I'm filled with peaceful rage
Wanting to paint bullets in your eyes
whilst I kiss poems onto your lids

Wanting to un-man you
whilst you make love to me

Leaving you in trembling pain
whilst I hold you close to me as the sun rises

Walking alone,
at the seaside,
relishing,
mountains,
trees and flowers,
watching,
escarpment,
cliff and clear water,
at the foot,
the sea and clouds,
united,
on the horizon,
the sky further,
further away,
the sea,
wider still,
and wider.

Don't you feel tired
moving back and forth
pulled by the sun and moon
the pattern of mechanism
the weariness of the waves
the sorrows and joys
become
the umpteen
stories.

Yesteday
some memory's been lost
like clouds
like rain
like moon
like the path beneath the moonlight
like the shadows on the path
today
a trace of sound's picked up
its the sea
its the boat on the sea
its the paddles on the boat
the sail on the ship
memory drew a route
while the sound's
in
another harbor.

We were
on fire while
skating on ice

melting

where we stood.

The conductor looks at me
and then at my ticket
the train is running on full steam
splitting the night with monstrous weight
cutting darkness by its beam.

A mess up he says is always on the card
in this journey's hurly burly
if you are even a little off guard
you pick up one too early.

It keeps happening more with good ones
taken by jumping the queue
denied a trial one fair chance
lifted before they are due.

I am amused by his strange remark
what he means find hard to get
seems the guy talks too much at work
can't quietly just check ticket.

Haven't a clue sir to what you say
the mess up and jumping the queue
make it clear if I may pray
this lifting before it is due.

Holding the ticket before my eyes
the conductor points at the date
unpleasant though this little surprise
you are traveling on tomorrow's ticket.

she came
when seeds were not yet sown
the sky had not ****** the river
clouds were far away from rain.

she came
when heart was mere flesh
eyes had not known rainbow
and mind was just a wayward place.

she came
when door was only wooden frame
autumn was blooming shy veiled
romance was yet to wear a name.

she returned
there was darkness gathering

love is she forever searching.

My narrative Reportage
They said that I made a better storywriter than a poet
However, poets get their ideas from stories,
But my creativity comes from a glass of Moet Chardon (:)
Yesterday, I saw a homeless man got on the train during rush hour
He passed right through the crowd and went on his way to the front car
and leaned against the moving  door

His sudden outburst of laughter made the passengers looked around
He was a sight for sore eyes this character,
but instead he became my instant story to tell
Or behold a Poet laureate mastered piece  
Dark soiled clothes he wore, his dingy T-shirt he use for a hanky:
With empty pocket hanging low, toothless he smile and kept on smiling
Slurred speech and some missing toes he became my focus point
What’s the use of having lot of money and not sharing?
Within those moments, I saw a decade of homelessness within his character
An ex-mariner, a husband, a degraded broken hearted soldier,
America a failing superpower country:
and most of all New York City a FAILING disaster
So I began my journey, either to compose a poetry piece or tell my eyewitness story into sections of poetry and fiction: