I call her Moon.
              Why, you ask?
Because she is light
     when my nights are heavy.

r ~ 4/24/14

A resounding knock at the door,
a pair, with one killer smile stood
but how could she return it?
they barge in without waiting to be invited
the girl takes back her half of the smile at once,
and becomes the spokesperson
of the man with an intention,
from her strange countenance
one could discern in advance
the shock value of her request.

"As you know we live in great times
that value uncommon attainments more than ever,
we collect and auction them for the rich"

She didn't understand where they want to take her,
never heard the stream of tears would be the best sell
in an auction, though at times she was struck
by the sparkle that rivals the rarest of the real pearls

She stood perplexed in her hurt and pain, ancient
"Can't say how much we are fascinated
by your collection of grief, market is now wide
to accommodate, the variety of stuff in offer
your pain is so intense, it would certainly
create a stir in the heart of most hardened billionaire
we appreciate your persistence as a collector so rare"

She heard in deafening silence, the acidic voice trail off
is she saved or is it a bad dream yet again?

1.Dear cat
eat my rat.

2.Lazy dog,
kiss my cat.

3.***** cat
killed my parrot!

4.Nightingale,
sing in my cage.

5.Pets come,
dance for me.

6.Honey bee,
remove that sting.

7.Weeping willow,
go to hell.

8.Sky lark
just shut up.

9.Flowing stream
aren't you tired?

10.It's frightening;
break that silence.

Give me your hand

Make room for me
to lead and follow
you
beyond this rage of poetry.

Let others have
the privacy of
touching words
and love of loss
of love.

For me
Give me your hand.

Mackerel, they want to  be
both unanimously agreed;
but why is she stuck still
under the hide of a whale?

You stab me in the back with a knife,
and I apologize for bleeding on it.

Solitude found a friend in me
Winter stole the rest
Wondering where my heart might be
While soul is sinking west

A paler shade of night comes 'round
Moon forgets to rise
An empty lamp of light surrounds
A view of starless skies

With eyes shut wide to lonesome light
Dreams escape my thoughts
Silence awakens fear of flight
A journey all for nought.

r ~ 4/16/14

A melancholy ***** we came to adore
in mournful tone, finish the tale abruptly
and sob, uncontrollably;
"Memories of my melancholy ******"
including "Love in the times of cholera"
are now part of our folklore, this land
of cashew groves and banana plantations
in  Indian landscape, far far away from Latin American shores.

Her lascivious days are over
death visits the house of love, blood splattered
and a haunt of dark happenings, that begets children with tails,
shame, honor and secrets creep out of manuscripts.
Gabo is no more, no more"Living to tell the tale"
the Part Two, promised before.

Gabriel Garcia Marquez, after three false starts
goes to his final abode for rest, now.

A coded manuscript, written in
in classical Sanskrit,
(the language of all divine texts
of Indian sages of yore)
scripted by the mysterious gypsy,Melquiades
predicts the wipe out of Buendia clan
of five generations

Torrential rain and deluge engulf Macondo,
ends "One hundred years of solitude".
Gabo you point towards east
what is the answer to the conundrum of Buendias?

In Mexico city
they were preparing to take  Gabo to his last ride
to the origin of all magical realism he'd return

In a land far away,
yet exactly the same landscape as Latin Americas
we grieve his death as that of one of our own
Gabo, in past thirty years, you mysteriously taught us
to discern the magical realism of cosmos