The long unending chain of toadies
All but goes on knees
To kiss the ground beneath
The Caesar’s feet divine,
And masses spineless fawn o’er him
With lolling tongues canine,
While Caesar smugly smiles.

His laurels, rank, and destiny,
His power, throne and crown,
Anoint him with, then gladly
They press on him their leash.
Teeth glittering, widened lips,
Resounding, deafening claps,
At every single dropping word
From Caesar’s lips divine.

Then tail-like wag all tongues;
Sweeter than honey spread,
Cloying, unctuous, authentic,
Invented compliments.
They truly lie and truly please
The head that wears the crown.
Their words and praise rise not
From heart from lips downwards they drop.

Bravo! Stinging and biting,
Inverted compliments,
Impressive speech, well-worded,
And what fine sentiments!
You think you know then
All you need of countless regiments.
We live by knowing where to bow,
And smile, fawn and kiss when,
The hallowed ground beneath his feet
Aand selves how prostrate then,
While Caesar smugly smiles.

Our happy days and nights,
We smiling live our lives, at Caesar’s feet divine.
By God we truly look our part
With lolling tongues canine.
O you tigers of wrath!
Your wars for liberty,
Produce dictators worst,
Today you have your Julius,
Tomorrow Augustus.
And what indeed is truth if not calibration?
Timeless, endless, meaningless ratiocination?

Life-long have I envied others many a line,
Will someone ever envy
One of mine?
My verse born now,
Fresh - dead until read.
Someone, anyone, yes, you -
If only you read it!

Would you call it just fine?
Would it not be dead.
Not dead if read?
Not when, but if?
Not good or bad just read?

I thought of writing lines for you:
Of beauty, of strength, of truth.
A song, just one;
Of hope, of inspiration.
Lines on those themes come rarely now,                                                                                                                                               To write that way in these times is a sin.

These vacuous, vacant, little, listless times.
What use of such pursuits,
In a world like ours,
What’s false, what’s true?
Hate, anger, frustration:
Are themes right for you.

My poems although shallow
From my heart’s depths rise.
They lack in the mass of meaning
Have volume of words.
Not style but sense, nor craft but art.

Who wants to say
Just what they want to say, and stop,
When it’s just begun,
Not half the distance run?
When how it's said,
For how long heard, is half the fun?

Soundless stays my river, still, calm, no wind blows.
Dark sky and horizon, and wave-twinkling bands,
A distant din, faint stars and a crescent that glows
With city lights orange over silver-black water, sands.
Black is the colour of darkness they say.
Black is the colour, at night and in day.
Black, it’s black of many an un-fixed hue.
Some nights there are, when the silent river flows
Under the moonless sky: the black of tar.
Some are the nights when black goes with blue,
The colour of night while the young moon glows.
Some are the nights when lights near and far,
Spangle the river’s black, red, yellow, blue,
Lights hurled into sky black; black river too.

My poems are signed anonymous,
For anonymous they are,
From somewhere they come,
Sometimes.

Who makes them?
What time?
Which place?
In what climes?
I think not I fathom it all.

I know it as true,
That there are those two
In presence of who
They come.

Catalysts of creation
Are pain and separation,
In them alone do I trust.
So, pain and separation:
Catalysts of creation,
Keep them alive I must.

Drop after drop
Of pain let drip and stain,
The sheets of life.
Drop after red drop,
From raw lacerations,
Drain and drip
From wounds of separation,
And word by word
Congeal on sheets.

Let poems come,
At least sometimes.

And they call me passionless
Half-alive half-dead.
I lack sorely, they say, inspiration:
Those drops of blood
That the heart brings on page.
My poems are hard as stone, artificial.
I bring no flowers of hell with me,
No, that’s not all of what they say.
No fires of heaven bring I, say they.
The visionary glance is not mine.
Love, longing, thorns of life, not mine,
Nor envy’s green flush,
Shame’s blush scarlet,
Fear’s pallor:  
They have almost been done to death.
Nor can I take a prophetic stance
On Self, on Man, on doubt or Faith,
All inventoried subjects,
On Nature or Nation?
Crawl in mud,
Or flights sublime and steep?

No flights. No Sir!
Not mine.
Not while you,
And you
And you
Read me.
Not today.