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April came and with her hope
A little sunshine helps to cope
Her kiss sweetly soft caress
A heart frostbitten now be blessed

A simple smile of inward child
Takes the breath away
To calm the cold of bitterness
The Ides of March display

She comes to heed the mother’s call
Her air so fair and kind
April sings her early songs
Nature speaks her mind

Gypsy flowers peak their buds
Expose the coming season
Ducks and geese return at last
And life returns her reason
Traveler Tim

Caesar knew well
The Ides of March
The dread of anticipation
fell upon his heart
But we made it to April
And here a new beginning starts
Remember they're monsters

Not just in theory, but really

It's no longer about the evidence

(If it ever was...)

But a call to collusion

They want you silent

Unless you recite after them

So they can write papers

On pipe dreams
I know it’s you
Can see the similarities
Even though masked

I know it’s you
I have an instinct and I know
That’s true

But who is to say
Masks protect, so we wear
A sight, not rare
We climb the Koro hill.

Forty years and still ascending
gives a good feel.

We stand under a Madhuca tree
blossoming in March heat and rain.

From the hilltop
the valley down below
looks dreamy grey.

We've greyed and graded
past full bloom.

In the wafting fragrance of Madhuca
we pray to hold on
for some more.
Koro hill, March 22, 2025, 2.30 pm
My love and gratitude for my fellow poets and friends for being with me this long 12 years on Hello Poetry.
Somewhere between words and a phrase
And images that waltz on a page
Naked or masked, with a ** and a hum
Read me in the lines of a poem.

Curled up with flair in cursive ink
Or in italics that make one think  
In bold scribble of soulful blues
Meet me in a syllable of haiku.

In sounds and rhyme, in free flowing feet
In rolled up, crumpled paper sheets
On kissed ends or in couplets terse -
Trace me in a little verse.

Midst damp and broken metaphors
In sentences loud or hushed whispers
Hidden behind some quaint smilie
Find me in poetry.

Poesy — a world large enough to hold
Sordid moments in its fold
Sweetness of life and broken hearts
Harsh reality and runaway art.
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