When things get tough,

She cries a little.

….

Every single time, she contemplates it,

If it’s portraying her as weak,

Or is it okay to cry a bit?

What if it’s actually making her weaker?

What if her biggest fear is creeping it’s way out of the pit?

….

She holds herself, push back the tears,

But all her efforts aren’t worth,

All it takes is two words,

From someone, her presence who seeks,

And she lets two drops roll down her cheeks.

….

When things get tough,

She cries a little,

Then,

She buckles herself up,

In the end, only she gets a little tough.

….

Love ❤️

Many of these tears passing by
They ain't too shy
Just wishing you goodbye.

Slept well on moonlight kisses
Awoke upon rays of day
Building upon the morning on a few pieces.

Guess I'm feeling a little better today.

Cries so long wishing me near
Like Death's cold kiss, I'd rather lose my own lips.
For the ticking time close to sorrow is that close to fear.

Take a load of life's bitter drink in a couple of her sips.

Life's gunning down on me with hollow bullets
Shells of her heavy shotgun
Till she's fulfilled on my despair but she won't be the fullest.

Guessing still, if I threw myself to the world who would surely catch me
A stylish life but I can't speak that fancy.

Her pretty tears, rivers of waters trying to drown me
Fighting waves of chaos trying my best to at least break free.

Pretty weeper, are you not my pretty little weeper.

Pretty weeper, pretty little weeper
Life don't be a another deceiver.

Everybody says me weeper, gloomy
gentle in pain
everybody thinks me pain, weeping
delightful weeper
I am a delight force, my weeper
bitter delight
my words are the companion
tasteful but alone

O the weeper, the gloomy heart
take me to the river
and tell me; why do I love?
Cover my heart and my soul
from thickness of your sheet
Or else, I will die
by the coldness of hearts

Because I love ardently
and I am alone; You listen
for your needs, for your needs
I give every drop of my blood
and You take delight, calling me weeper
gloomy but beautiful

Who are everybody; but you
alone do I cry; my weeping heart
take us to the mountains
in heights where we sing together; loud
intense but gentle
What do you want more
and you call me gloomy

I am like a beautiful smile, my gloomy
sweet but short
I am like a taste of intense, weeper
bitter but powerful!

Do you want more, the weeper
my words are the only one left out here
Along with my heart
the departing heart!

- June 2011

Hail, sister springs,
Parents of silver-footed rills!
  Ever bubbling things,
Thawing crystal, snowy hills!
    Still spending, never spent; I mean
    Thy fair eyes, sweet Magdalene.

  Heavens thy fair eyes be;
Heavens of ever-falling stars;
  ’Tis seed-time still with thee,
And stars thou sow’st whose harvest dares
    Promise the earth to countershine
    Whatever makes Heaven’s forehead fine.

  Every morn from hence
A brisk cherub something sips
  Whose soft influence
Adds sweetness to his sweetest lips;
    Then to his music: and his song
    Tastes of this breakfast all day long.

  When some new bright guest
Takes up among the stars a room,
  And Heaven will make a feast,
Angels with their bottles come,
    And draw from these full eyes of thine
    Their Master’s water, their own wine.

  The dew no more will weep
The primrose’s pale cheek to deck;
  The dew no more will sleep
Nuzzled in the lily’s neck:
    Much rather would it tremble here,
    And leave them both to be thy tear.

  When sorrow would be seen
In her brightest majesty,
  —For she is a Queen—
Then is she drest by none but thee:
    Then and only then she wears
    Her richest pearls—I mean thy tears.

  Not in the evening’s eyes,
When they red with weeping are
  For the Sun that dies,
Sits Sorrow with a face so fair.
    Nowhere but here did ever meet
    Sweetness so sad, sadness so sweet.

  Does the night arise?
Still thy tears do fall and fall.
  Does night lose her eyes?
Still the fountain weeps for all.
    Let day and night do what they will,
    Thou hast thy task, thou weepest still.

  Not So long she lived
Will thy tomb report of thee;
  But So long she grieved:
Thus must we date thy memory.
    Others by days, by months, by years,
    Measure their ages, thou by tears.

  Say, ye bright brothers,
The fugitive sons of those fair eyes
  Your fruitful mothers,
What make you here? What hopes can ‘tice
    You to be born? What cause can borrow
    You from those nests of noble sorrow?

  Whither away so fast
For sure the sordid earth
  Your sweetness cannot taste,
Nor does the dust deserve your birth.
    Sweet, whither haste you then? O say,
    Why you trip so fast away?

  We go not to seek
The darlings of Aurora’s bed,
  The rose’s modest cheek,
Nor the violet’s humble head.
    No such thing: we go to meet
    A worthier object—our Lord’s feet.

1

Beat! beat! drums!—Blow! bugles! blow!
Through the windows—through doors—burst like a ruthless force,
Into the solemn church, and scatter the congregation;
Into the school where the scholar is studying;
Leave not the bridegroom quiet—no happiness must he have now with his bride;
Nor the peaceful farmer any peace, plowing his field or gathering his grain;
So fierce you whirr and pound, you drums—so shrill you bugles blow.

2

Beat! beat! drums!—Blow! bugles! blow!
Over the traffic of cities—over the rumble of wheels in the streets:
Are beds prepared for sleepers at night in the houses? No sleepers must sleep in those beds;
No bargainers’ bargains by day—no brokers or speculators—Would they continue?
Would the talkers be talking? would the singer attempt to sing?
Would the lawyer rise in the court to state his case before the judge?
Then rattle quicker, heavier drums—you bugles wilder blow.

3

Beat! beat! drums!—Blow! bugles! blow!
Make no parley—stop for no expostulation;
Mind not the timid—mind not the weeper or prayer;
Mind not the old man beseeching the young man;
Let not the child’s voice be heard, nor the mother’s entreaties;
Make even the trestles to shake the dead, where they lie awaiting the hearses,
So strong you thump, O terrible drums—so loud you bugles blow.

When she was born
Her relatives spat on the ground,
Called her mother a witch
And said "The only thing she's good for is dowry".

By 6 years old
She understood what being a girl meant;
Be still and quiet
Your opinion is irrelevant .

At 11 she watched her brothers go to school
As she sat in the kitchen,
Doing 'the work of a woman',
With tears of longing streaming down her face.

At 17, she slept with a man who was 67
Living with the cruel hand she'd been dealt;
How did she raise 2 children
When she was still a child herself?

At 35, no longer a child bride
She was replaced,
With a girl that had not
Even come of age.

She held the young woman
And dried her tears.
She understood her sorrow
She had felt it for years.

But this was her destiny,
Her role from birth.
To be the silent weeper,
The cleaner, the mother,
The lover; who would never know Love.

At 65 she's died,
Buried next to a man she never even knew.
Not a single male cries,
Her funeral attended by few.

So why the abuse?
Why so much pain?
Why raise such a brave soul in vain?

One rebellious voice cries,
With tears streaming down her face
"If only she were male!"
She looks to me and says

"You wish to know,
why she could have had no joy?
The answer is simple
They wanted a boy"

Read, sailors, read
Try your best to make blinking your only sleep
Time is so tightly wound that
All the blinking, crying birds could not fathom

You have been given a mighty, starstung ship
With sails so wide they could cover your reality
Use these sheets not to sleep, but
Fly them like monster kites

Rest, doves, rest
The fear that you feel at the bottom of your breast
Will be spat out like a pacifier
In time
On time, you'll glide into familiar arms

No farms could reach you there
You're no chicken, no better but
Your claws no longer scratch earth's flesh
Your hands have no need for dust

Peace, hawks, peace
All your empty handed armies have no hands
Softly stroking your mud won't do
It has taken its own shape
Of some concern to your mould

Speaking of which, moss grows soft
It has its own place but
Beds are for sleepers
You, friend, are a weeper

Time, patience, time
There is so much time you should not rush
Rather, be pushed by the hush
Come home to your family
A weary, winded traveler

Pull up a windmill
Grind up piecemeal
Some flesh cracks
and crystals don't relax

Stop badgering the witness!

Love is a mysterious thing poker face
Even though we tend to think of soul mates
as a symbiotic union, we have to be open-minded

Marriage is a business transaction
We've all had nights we can't remember...
or wish we could forget
as we all recalled it was the mindset
that triggered strong emotion into an explosion
that separate the thing called love.

It’s have been more than twenty odd years since
the Weeper's victims left over tears, that never faded.
the dead  never felt neither pain nor anger

The jury is still deliberating long and hard with miles
  to go on the public views, so once again
if the gloves don't fit you must acquit
  Stop badgering the remaining witnesses America
Love is a mysterious thing, poker face

We are, each of us, equals
our stories capable of producing sequels
Forged in the fires of love
in the eyes of makers above
every one, from the richest of all
to the lonely weeper
we are all equal in the eyes of the reaper.

time has made us weak
and the end is what we seek
all of us, created the same
whether or not we are bathed in fame
from the mightiest beast
to the birds of the feast
we are all equal in the eyes of the reaper.

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this is my concession speech

having dabbled in the above black arts,
what needs saying, been said
and pun pardon,
not too alive,
like fav jeans,
pretty much worn to holey death,
put aside for a well needed rest

I am losing,
a real loss,
not candor, not inspiration,
but finding new ways to say new things,
well aware that Balanchine said
"there are only new combinations"

nature, I have dabbled,
but ready, easy to concede
this is Harlon's
River, his wilderness territory

he without peer,
unequaled in essaying on
this planet's essentials

as for the magic of daily grinding,
nothing could be finer,
than to see the family and the daily bread
made, fed, and put to bed,
than by the hands of
betterdays,
while
Pradip
makes me laugh,
with his wifely wisdom and jokes
and the humanity of his insights
and prods deeper,
make me a
weeper-profusely,
keeping us all
real and unplugged,
and
Bala's
journal's mysteries illuminate and spice
the places hidden,
by me, from myself

the
r
man who has got his shoes impudently railing,
cap'n never complains or whines,
but in precious few,
he rivets you to the earth,
fixing rooting you to a rooted place,
he intoxicates with
southern simple and pithy,
and makes the title poet,
a worthy one

could I go on naming names?

sure,
Mother
Maria
said, "chile, it ain't necessarily so,"
Kelly
adds beautiful,
and I agree with her rose
that grows even in her rugged soul's clime,
Simrik,
a child who writes
old wisdom from where acquired unknown,
and
Oliviaputs the
O
on my mouth smiling


anyway can't,
write so good no more (see),
finding
SJR's
voices now
in my head,
saying
careful boy,
you already wrote that
in a single consorting chorus voice

been authorized to dribble drivel,
but that don't cut for prideful fools
like yours true and truly,
tho looking at this,
what lies above,
would be doing
an inaccurate accurate,
calling this worthwhile,
feels like
a phony smile

so what to pursue?

silence not an option,
for the brain inferno'd
and the devils pitchfork
pinpricking with stabs of
visionary guilty judgements

so of what to write?

the answering simple uncomplexity,
Shauuna,
so here are the things I tell myself

forget the me in we and write
of thee, let that be my solitary
tag,
pray god don't make a hash of it,
write of new poets uncovered,
play thru ego and play hard to
recover thyself
by focusing on
uncovering
thee,
the new poets who
will lead the way,
bring this old dog~man,
way back from astray

Let Me Go

Let me go I'm not a keeper
I feel your touch getting weaker
No more crying, no more weeper
Even when I'm sinking deeper

Let me go I'm not a holder
I feel your touch getting colder
No more leaning, no more shoulder
Every memory getting older