From beyond the clouds,
cavalier and unattached,
sneaking past the yawn of temple bell
woken up from sleep,
trespasses a doomed note
pitched like flight of a falcon
fresh from its swoop on prey,
strumming on the discord in a lonely heart,
stoking once more
the hunger and anger of
an eternal yearning...

...Ah! My ears. They pick up the cruel flute. Here it comes, to ladle my pain. Not again. Not again.

Barefoot standing backwards on
            the doctor’s scales; the weighing games begin.
I can’t make sense of how or why
            I’m here; dragged from my mother’s car,
when only earlier I was dancing
            at my ballet class; I slipped and fell
on the cold dance floor, and now
            I’m under hospital arrest. All I want
is to escape; because I truly thought
            this was all in my past.
But the Devil and God are raging inside me
            all the time.
It began with only one pound lost;
            a controlled experiment, one I thought
I could win. And now,
            I’m barefoot standing backwards
on the doctor’s scales –
            There’s only one way; Up!
                No spiral down.
I’ve found my way back here, somehow,
                    and I’ll find my way out of here, somehow.

© Sia Jane

When the harvest was over,
                 grain and chaff separated,
the birds congregated
                 around the barn had flown to lands distant,
the grains even from the last of stalks
                  were sun dried and filled in granaries,
it's time to set aside all other things
                 to take up the one passionate thing.

From it's true inspiration, beauty's intoxication,
                    poetry begins it's wild run, no holds barred,
the other lives of him as a man about town,
                   lover, son, father , partner of a woman,
a singer of the soul's wanderings,
                   a seeker of truth, at last takes an ecstatic turn.

The many lives he lead, the rough riding days
                         on the road, seep in to the words he collect,
now writing poetry becomes more than a game
                         of chess, an equation that balances life and death
that allows  a peep, in to the abode of immortals.
                             poet looks at life, still a changing  apparition,
                mysterious one with an enigmatic expression
on it's face and ask,"Show me all you can,
                           it would make my day, what else one can demand?"

Lost in the faint, unsettled dust of wonder,
We become the chains that pull us under,
The architects of empty wishing wells,
Or the ghosts that haunt these cheap motels,
And as hope crumbled into ash and rust,
I was left with nobody but myself to trust,
Just the paranoia upon which we all depend,
And the sad songs where we met our end,
Still my heart kept dancing in unsteady code,
As I buried my pride by the side of the road,
Singing black sheep, bedroom, bells of war,
I still remember where you keep the floor,
And as their laughter fell apart like rain,
I was left with nobody but myself to blame,
Just the empty promises that we all pretend,
And the silence where we’ll meet our end.