Getting out from the waves
She walked away to the rice bran haze
As the summer heat drove the sands mad
I knew what she had gone for.

She would hunt it like a child any day
A few seashells if came her way
My skin burning and eyes dust borne
Moments all to herself she desired alone.

On the distant shoreline when she was a speck
Stirred me a tremor then a rumbling quake
What if so happens she is gone too far
Turned a sea nymph to return never!

The tides were falling weaving a lull
The sun slanted on the wings of gull
I rose up to find sand prints of her trail
She bloomed like a hope in her handful of shell!

His expertise was knots
His profession to garrotte
If his wife should say
"Did you have a good day?"
The conversation stopped

There is nothing like the sweet
blossoming of a pretty flower.
So spectacular to watch
in her full splendor,
the unfolding of soft-petals,
tantalizing,
mesmerizing & radiant,
she is the artwork of the gods.

And how can a mere mortal man
describe such a sacred fragrance?
A primordial blend
of raw musks,
intoxicating &
delicious,
the succulent flavor
shakes the very foundation
of one's soul,
it stirs my heart to madness!

Such a sensuous elixir,
her matchless taste,
so satisfying,
so pleasurable,
it warms my inner core
right down to my very marrow.

And who can think about tomorrow?
For at this precise moment,
I long to swallow her
pleasing-moistness
with great earnestness,
a zest,
a drunkenness
prepared for me
by the arctitects of the heavens,
the universe of love.

And I should be so gentle,
to protect & to pamper,
to cherish her &
be careful not to crush
her magnificent-beauty.

For such a wonderful gift
is not for me to squander,
lest I wander
alone
for the rest of my natural life,
perish brokenhearted
& emptyhanded,
without a single flower,
held between
my tender fingers.

A whippoorwill &
some mourning doves,
the gutteral croak
of the wood stork,
chasing squirrels,
a dying cricket or two.

Who knew
the splendid call
of a hawk circling above
could be such a sweet sound,
part of the greatest symphony
ever composed
& played for us
by the master,
conducting
beautiful harmonies
from the pulpit
above.

I woke up
to the sound of hail
on a tin roof.

Looking out the window,
I was still in a dream
until I saw my journal on the floor
and remembered why it fell there.

The window shattered.
Water in every form
poured onto my desk:
hail, rain, the steam from my hot breath.
Wind whipped through the room,
tearing my paintings off the wall,
reminding me that
I never liked them much in the first place.

The louder I screamed
the stronger the storm became;
my vocal cords are no match for a hurricane.
Please stop,
I whispered into my folded arms.

Silence.

I opened my eyes.
The window was not open.

WHAT does the hangman think about
When he goes home at night from work?
When he sits down with his wife and
Children for a cup of coffee and a
Plate of ham and eggs, do they ask
Him if it was a good day's work
And everything went well or do they
Stay off some topics and talk about
The weather, base ball, politics
And the comic strips in the papers
And the movies? Do they look at his
Hands when he reaches for the coffee
Or the ham and eggs? If the little
Ones say, Daddy, play horse, here's
A rope-does he answer like a joke:
I seen enough rope for today?
Or does his face light up like a
Bonfire of joy and does he say:
It's a good and dandy world we live
In. And if a white face moon looks
In through a window where a baby girl
Sleeps and the moon gleams mix with
Baby ears and baby hair-the hangman-
How does he act then? It must be easy
For him. Anything is easy for a hangman,
I guess.

Grrrrr aaaaann aagh aaaaahh naah,
Aaaang n' aghhh ahh grrrr aaaagh naaah,
Grrrrrr aaagh aan naaaaang aaggh!