You have this whole world,
The sun and moon
You have the universe
and I am just a speckle and dust
within.

I've wished on my luckiest star,
I wish you're waiting
for me
to fall.

I am just a speckle and dust
Within your universe.

You saw how I shine for you
at most fleeting time,
through the crisp of air
I am walking while
my feet's still bare
towards you.

I came undone
like a pendulum underneath
your time
I try to hold your hands,
but I feel all the myriad
of crash.

I know you have them all
but they all fell into black hole.

Despite of your destruction,
I will try to fix its core
beyond interruptions,
I will try to find a connections
if ever the gravity
pushes
you
or
it
pulls
me
down.

Even if I saw new faces
in other places
of every inches
in your universe

in every blink of my eyes
they are all pitch-black
but at every seconds I open it,
it's you, i all have.

To all that never stays,
walls
castles
masks
supernova

they will perish away
but they just laid
in you
and to your memories.

Even if the centuries
will turn into sand,
Just remember how
The speckle and dust
gave meaning
to your universe.

Broken headstones speckle
the even sea
of your grassy hill

Panorama of your crest
hugged by blue sky

Among the memorials
long since uninhabited
the residents
returned to the earth

My thoughts are seeds
and your soil is fertile

When buildings crumble
& return back to dust
& heads turn in disgust.
Faced with lust & deeds
Of mistrust.

When all else fades
& the stars speckle
Like eons of old dust collected
& swept across the sky,
Time will cease to exist.

While some of us ascend
The staircase.
Not all of us will be so fortunate
In a desert of red.

In any case,
No matter which way you go,
Wait for me.

Wait for me at the floodgate
Which passion percolates &
The stars weep for us as we do
For them.
Don’t breathe without me,
Just as I wouldn’t without you.
Humble & unknowing

I don’t know what’s to become of us
But I do know,
I don’t want to be without you.
When buildings crumble
& return back to dust
When all else fades
& the stars speckle
Like eons of old dust collected
& swept across the sky.

Wait for me,
No matter what happens

Wondrous, wondrous is the sight:
from the front, from behind, from the top, from beneath, all around,
fulminating planes, universes, formed, bubbling out forming,
events, from all times existing as one,
beings, of all kinds, everywhere,
gods, angels, daemons, beasts, life from many systems,
including men, of this small speckle of a world,
known, unknown, and the beholder included
unfold, in this being vast, that knows no end,
that prompts awe and gestures of remorse
for having called It the friend and the other and the like,
who can tell what it is, it is inside, outside and everywhere,
our limited vision itself is not enough to grasp it.
It must grant a boon to allow the mortal man to gain a glimpse.

Such is the sight, encountered assuring fearlessness,
amid the din and the clamour of the ferocious war about to begin.

Yet, a realm exists, eternal, where joy is a term unworthy,
where bliss is a term unworthy, where ecstasy flows
out of every pore of the very fiber of existence,
to prompt the poet to say, ah, suffering I can take, but
this my receptacle is too weak to take in your bliss:
where delight takes the form of a radiant blue and plays the flute
having heard which once, all other joy pales in experience known
here a hundred thousand coloured plumes flower out of darkness,
here the ardent souls,  sit numbed by the bliss of love,
not winking once, so not to interrupt the moment.

The portal to which is guarded by a simple faith.
Even a passing desire and a glimpse pours forth, of the river of love
dancing away to the flute, in the depth our being.

Oh, to be a mother, and glimpse universes
in the mouth of one's babe, calling it forth exasperated
to open up and throw out the eaten mud.
Or be the Creator, befuddled that
his proud creation is but one puddle among the millions
this magician conjures up, who smiles innocent as a five year old.
Or be the simpletons guarded in awe by the mountain held up
as an umbrella to the deluge ordered by the rain gods.
Oh, the bewitching smile, that rended the hearts of the maidens,
to which sworn enemies cast their bows and arrows
and fall down in obeisance.

That the lord of all existence, can be a prankster
delighting in butter and frolic, who knew, who knew?

He is the unseen charioteer:
steering the ignorant soul, seated in the heart; Aeons pass
and we know not, even as He carries us in his arms across.
Oh, we can work, and approach him by work.
Meditate! Yes, sunder the knots in the heart.
Sacrifice too, is acceptable as offering, and renunciation ascetic.
See Him in any form, or in no form at all,
offer Him anything, even a leaf, a blade of grass,
He submits but to the ardent soul, this lord of love,
this eternal teacher of the ways of union.

And yet, it all began on a rainy day, on a day
when evil reigned and the rivers were in spate,
in a prison, where righteousness was consigned.

Yes, Truth, the weapon to put the guards of delusion to sleep,
and He slips out, when the rain goes mellow in her hymn,
when the river parts to the babe guarded by the snake,
when the jungles sing to the ecstasy unfolding,
when the world is asleep, ignorant and lost,
assured in its uncertain knowledge
and rival claims and fearsome philosophies
and numberless rituals and lifeless creeds,
unknown to the wicked kings, here He arrives,
to the muffled joys of a pastoral village erupting in celebration.

a ladybug in spacious blue
splattering specks of red and black
with miniature aerial stunts
that speckle through uncaring air

it takes a keen eye to notice
a ladybug in spacious blue
a tiny snippet of fancy
in the otherwise simple sky

whizzing past wonderfully so
no trail or perfect plan concerns
a ladybug in spacious blue
her patterns flying forward fast

unhindered by specks of debris
fitting an insect debonair
sweetly dressed for a world's party
a ladybug in spacious blue

My Sweet Spaceman
where are you now?
Trying to see between
those little glows
that speckle the sky;
similar to those
no longer in your eyes?
I just want to see
the world in which you're lost,
so take me please,
I'll pay the cost;
I'm sure it's less
than the price I pay
for the half-assed smile
you gave today;
I miss you babe,
it's been too long,
so let me save you
from this wrong,
because believe me when I say
I'm alone in this crowded room
while you run around the moon.

*And you said you never wanted to be an astronaut

t'was not so long ago
in simple human years,
but eons, in poetic ones, that...

visions of fruited plains,
dimpled mountains,
candied wall-nutty natives,
easy lifted from his
eye's casual glances,
reformed to scribbled essays,
while daily walking on the
concrete steppes of his city,
gems of glass shard sidewalk sparkles
and bluest mailboxes were
raptured word tableaus,
rupturing easy with
volcanic force,
his body's planet,
mantle breaking,
crust-conquering poems,
breakout pimples waves,
molten and easy flowing...

he knew not then
what well now he knows,
the exhausted trembling
of asking,
the slowing wearing pace of
heartbeats of constant query,
the wonder of
wondering incessant,

Are You My Poem?

awoken by the body clock
in the wee, streaming,
rem sleeping hours,
asking the no longer
faithful friend,
his bathroom mirror,
is the accuracy of this
stubbled mess,
the white crusted lips and eyes,
is that my, my nowadays,
answer to

Are You My Poem?

he waits,
he, a red taillight speckle
among many, wait watching,
on a Brooklyn minor bridge
over a minor inlet
one of many, on a longer isle,
as the bridge lifts its arms,
opens its middle belly,
waving bye to a
passing-through freighter,
perhaps
destined for
happy springtime Morocco,
perhaps,
the Malay's divided isles,
wandering wondering
one more time,
if that's his etching,
line drawing poem,
passing by, bye, bye,
so each breathe forcing,
escape-asking,

Are You My Poem?

sometime ago,
a grown man,
his voice changed,
like a teenager,
writing now in but the
simplest terms,
plain jane poems,
in the cadence
of spoken words

for all the fancy phrases,
exhausted,
the sewing box of
precious alphabets,
emptied, leaving only
the tyranny of
hello, have a nice day, how are you feeling,
that's nice, goodnight sleep tight...

there were fewer poems
therein contained,
ceasing to fear,
no need for constancy of asking,
but failing in crafting to craft
even then,
trying but no one answering to

Are You My Poem?

one or two true,
asked,
are you busted,
the nib nub rusted,
your silence, long pauses,
worry us, your poem lovers,
if spent,
how deep is thy rent,
let our concern heal,
patch n' fill,
the cuttings,
the empty grooves that pockmark,
hope wishing asking,
sir sire man,
are you still hopeful,
interrogating,
asking the world,

Are You My Poem?

weeping from the
believed warmth
of their caring,
they too, knowing,
that life has its ways
of choking your voice off,
compelled to advise,
still and then and now,
the constant in my equation,
extant yet,
extant yes,
a voice that still rises
at the end of the
periodic element interrogatory of

Are You My Poem?

the poem answers,
muddled, muddied,
everyday life eats you up,
instead of you feasting upon it,
the tempo, the style,
all now humbug static interference,
but every know and every then,
a long winded answer dances
it's way from the core,
answering well
the question less asked,

Are You My Poem?

spent,
the poet
lol's,
for his truest friends here,
answer the pondering,
in deed, indeed,
you, near and dear
poet brothers and sisters,
you are the answer,
to words looking now,
a tod-toad-tad silly,

**You Are My Poem!