
Enclosed, a suitcase holds dreams indeed
Autumn leaves all fading tawny brown
Allegorical floats, there roar the crowds
While decorated wagons elusively depart
A man vainly grasps the faded handle bar
The clock still fixed at 4 o'clock
Fresh hands admire and mercilessly mock
The sound of consciousness echoes a reply
A shielded soothing, wisdom now by his side
Has the carnival exited the town?
The streets are vast, brooms dwindle on the ground
Youth has departed, a lonesome effect
Darkness grows, a time to reflect
Bedazzled Adonis, petals imminently fall
The promising path has bent for all
It's the last pristine day of forty springs
Inevitable fate that age brings.
(Written in 2014)
from time to time,
the blame is mine,
your eyes divine,
that fruit that's mine,
no longer shines.