x/x/14

I'm late I'm late I'm late -
No, you are early tonight.

x/x/13

Why do you follow me
through the bushes?
Admit it- you're smitten!

x/x/13

Don't you look beautiful,
new bride in your veil
of silken clouds?

x/x/ 12

O faint streak of hope
on this godless night!

x/x/x

Go, go, dreams,
fly with the winds
to the far lands beyond
the silver horizon!

You pour your essence into
the inkpot of my soul and fill me so
that you can dip your quill in
and write the poetry of my life
on the canvas of skies.

I have received your secret message;
And sit by the courtyard
awaiting your blessed return
past the procession of stars
endlessly mourning the death of days.

Beloved friend, now it does not matter
whether the blessed dawn is nigh
or an oasis afar.

Tonight, I'm talking to the moon:
'You haven't wept enough?
I'm thirsting for your tears.'

Stars, I cannot bear
seeing you shiver in the distance.

How many are the dawns
where I plucked
gossamer dew on grass-tips!

The cactuses,
they've grown tall this summer.

Prisons and palaces I have seen -
Plenitude, loneliness,

riding in my *****,

as you hold me in your arms,
onward, past joys and despair

Señora, there is yet
a thawing desire for the spring.

The long shadow of seekers
drenched of mid-day suns
broken scattered
on this land of despair;

Walking nimble
on desiccated human skulls:

A father will not
return from work tonight.
Policeman, armyman, does it
matter, innocent everyman?
A child will be
orphaned and blighted tonight.

Eagles soar in the distance
obscured by fire and smoke
billowing from the assault
on our dreams and hopes.

Paradise -
dreamed of fanatical creeds;
Beyond which
is the graveyard of Gods.

That you exist, that you know, that you care - this is joy enough for me.

Dawn mingles with your ruddy cheeks.

Peasant woman, I read the language of toil in the wrinkles on your brow.

Why should I love you? I ask of myself. This is the constant soliloquy of the monsoon rain in empty valleys.

What do you brood over on sultry noons?

But then, why shouldn't I?

Winter's witheration is everybody's lot.  

I want to know the hive called death that shelters tiny loves compartmentalized.

The sweat on your brow is sprinkled on autumn skies, waiting to sob out their agony.

A noon-time beat plays in the head
Tea-time brawl revisited now.
Lisping out a song later. 'Really?'
The fridge is empty. The late cuckoo
tugs at the heart; Summer sweat
on evening's brow. Deep down
glow, inner lit springs shadowed
in the woods. Cacophony birds
returning home. Cook, cook, cook.
Filling up sink. 'Ah, am I that bad?'
Insecticide can; Make something up:
the noisy fan; Lady in hood, rising
from the lake. 'Could I have....just
done it another way?' Walking by
the bund as the sky slips away
veiled among the blinking stars.