Is that it? Samsonite...No, mine's a no-name.

I thought red would do - red unique.
But, my, so many reds on this belt.

The wait, for prized possessions
checked in - clothes for the trip, and razors!

Thought much of myself when
I ran ahead at Immigration, but
the posh lady I raced, walks off now -
she's found her red.

The belt's stopped now. We are all packed.
Hope's never lost if not found yet!

FILO says my neighbour-in-line: First in, Last Out,
kind enough to explain. Well shouldn't it be
LIFO? I wondered, the late loafer that I am.

Yawns - shorter to fly, longer at the belt!

Red, red, everywhere...now
an American Tourister, snooty.

But mine's a no-name
ribbed red, economy class beauty:

and am waiting...

This is the night of the distant circles.
Tonight the gulls are in meditation.
Senora, tonight, I find your tracks
disappearing on the shores,
though the tide is afar.
I saw you, draped in a garment of colours, and
adorned of the golden dot on your forehead
vanish at the horizon.
In the morning when you
emerged fresh from the shower of mists
with your clouden hair still wet,
I was the wheezing breeze flying West.
I was the bumblebees returning to roost.
Now I am conversing with the echoes.
I want to decipher the language of the waves
whispering to the stars.

Last of a beloved set
of bone China plates
just developed a lesion.

I celebrate this journey in the desert -
I am but a traveler in my time:
in this pasture of my fathers, land,
where stands this miracle of glass
now calling manna down
from the high home of eagles:
I am but a helpless everyman, lost
in the desert, on a journey out
from the clutches of misery, and pain;
The world is making progress.
As I see the oases running farther
away from my sights: on
elevators to the skies, numbers
of the young call on benefactors
across the seas, for a ropeway
across the quagmires: a home, a car
and the family life; saving for a
better day, in the future, while
my home went from mudbrick
to thatched grass, then out on streets
by the gutter with the dogs;
I am a cleaner, cobbler, janitor
in the land where I was the tiller.
Wiping the sweat on my brows
as I loaf on the lawns, awaiting
labour days hyphenated by mealtimes,
there is no witch-doctor now, and
no money to pay up at the hospitals
that the wealthy from afar line up to,
but to die helpless a wretched death,
I celebrate my helplessness!

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.