Within the four walls
Below a roof
Busy with play of words
The poet is aloof.

The sky is breaking low
Pitter patter rain
Capture they must the flow
Of drizzles soothing pain.

Outside on a stretch of green
Drenched to the bone
A man with cracking skin
Hoeing from morn.

The toiler is tasked to ****
Paid by the hour
Must earn the precious quid
Whatever the shower.

The poet is lost in the toil
To grow his rhyme in shower
The **** works fast the soil
Growing hope by the hour.

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.

Every moment in time
is a page in the book
of life---what's in the next page
and how would it look?

none does really know
this then is the perennial angst of human existence
questions are unanswered-until the next page
appears and in its every sentence

makes its statement
over which you have no say
you are challenged--do you accept
or reject the proposition that has come your way?

this then is the supreme test
that stares you right in the face
if you are the man enough as your claim
you would hold you ground and not run away in disgrace.

Bird-songs
bring back fond memories
we were scouts and we camped
in the forest-long ago--seems centuries

when friendship was strong and pure
when life was such a kind friend
amidst bird-songs we sang The Happy Wanderer
and many other melodies--hoping there would be no end

to our simple joys and the world we would continue
to dance with and embrace
under the bright stars and before the camp-fire
each of us wore a lovely moon-lit face

and now we meet fifty years hence
we have so little to say-- bird-songs bring no solace-
our hearts have hardened and the trials
of life have taken their toll---written on our every face

The magic doesn't exist between the sheets or is herd in the sounds of a drunken night whatever it was it has surely died.
Long since been taken away with the tide and I like so many others simply pick the bones of the greats clean.

In hopes to capture the essence I simply repackage the old lines as something new burning the candle at both ends existing a reject of today  and a connection of what never was .

I am the *** in the street.
The fool in the cell drunk out his mind yearning only to howl at the moon to hear the sounds of my own madness .

I'm the burnout ,I'm the drunk who is all to happy to be left alone I need no shelter the storm is a friendly reminder .
The chaos lets me know I'm alive .

The burn kicks me in the *** and pushes me to another high I never needed the scene for I find company a burden and my own demons guide me for better than any you may know .

The candles flame cast shadows but never blinds the few who understand the battle for what it is.

The junks all the same just new names and the same train wreck.
The arrogance of youth cant touch the heat of the bitter old fool.
The ice in the glass and one last call to remind me it's fade until the next.

I may me be a throw back to another time .
But a slurred voices words still my own hold there weight .
Trends and tricks styles suited to please are best left to the clowns who seek acceptance from the page .

Sometimes you just have to stagger a bit to know your alive.

I remember the ocean the sound no man could write and only we shared .
Drinks to wash away with the tide .
We spoke of things we knew could never be and the road was destined to curve sooner or later it seems .

My delusions and your body so perfectly laid out  upon the sand and  flawless setting sun  the fire of imaginations and the passions of are drunken desires.

She was everything I needed and nothing to make me stay .
Maybe it's the moments like pictures scattered out across a ***** floor that allows us to linger or maybe I'm just another sentimental drunk like so many before .

I view you in that painting often in my minds gallery now more than ever as time has passed us by .
As wicked pleasures drove us and sounds like dreams simply were carried off into the dunes .

The most bitter wine can seem sweetest  to lips now parched from the long search for the oasis.
And I have worn my miles like shoe leather now clearly on display upon my face .

That picture stands a watermark of happiness I seldom know now .
A postcard of a  place I could never find again.

We all are haunted  in some way my dear.
I wonder ?
Does that picture within your thoughts linger just the same ?

IMPERFECTION

Love me with all my blemishes
love me,  for I can't be none else--so
if you are ready to say yes
just let me know

If I were perfect
you wouldn't want me
I would be hard to live with
it would cause you misery

Because I am imperfect
I am the clay, love and mould me
as you would be the lover-potter
hands-on we would be truly happy

Even our life would not be perfect
but I am sure we would do well together--verily-
so, love me when my hands are *****
in the garden or when the dinner I serve is less than satisfactory.

FIVE HAIKU (9th COLLECTION)*

1

Mother on wheel-chair
young daughter pushes and chats
they seem so cheerful

2

A hidden old lane
graffiti spread on the wall
who and when painted?

3

Among the antiques
stained photos of long ago
of married couples

4

Hamburger outlet
mothers wait in a long queue
' mum, I am hungry!'

5

Pots of red roses
so prominently displayed
the florist wears pink