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Not all the nights were moonlit bright
the darker ones fed upon our fright
buried in depth lay the lonely souls
bones still alive eyes burning coals.

Nights on which moon dimly shone
feebly glowed those marble stones
with names etched of young and old
songs lost forever stories never told.

We talked in whispers lest the dead awoke
soldiers' graveyard life snuffed in smoke
buried in uniform now one with the soil
past all glories win's reward loss's toil.

Night lengthened wind's moan arose
the watchman called it's time to close
the living must go awaits their home
tombstones part for the dead to roam.
I frequented a neighborhood cemetery along with a friend in the 70's when access was unrestricted. We used to stay till late evening when it was deserted. The cemetery had memorial tombstones of soldiers died in World War I. This is a recollection from that time.
It’s in the rain,
It’s in the sunshine,
It’s in the dewdrops on the roof.

It’s in the tall grass
When the wind blows
That’s all I need as proof.

It’s in the clouds above,
The ground below,
The red of leaves,
The white of snow,
The violent ocean,
The mellow stream,
It’s in everything it seems.

Your eyes

Your face

In every place.
I miss you so much constantly.
आषाढ  शुरू में बरसा मेह
ज्यों धरा पर उतरा हो नेह
कल-कल कानों में ध्वनि
ज्यों बागों में आई हो सजनी।।

मेह -वर्षा
नेह-प्रेम
When did the storm hit again?

My head got pushed under,
and suddenly I'm caught
in the relentless current
of swirling thoughts.

Drowning,
that's starting to sound nice,
but I remember the sun above,
gleaming warm beams
to remind me of love

It's so hard to reach
for the sun's warmth
When I can't even breathe,
so the cold fills my lungs
as I sink too deep.
When chained in the abyss of sorrow
There's no light to show me tomorrow
I hum to myself sweet tune of a song
That lights up my heart before long.


It's the song that sets me free
Rain on the leaves, winds on tree
Cackle of a hen, cooing of a dove
Tides on the shore filled with mangrove
Night owls' hoot, cuckoo's refrain
They're all music made to **** pain
They dispel the dark, show me the way
Say life is a gift, live it everyday.
I kissed the day, it turned
into night.
I waited…. and…
you brought the moon.
Making my dreams come true.
Along came the dawn.
With break of day
you were going away.
Birth of the sun
Making me blush and bloom
while waiting for you.
My moon.

Happiness means letting go
while staying whole.

Shell ✨🐚
-------
As a mortal may, I may imagine
I let myself drift with circumstance

and dance with the other half of me,

who gets this chance, just once
in a lifetime and lets it pass,
meaning nothing more,
than a thought,

fit to an instance.

We all have two minds, you know,
and those two think differently, alone;
but as we grow old and learn patience
perfecting persistance fitting instantiations
of the algorithmatic weform, we form upon

agreement, left hand sees the letters writ
I and e, left best and right best intentions,

combining minds to make a polimental me,
and whatsoever such agree, makes
aggravation heavy enough

to squeeze a mysterious fluid from
the first living stone to presume life's no fun,

yes, we be the augmented, minding wisdoms,
falsely called sciences of religion, using assisted
memory machinations, virtual how to persistence,
with go backs, and do overs, Mulligan's, to some,

mere next in truth, a step taken is never taken
back. In truth, each life's lived in go now mode,

later is as one might expect, having had days
like this in times past, spectator status revoked,

insanely great ideas fed crumbs, smile slightly.
and reprove the use of joy for no reason.
Thinking of him flings me from these plains
to the nearest body
of water whose mist smells of salt and life
the unrestrained passion
and ****** of sea.

The book, Odes to Common Things,
a gift of a dear friend
who knew not the arousal,
the seed of near sensual desire
it would plant in me
like the buttery aroma of a woman’s hair
or the taste of her moist lips.

Even a thought of Neruda
takes me to the stormy stirrings
wrought from the ***** of the Pacific.
and sounding on the shores of Chile.

How could the writing of a man
a continent away
foment in my chest
a fervor akin
to a spiritual awakening?

I read him in English
but feel the thump
of his Latin heart
in my body.
I read that his book, translated into English as Residence on Earth, was born of Neruda’s feelings of alienation. It seems that a large part of me feels as if I have been on the margins of society and maybe that is why I feel that thumping of Neruda’s heart within me. Spanish poet Garcia Lorca calls Pablo “a poet closer to death than to philosophy, closer to pain that to insight, closer to blood than to ink. “A poet filled with mysterious voices that fortunately he himself does not know how to decipher.” * I thank oldpoet MK https://hellopoetry.com/MK/  and his poem Broadcasting the Seed of Poems https://hellopoetry.com/poem/4845320/broadcasting-the-seed-of-poems/  for the inspiration for this poem.

“The Thumping of a Latin Heart,” Copyright 2024 by Glenn Currier
Written 6-23-24


*From: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/pablo-neruda
my carnival heart rides
the Ferris wheel

got lost in the tunnel of love

(lost my love on the merry go round)

the minute hand of my watch, forever

back and forth
tap, tap, tapping on midnight, i'm

tossed and tumbled
like the rodeo clown
riding a bull
I'm holding aces and eights tucked tightly
against my chest so

play the long shot

I pray for the gypsy wind
wild and flowing

my heart is true.

precious love
my precious love
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